The Cycle of Axer Carrick
Part VI -- Cats Eyes


           by Henry Wyckoff (wyckoff@Boris.infomagic.com)
                     Written December 1995

                          Chapter 8


Nick smiled as the sun touched his hand from where he lay on
the sofa.  It was a soft, gentle touch, rather than a harsh
laser.  Nat rested against him, hiding the one tear of joy
that fell down her eye.  So much time and effort, and the
key to his release would be from the one who begged his
creator to bring him across.

He breathed a sigh of release, "It's been so long.  I
wondered if it would never happen."

//That's it.  It's time for him to start moving.//  Nat
reluctantly pulled herself off the sofa -- she was even more
tired than he was.  The last time she remembered sleeping
was a few days ago, and it wasn't really sleep.  "Come on. 
Let's go out."

He seemed almost afraid, then remembered his newly-gained
mortality.  His face lit up, "All right.  What do you want
to do?"

That stumped her.  They didn't really *do* much.  "I don't
know."

They were stumped for quite a few moments, until Nat came up
with a bright idea, "Let's just go out until we think of
something."

That worked for Nick.  He grabbed his wallet and left,
locking the door after him.

'Just going out' was the best thing that Nick could have
done.  He had seen Toronto evolve off and on through the
last two centuries, but seeing this place during the daytime
was like seeing a new city.  The streets, buildings, and
landmarks he knew so well were totally unfamiliar.

Perhaps he even seemed like a tourist, gawking at the sky,
the birds, and even the bums.  Nat smiled a little fondly at
Nick, as if he were a child.  //I think he's finally beat
it.  I don't know what game Janette is playing, but she made
the right mistake.//

               *              *              *

They reached the church -- a smashed, wrecked, and
desecrated church.  It was the only kind that would do for a
vampire.

Tracy opened the door, a trifle cautiously, and called out,
"Vachon?  Are you here?"

A tired voice called through the darkness.  "I'm here.  Who
do you have with you?"  He sounded very wary.

She was hesitant herself, "It's a long story.  We needed to
talk on neutral ground, and I thought this would be the best
place for it."

"Thanks!" came the sarcastic answer.  A longer pause. 
"Bring him in and shut the door after you."

Mulroney smiled a bit at that, shutting the door after him
while Tracy led the way to the basement chapel.  It was
there that Vachon sat, looking not just pale, but bone-
white.  He had a large bottle of blood next to him, and a
lot of blood stains on his chest, all from a single source. 
He looked very old at the moment.

"What happened to you?" gasped Tracy, blanching.

"Someone tried to kill me!" snarled Vachon.  "What do you
think happened?"  He leaned back, looking up in frustration.

"It was bound to happen," smiled Mulroney.

That's when Vachon noticed him for the first time, standing
up with difficulty.  "I thought you were dead!"

"You thought right," smiled Mulroney.  "You're not seeing
things."

"You're not a vampire -- what the hell are you?"

Mulroney looked tiredly at Tracy, "Whatever you do, don't
become immortal.  You'll be spending all your time
explaining to people why it is you didn't die for good after
they killed you!"

Vachon looked away, snorting, "Well, whatever you are,
you're welcome to stay until nightfall -- then you're out of
here!"

"That's fine with me.  I'm only here to talk to the good
detective on ground of her choosing."  He looked back at
Tracy, "That brings me to the next subject."  He gestured
towards some pews. 

Tracy nodded, leaving Vachon to heal.  He stared into space
as if he were on some drug or drunk on alcohol, and didn't
pay any more attention to them.

Tracy finally got impatient enough to demand, "All right,
now that we're here, why don't you start talking?"

He nodded, "It's not all about the axe, but about you.  The
one thing that's been on my mind the whole time is why you,
a mortal, could be affected by the axe.  Do you have any
memories of anything unusual happening to you when you were
younger?  Were you abducted by aliens?  Did you have any
visions?  Psychic powers?"  The last three questions were
somewhat light in tone, but she could see the seriousness in
his eyes.

"No," she shook her head.  "I've lived quite an ordinary
life, thank you.  And I never believed in psychic powers."

He blew out his breath, "That eliminates any New Age
theories, thank god...  O.K...  tell me exactly what
happened when you picked up the axe."

Tracy forgot about everything that had happened for
the last few days as she tried to piece things together. 
She even forgot that she had tried to kill Mulroney, and
even that he had killed a prisoner from solitary
confinement.  "I found something underneath Nick's desk..."

          *              *              *

The Arctic winds blew across the ice fields, ripping up snow
dust as it ran.  The solitary man who sat in the opening of
the cave didn't pay it any attention.  The two white wolves
who constantly stayed with him lay on the ground, yawning
lazily as they stretched and rolled, such as cats are known
to do on warm days.  The two ravens were nowhere to be seen.

The man was occupied with the stones that he had tossed on
the ground before him.  Maybe he found some pattern in them,
or maybe not.  But it occupied him nonetheless.

His head whipped up suddenly.  Something was different.  He
felt a trembling in the web.  It lay to the south.

He stood up, looking into the storm.  "It comes.  At last. 
The Gathering."  

His spear was always with him, but he noticed it once more. 

          *              *              *

Scully felt a pounding in her brain for the last half-hour
as they talked to Krycek -- or Frey, at his insistence.  It
had begun as a gentle prodding on her temples from the
inside, and had escalated to a pounding so horrible that
whenever she even thought about moving a muscle, the most
powerful waves of pain would hit every particle of her
being.

Still, she remained stoic and hid it behind a poker face.

Krycek had left, his face just as unexpressive, once he
realized that he wasn't getting anywhere.  Well, he ruined
their morning, so that was something he could put on his
list of accomplishments, but that was about it.

Mulder hadn't noticed any cues that she might have been
expressing.  He was too preoccupied with the puzzle of
Krycek.  "I just can't figure it out...  I think he honestly
believes what he's saying, but I just can't buy it."

She laughed, "I thought I'd never hear you say that!  And I
thought I'd never agree with you on something like this."

He made a face, "Come on, I'm not *that* bad!"

She just smiled, or at least as much as she could.  "So, why
is it that you don't believe him?"

"He's starting off with the assumption that I buy everything
about the quickening -- everything that the immortals
believe.  I think we need a lot more data than we have
access to before we can make any judgements."  He tapped the
table, "It may sound sick, but I wish I could wire one of
them with sensors when a quickening happens."

Scully had to laugh at that one, but her laugh was cut off
when she clutched her head in pain, screaming.

"What's wrong?" Mulder almost screamed, only two feet away,
but unsure about what he should do.  

With great effort, Scully looked towards the door, where a
single man stood.  He was a monk dressed in all white.  His
face was full of an arrogant smugness as he looked at Mulder
directly in the eyes, and walked out the door.

Something clicked, and Mulder knew deep down that this man
had something to do with whatever was happening to Scully. 
"Hey, get back here!"  He ran to the door, and saw the monk
running across the busy street at a full sprint, almost
flowing between the speeding cars.

Mulder spat a curse, drew his pistol, and followed him,
forgetting about Scully.  He created a big disturbance as he
ran through the traffic, and was a great deal behind the
monk by the time he got across.

There was nobody on the sidewalk, thankfully, as he sprinted
down the sidewalk.  The monk wasn't out of sight, so Mulder
felt some sense that things would turn out all right --
until he turned a corner while he was still a little ways
off.

//Damn it!// Mulder tried running faster, but the air
started to scrape at his throat, and his legs were screaming
at him to stop.

The corner where the monk had turned went into an alley. 
//Why the alleyways?  Why not into a bookstore?//

The alley, when Mulder reached it, turned out to be anything
but empty.  The monk smiled at Mulder -- he didn't appear to
have any strained breathing -- spreading his arms and
gesturing at the ten men behind him.  All of them had clubs
and axes.

Mulder, panicked, yelled, "Drop your weapons!"  His gun was
held high.

That was the worst mistake he could have ever made, because
the club men used those precious moments wisely.  A club
flew threw the air, solidly smacking him in the head.  His
gun went off reflexively, shooting two men, but it was a
small loss.

Mulder collapsed on the ground, his head hitting the
asphalt...

..."Mulder, wake up."  The voice was quite familiar, but
very soft and subdued.  

His head was split in two by a wicked headache.  "Hmmm..." 
He didn't want to get up.

"Come on.  We don't have all day."

Mulder opened his eyes, finding Skinner crouched above him,
smelling salts in his hand.  "What are you doing up here?"

"Saving your sorry ass.  Now get up, we don't have much
time."  He usually spent several minutes of quality time
telling Mulder exactly how much of a blockhead he was, but
he didn't seem to have the heart in him.  A beard was
growing on his face, a face that was always compulsively
clean-shaven.

Mulder stood up, noticing for the first time that Skinner
was holding a blacksmith's hammer as lightly as if it were a
pencil.  Blood dripped from it.  He looked at Skinner in
confusion.

Skinner nodded.  "I want you to meet someone."

Mulder saw the bodies lying in the alley, blood flowing from
smashed limbs and chests.  The monk was absent.  "We have to
get Scully!"

"That's being taken care of.  Come on."

"Who are we going to see?"

"We don't have any more time!  Come with me or stay here --
I don't care!"

Skinner stomped off, and after a moment's pause, Mulder
followed him out the other end of the alley, where a limo
waited for them. 
                          Chapter 9

Mulroney blew out his breath slowly as he paced back and
forth, "So you're saying that *immediately* after you picked
up the axe, you started to get angry -- but that was it? 
Nothing else?"

Tracy nodded vigorously, "Nothing else.  I got mad enough to
kill someone, but I just can't remember why I was angry.  I
don't even think anything triggered it."

"You didn't need a trigger..."  He looked at Tracy sharply,
"May I hypnotize you?"

That startled Tracy, "Why would you want to do something
like that?"

He was frustrated, "I need to find out what's so special
about you, and I've exhausted every avenue I can think of. 
I'm hoping that you know the answer, and it's buried down
inside of you.  Perhaps I can pull out a detail or two that
can help me."

"It won't work," said Vachon's voice from the darkness. 
When he emerged into the partial light, it was evident that
most of the wound was gone.  Only a faint blood stain was
left.  "She's a resistor."

"Which means?"

"It means that she can't be controlled."

"You mean, she can't be coerced.  But have you ever
hypnotized her with the intent of working *with* her?"

That shocked Vachon.  "All this time, and I never considered
that.  I don't think anyone else has either."

Mulroney's eyes opened widely as he just realized something.
"Vampires can truly hypnotize humans.  Is it true?"

Vachon made a face, "It's not as simple as that, but you
could say yes."

"Could *you* hypnotize her?"

Vachon's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.  Tracy looked back and
forth at both of them, now a little confused.  Then Vachon
nodded, "This should be interesting."

In a very melodramatic gesture, he grabbed Tracy's face with
both hands, staring right into her eyes.  Her eyes glazed
over, but Mulroney had his own suspicions as to why that was
happening.

"Relax," said Vachon in a commanding tone.

//I wonder if their powers aren't so much some mystic thing,
but are rather products of their understanding of human
nature...//

               *              *              *

Axer entered the apartment, Peter and Heimdall behind him. 
"Care for a real drink?" he asked Peter.

"Ahh..." he looked a little pale, stepping back a little,
"I've seen what you drink."

Axer laughed, "Not *that* kind of drink!  I have some
genuine Oolong tea, and I *know* how to brew it."

Peter looked relieved, "I didn't know you had it in you."

Axer smirked, "Have a seat.  I'll get some tea brewing."

Peter looked around the living room, where he sat on a
Spartan, yet comfortable, sofa.  He was pretty impressed, to
say the least.  The room must have been only twenty by
thirty feet, but he had a feeling that he was standing in a
much larger room.  A bookshelf was crammed full of
scientific books mixed in with classic literature -- the
Book of War, the Dhammapada, the Republic...  Elsewhere were
some rare and priceless vases, sculptures, paintings, rugs,
and tapestries.

The smell of tea brought him back from his inspection of the
room.  Axer was right -- he knew how to make a good cup of
tea.

"I'll be back in a moment," Axer smiled.

Axer left his cup of tea with Heimdall and Peter, entering a
vestibule -- which *did* serve an important purpose in this
apartment.  When he closed the door, he was bathed in total
darkness, but after a few moments, his eyes adjusted to the
very faint light.

When he opened the other door, he emerged in a bedroom
sealed off from the light.  A safe room for a vampire to be
in during the day.  It wasn't completely pitch-dark in here,
because there was a faint red-light on the top of the
ceiling.  It gave Axer enough light to see Kate's sleeping
form on the bed.

"You're home early," she mumbled, having sensed his
entrance.

"Something came up," he admitted guiltily, sitting on the
side of the bed and grabbing one of her soft hands in his
own, kissing it.

Kate used that hand to pull him down on the bed, so he
nearly lay on top of her.  "What 'something'?" she asked
intently, a tight smile on her face.

"I met a cop who knows a little something different about
what's been happening these last few weeks, and he talked me
into helping him out..."

...Peter stood up suddenly.  There was something pulling at
the edge of his mind, making his heart beat so rapidly that
he could feel every beat shaking his chest.  He pulled out
his gun.

Heimdall stood up as well, "What is it?"

"There's something wrong here.  I can feel it."  Peter
turned reflexively to where Axer was.  "Come on."

"I think we should wait," Heimdall pulled him back.  "Just
wait a few minutes..."

..."What is it that he wants you to do?"  He could see the
worry in her eyes, though she was good at hiding it.

"I was hoping it was something that *we* could do.  He's
waiting in the living room."

She frowned at that, but let it drop.  "If you think it's
safe...  I would be interested in hearing what he has to
say."

"There's a catch," Axer frowned.  "He knows that I'm an
immortal, but he doesn't know about you, and he'll need to
know."

When Axer returned to the living room, he was a bit startled
to find Heimdall holding Peter back like an excited hound. 
"What's up?"

"There's something wrong!" Peter said quite tensely.

Axer nodded, "Not wrong, just different.  Help me to close
the shutters."

"Huh?" 

"You're going to be meeting with someone who can't stand the
light of day -- it's a medical condition."

Shrugging, Peter and Heimdall helped him shut off all the
windows.  When they were done, Axer left once more, bringing
back someone with him.

"Detective Caine?  Meet my wife, Kate O'Leary, our fourth
member.  Kate?  Meet Detective Caine."

Caine's eyes widened like saucers as he found the source of
that bad vibe feeling.  On the surface, she looked just like
any other human, but it was the aura about her that he felt. 
"What the hell?!"  He tried to draw his gun, but Axer caught
his motion and stopped it.

"It's all right," soothed Axer.  "She's only a vampire."

"*Only* a vampire?"  He was still tense, but he put back the
gun, albeit very reluctantly.  "Any other surprises you want
to tell me?"  His voice shook a little.

"Not for now.  We were hoping there were some more things
you could tell us.  Kate needs to know as well."

"I could use a real drink now," muttered Peter under his
breath.  All three smiled at that.  "Here's the plan.  I was
talking to Powys, and he revealed some plans made by our
mayor, who as it turns out, is not our mayor at all.  He
didn't give me as many details as I would have liked, but he
proved to me that the guy's real name is Surtur, and he's
neck deep in this whole mess.  He wants to destroy the city,
so we need to find him tonight and stop him before he can do
anything."

"Can't the police do anything?" asked Kate.  "After all,
that *is* what the law enforcement is being paid for."

"I tried that," muttered Peter.  "That's what I tried to do
this morning, but he has everyone around him brainwashed.  I
don't even think they're living in the same world as we do."

"Brainwashed?"  That didn't sound good to Axer.  "I wonder
if he's one of the Invisible Ones."

"Powys told me that he's the 'King of the Jotuns', whatever
*that* means."

Axer and Heimdall looked at one another, "That's not good."

Kate was deep in thought, "And so what do you want us to
do?"

"We need to find him tonight and observe him.  According to
Powys, he's planning on doing something horrible to the
city, but he couldn't or wouldn't get too specific.  I
planned on watching him, and if he *is* going to do
something horrible, we can stop him."

Kate looked skeptical, "It seems like you're getting too
excited over such a vague warning."

"I've known him too long to blow him off, and if was any
more specific than he was, I'd be really suspicious of him."

               *              *              *

Vachon looked at Mulroney.  "It's not working."

Mulroney slammed a pew.  "Bloody hell!  I thought we had
something."

"We still do," smiled Vachon, in a veiled manner.  In a
blur, he crossed the fifteen feet separating them and held
Mulroney's face in an iron grip.  He stared deep into
Mulroney's eyes.  ^^Relax.^^

Mulroney's shocked face relaxed.

^^Tell us about *you*.^^

Mulroney's expression became that of someone on drugs. 
"What do you want to know?"

Tracy stood next to Vachon.  "Who are you, *really*?"

"Mulroney."

If Vachon had the freedom to break his gaze away from
Mulroney's he would have giving her a withering glare.

^^What are you?^^

It was the subtle difference that proved to be the key. 
"Altered."
                         Chapter 10

"Don't *try*!  Don't *concentrate*!  Just *do* it!"

Coleen sat facing Kwai Chang Caine, both of them sitting
alone in the middle of the storm.  The wind ripped at them,
and punched through them, sending down torrents of ice and
snow.  The cold poked at them from all directions: from the
ground, from the air, and from the inside with the air that
they breathed in.  Their eyes were plastered open by the
intense cold.

Caine was totally relaxed and unaffected by the storm, but
Coleen was anything but relaxed and unaffected.  Her face
was crumpled with pain and exhaustion, and though she made
an effort to relax, she couldn't.

//Relax...  It can't be that hard -- so why can't I do
it???//  

"Your mind is as easy to calm as your muscles.  Just untense
them!"

//Yeah, then how come it's not that easy??//

She had tried relaxing Caine's way, and she realized that it
just wasn't going to work.  But she also realized that she
could still do it -- it just had to be her way.

Instead of concentrating on tranquility, clearing her mind,
and 'all that Zen stuff' as she called it, she went in
exactly the opposite direction.  She opened all the flood
gates.

That's when the maelstrom hit her.

The vajra seemed to turn her into a lightning rod.  The
storms hit her with the most intense lightning from all
directions.  Pain was all she knew.  Pain, and spasms that
made her look like a severe epileptic having a seizure.

The thing that she noticed from the beginning was that Caine
was not there to criticize her or help her.  She was alone. 
Minutes passed until she could even open her eyes, but she
knew that much.

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she wanted to do
was close her eyes, but she couldn't.  All she could do was
scream.

Scream.

Scream.

"Come back to me!" spoke the commanding, iron voice.

Coleen found herself lying flat on her back, staring at the
storm, which had grown much more severe.

"You're just like your master!  You are unable to pick up
even the most basic essentials, and then you rush into the
center of the chaos, unable to tame it!"

Caine was angry, that was for certain, but she could also
see the concern in his eyes.  "How long was it?"

He understood her vague question.  "Only a minute, but a
minute is long enough.  For you, an eternity could have
passed.  Remember the nature of what you are touching."

She rubbed her eyes.  "Now I understand how Odin could go
insane.  I- I saw--!"  She choked on her words, unable to
continue.  Her face crumpled up in her efforts to bottle in
whatever was going on inside.

He put a kind hand on her shoulder, "It is good to maintain
control, but control requires release.  If you hold in your
emotions, they will explode at the worst moment.  You must
learn to let loose your emotions at the right times."

If he thought he would cause her to lower her shields, he
was wrong.  The wall she built around herself grew instantly
stronger.  She gained her composure and spoke with a cold
voice, "I don't have that luxury.  Let's do it again."

"It's too dangerous!  I cannot allow it!"

Her eyes probed into his, ^^We don't have any choice!^^

Caine looked at her with a puzzled expression, "As you
wish."

They sat once more, facing one another.  It didn't take as
long this time for Coleen to enter the maelstrom.  Caine
knew this, because her whole body would tense up as if she
were on the torture rack.  She didn't scream this time, but
he could see fear in her face.  Fear and shame.

Her hands tensed once, then closed into fists.

          *              *              *

Odin jerked.  He felt as if someone had just done a merry
dance over his grave.  He stood up once more and looked into
the storm.

"So, one of you at least follows in my footsteps.  Let's see
how you handle *this* trail."

His whole body spasmed, collapsing onto the ground with all
his limbs stiff as a statue's.

His two wolves tilted their heads, making confused whines. 
One of them ambled over and licked his face.

          *              *              *


Coleen thought she was beginning to gain some sort of
equilibrium now.  It was totally indescribable, the
sensation of looking at any point in space and seeing
infinity.  Infinity wasn't just a concept or a number: it
was a very tangible thing.

She stood up, nearly falling down in disorientation. 
Nothing seemed to work right.  The landscape rippled.  The
storm was both there and not there. 

Natalie was there, holding her hand, "How are you feeling?" 
One moment she was not there, and the next, she was.  There
was no transition.

"Better.  How did you get here?"

Natalie laughed genuinely, "What kind of a question is
that?"  Her voice instantly gained a scraped-quality.  "I
have *always* been here!"  Her hand crushed Coleen's, and
her face began to transform into something indescribably
horrid.

Screaming in total disgust at this indescribably horrid
monster in front of her, she drew her sword and cut off its
arm, then slammed it through her gut.

The monster didn't seem to notice.  Grimacing, it grabbed at
Coleen's neck, grasping so tightly she couldn't move, no
matter what she did.  Any normal man or woman should have
long-since died, but this monster wasn't any ordinary human.

It chuckled in that same raspy tone, "Give me a kiss..."

...Caine was slapping her in the face.  "Leave that place!"
he was commanding.

Coleen threw up her hands, "All right!  All right!  You
don't need to repeat yourself!"  

Caine let her loose, and waited while she collected herself. 

"I've had enough for one day.  Let's go back."

Caine nodded.  They made their way back to the bar, where
Methos and Richie waited.

          *              *              *

Odin opened his eyes.  "Not bad, but not good.  It's a pity
for you that I use fixed dice.  So, better luck next time."

He cackled and howled in merriment, his insane laugher
audible for miles around.  The two wolves started running
around his feet, barking.  One held a caribou leg bone in
his mouth, and held it in front of Odin, whining.

"All right," he muttered, throwing it into the distance. 
Both dogs ran after it as if their lives depended on it.

          *              *              *

"Give me the whole bottle of scotch!" demanded Coleen,
ripping open the whole bottle and guzzling down a whole
quarter of the bottle.

Richie looked concerned at this from the safety of a few
tables' distance.  "You know, I wonder if it was a good idea
-- her meeting up with Axer.  I hear he solves his problems
the same way."

"Or it could be a good thing that she met Axer," suggested
Methos.  "Maybe she would have had the tendency to drink,
and he taught her the science of drinking.  Now, she has a
tool to help her out."

"Or maybe escape?" Richie sneered.

"That too.  But that's her decision.  I just hope whatever
she'd doing with Caine is worth it.  By the looks of it,
she's going through hell."

Richie nodded.  Coleen knew her alcohol, but he'd never seen
her go off the deep end like this.  It must have been
something pretty horrible.

Some drunk ambled over to Coleen, grabbing her shoulder from
behind.  He was fresh in to camp, and didn't know the rules. 
"Hey, pretty.  Give me a kiss!"  He was a big ape of a man,
with probably the brains to match.

Coleen had totally ignored the man up until he made the last
statement, then she whirled around on the bar stool, her
face a mask of fear and rage.  Screaming in anger, she
lifted up the man by the muscles and fat of his chest, just
underneath the ribs.

The man was more shocked than anything else, and was even
more shocked when she threw him fifteen feet away.  He
landed with an audible thump that made everyone jump up an
inch.  A few shook their heads in sympathy.

Everyone stared at her in shock and disbelief.  She might
have been stocky, but she was short, and the sight of her
tossing around someone three times her mass and over six
feet tall was a bit unbelievable.

Coleen stood still, here eyes wild with rage, holding
herself back.  After long moments, she regained some
semblance of sanity and left, snorting, "Back off, I mean
it!"

The bar remained silent long after Coleen left.  They knew
strangeness when they saw it, and this was getting to be
pretty strange.

Richie looked at Methos, who shrugged.

Caine had also watched this, and silently left to follow
Coleen.
                         Chapter 11

Amanda looked at the Museum from across the street.  Through
the last century, she had broken into this place off and on,
and it amazed her how different it looked depending on if it
was day or night.

It was an hour from dusk, and Lenny stood with her.  It
could have been a lazy afternoon, a woman taking her
grandfather out for a walk -- that's certainly the way it
appeared.  They even hung cameras around their necks.  What
nobody could have known was that they were assessing the
security of the grounds around the museum. 

Amanda smiled.  What made her a professional was the fact
that she looked at all the angles, on the outside as well as
the inside.  Any thief could pick a lock, but it took a
master to know every possible route of entrance and exit,
and gather enough by observation to know what *could*
happen, as well as what would happen.  It was a lot like
being a master card player, except that it was a lot more
fun.

...Or so she thought, at least.

Lenny, for all of his claims of being a humble monk, proved
to be as adept at observation as Amanda.  The only
difference was that he had a different style.  Where she
would look for the motion sensors, guard cameras, and so on,
Lenny would look for any differences in moisture along the
concrete, accumulation of mud or dust, and the more subtle
cues that would suggest the best possible route of entrance
and exit.

"It's very simple," Lenny explained eventually.  "You want
to make your entrance and exit using the most traveled
route.  That way, if they find your prints or tracks, how
can they distinguish them from all the thousands of others
who moved through that day?  And the concrete here?  You
want to know which ones have just the higher amount of
moisture locked in them from the last rain.  The drier
concrete will leave your tracks -- but you want to make sure
that you don't run from wet to dry, or dry to wet."

Amanda shook her head, "I can't believe it.  Who would
bother to comb the concrete outside, unless there was a
blood trail?"

"We all leave our own cues.  I loved the 'Sherlock Holmes'
that a writer of your country created.  *He* would have
looked on the concrete, as well as every other possible
avenue.  Did you know that if nobody walks over a patch of
concrete, and then one person walks on it, it is possible to
find every single footstep?"

Amanda laughed, "Seeing is believing."

Lenny shrugged.  "I wonder if the guards will learn their
lessons?"  His eyes narrowed.  "Do you want to see the
Seed?"  Without waiting for her answer, he walked towards
the Museum.

For a moment, her face was tense with aggravation.  She
followed him once she regained control.  It didn't occur to
her that this was the precise thing she had done to Duncan
on more than one occasion.

The Museum was as crammed as one would expect for such a
nice day.  Everybody was relaxing, so they felt no
particular need to focus on one thing or the other, which
made Amanda and Lenny less conspicuous.  Nobody would notice
any individual who was looking intently at only one object,
because that's what they were all doing.

Lenny knew exactly where he was going.  He led Amanda,
almost as if he were an eager child racing for the candy
store, through the thick crowds, over to a near-forgotten
alcove.  Gesturing grandly and bowing, he revealed the Seed.

Amanda whistled softly.  All this time, and she'd never seen
it, and she'd swear on her life that nobody else had either. 
It was an obsidian orb the size of her head, and so
perfectly smooth that it could have been used as a security
mirror.  She could certainly see herself.

Leaning closer to the glass, she gazed deeper into it and --

"Stop!" commanded Lenny in a harsh whisper, pulling her
back.  "That is the one thing that you will *not* do!  It
will take control of you as it has so many others."

"It's just an orb!" she complained.  "Do you know how much I
could get for that?"

"You have heard nothing of what I have told to you!" Lenny
was furious, whispering in a raspy voice.  "This orb is
*evil*!  It *must* be destroyed!  If you steal this so that
you may sell it, you will unleash the most horrible evil on
the world.  No.  It must be destroyed tonight."

Amanda felt very reluctant, but agreed, "O.K."  But he
didn't see her crossed fingers.  It was too valuable to
destroy.

               *              *              *

At this very moment, Nick and Nat were in downtown Toronto,
eating two very large and very messy ice cream cones.  

"I can't believe you!" Nat was laughing.  "If I didn't know
any better, I'd say I was watching a child eat!"

"Look who's talking!" he protested, pointing at the smudges
of chocolate on her own mouth.

Nat peeked at her reflection on a nearby window, dabbed off
the smudge, and smiled innocently, "I don't know what you're
talking about."

"And I don't care!" snapped the young voice of someone
behind them.

Both turned, and found a young punk with a knife pulled out. 
"Give me your money!" he snarled, looking at Nat like he
wanted to do a lot worse to her than kill her.

Reflexes are a very odd thing, because they do the strangest
things at times.  Even though Nick had been a vampire for
many centuries, the reflexes that showed were very human
ones: he froze.

For all this time that he wanted to be human, he had never
asked the one simple question: 'what happens when I *am*
human again?'

He found out the hard way.  He was the first to get stabbed
with the knife.  Whether he was lucky or not is up to
debate, but he got stabbed in the stomach.  The wound was so
severe that when the knife pulled out, he could smell the
distinct smell of punctured innards.

Nick was on his knees, vomiting from the pain and shock.  He
had no way of hearing Nat's screams as the punk moved
towards her.  When he looked up, it was more of a reflexive
thing, and it was then that the situation registered.  

Nat was going to die.

He didn't even think: I am stabbed, and will die.

Without even blinking, he pulled out his gun, hidden under
his coat.  Five shots ripped through the punk's body,
spraying blood against the brick wall.  One of those shots
deflected on a rib and hit Nat in the shoulder, knocking her
to the ground.

He fell to the ground, clutching his own wound, feeling a
burning sensation as his stomach acids began to react with
his hand.

"Somebody get help!" he heard the faint scream reach his
brain.

"Fade to black," he heard a sardonic whisper within his own
brain.  It wasn't his own voice, that was for certain.

Two ice cream cones lay splattered on the sidewalk, melting
unnoticed by everyone around.

          *                   *              *

Mulder and Skinner rode in the limo for the last few
minutes, entering the industrial part of town.  The
buildings looked grimier and grimier, as did the people.

"What happened to you?" asked Mulder.

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"You've changed.  Something's eating at you, and I'd sure
like to know what it is."

Skinner may have been good at hiding his own thoughts, but
he wasn't at this moment.  He was frowning, and his hand
trembled.  "That's not important.  What you're about to see
is."

"What am I about to see?"

"An answer.  Not the truth you're searching for, but a
useful answer to a whole lot of this mess."

They rode in silence until they reached this rusty old
warehouse.  It looked on the outside like it was falling
apart at the seams.

"A rusty warehouse," muttered Mulder.  "What next?"

"A dwarf."

"Watch your language -- this is the 90s!"

Skinner glared at him, "I forgot.  Now come on!"

The inside, as it turned out, was totally different from the
outside.  It was a very neat and lively engineering
laboratory... and every single person running it was under
four feet tall.  It turned out that Skinner wasn't joking.

This engineering lab was of the 'clean' variety, meaning
that there wasn't any wielding, grinding, or drilling going
on.  Most of the work most probably had something to do with
optics and/or electronics. 

There were about thirty dwarves huddled around a computer,
all wearing white coats.  It was impossible to see what was
on the screen, but whatever it was had everyone riveted.  A
moment later, there was a loud cheer, accompanied with yells
of, "It worked!" and "Woohoo!  Woohoo!"

One of them turned around and saw that they had two
visitors.  He was the tallest among them, and had the build
of a blacksmith.  His hair was quite curled and gray, and a
thick beard reached his belt.  He nodded in recognition and
came forward, "I've been expecting you.  If you would please
follow me to the conference room, we may speak in a better
atmosphere."  His voice had a very strong Scandinavian
accent that had not faded with the time it must have taken
to develop his excellent proficiency of English.

Skinner nodded, gesturing ahead, and the two followed this
dwarf to the conference room.  It was a simple yet elegant
room complete with padded chairs, an oak table, and a white
board.

The dwarf sat down at the head of the table, gesturing for
the two to do the same.  "You are probably curious about who
I am.  My name is Stein Ulson of Donerstor.  You are
curious also about how I knew you were coming.  That is
easily answered: I have eyes and ears.  I know *what* you
are, but not who you are, however."  He looked pointedly at
Mulder.

"I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder of the FBI."

Stein nodded, "I'm not surprised."  He looked at Skinner,
"But I *do* know you, or rather, what you are embodying.  I
can also see burning questions in your eyes.  But if you are
to receive answers, so must I."

Skinner nodded.  

"How did you know about us?"

"Alan Powys hinted that you might exist.  I used my own
resources after that."

"Alan Powys...  I don't know him.  Describe him."

Mulder smiled, "That's easy enough.  He's Welsh, has an
annoying habit of being at the right place at the right
time, and never answers a straight question with a straight
answer!"

"Tell me this," said Stein.  "Does this man gamble?"

Mulder nodded.

"We knew him as a different man.  You have given us a great
gift, and I must offer a gift in return: I will answer *one*
question you ask without refusal.  I cannot guarantee that I
will answer any further questions, but I honestly guarantee
that I will answer this one."

Skinner nodded.  "Tell us about yourselves."

Stein leaned back.  "What do you want to know, in
particular?"

"What is your connection with this?"  He handed over the
hammer, his eyes tightening when he did so.

The hammer was examined with a shallow glance.  "Thor's
Hammer.  The work of long dead craftsmen.  Any children's
mythology book could tell you how these were created."

"But not the whole story."

Stein sighed, "Very well.  I will tell you the whole
story..."
                         Chapter 12

Mulder frowned as he looked at the dwarf.  In his rational
mind, he saw only a man given a certain hand in life, and
nothing more.  He saw a man who perhaps had sacrificed a
certain amount to become a successful and perhaps a
distinguished engineer -- but nothing more.

The fantastic part of his mind saw a very magical individual
who had something to offer... an explanation that might
bring him closer to the truth.  Although Skinner had done
his best to hide Mulder from the truth using the excuse of
'protecting' him, the fact that Skinner had brought him here
said something pretty significant -- that and the hammer
with the beard.

Stein, as he promised, began his tale...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
                            Stein's Tale
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Before I tell you about Thor's Hammer, I suppose you must
know a little bit about us.  In the world mythologies, you
know of the 'dwarven race', and in your everyday experience,
you know about 'dwarves'.  But the images that come with
both words are not right.  We are something other than the
'image' that you get from those words.

It is correct that we are 'human' -- just of a shorter
height than the average -- but it is also correct to say
that we are a different race, because all the dwarves you
see here are the children of dwarves, and not humans.

We began at the very bottom of the ladder, you might say,
because we began as the refuge of humans.  A human would
discard a child that didn't look quite right, and would
claim that 'the earth spirits' switched his or her child at
birth.  Thus the child would be left for exposure, so that
the child would be taken back.  We still find such practices
abominable.  The reason that the practice was continued,
perhaps, was because we took pity on such abandoned babies
and claimed them as our own.

And so the dwarven race grew, and so civilization grew. 
Since we were forced to live in such isolated communities,
we developed our intellectual civilization much faster than
you humans.  Since we knew about wars, but were not affected
by them, we developed iron by the date 1024 B.C., and
algebra by 612 B.C.  Since we were a focus of intellectual
development, naturally your mythologies would view us as
something magical, just as they did the elves, which is a
different story...

This must give you an accurate background.  Now you know
that from the beginning that our 'mystique' comes from
misunderstanding, and not some mystical source.  I can see
that you, Special Agent Mulder, understand my point, even
though you are also disappointed...

By the year 645 A.D., all the known world was in turmoil. 
Wars raged in all the lands, and murder was a common
occurence.  We still laugh at the Christian ideal, because
it encouraged slaughter, though it claimed to curb it.  Our
people lived in our kingdoms deep within the mountains of
Norway, deep under the snow caps.  

A man came to us.  He was a starved man of snowy hair and a
gleam in his eye that told us that he was not completely
human.  We knew that he was something other than human.  He
told our head smith, "I am Loki, of the Aesir, and I bring
you a challenge.  I have met three other dwarven smiths, and
have obtained such great works that are certainly
unsurpassed.  Perhaps you might be able to surpass them?"

At the time, we were proud people.  We had to be.  And so
our head smith took his challenge.  "I see that you have
many weapons, but you do not have a hammer or an axe."

Loki nodded.  "Those, we do not have.  Is that what calls to
you from the earth?"

The head smith nodded, "That is what the earth calls, an axe
and a hammer, but also a necklace of gold and obsidian, and
a ring of silver and turquoise -- a stone that is seen from
such far away a land that you will never hope to see it,
should you live a normal life-span."

And so our smith made them, but what he did not tell Loki
was that we truly surpassed our cousins -- that while our
cousins to the north were fine craftsmen, they were not
sorcerers, which is what made our clan distinct.  So we made
the hammer, the axe, the ring, and the necklace in the most
visually pleasing fashion that we could -- but we also
infused them with the strength of the elements.

The hammer, we infused with the power of the earth, so that
the wielder would be full of stability and battle-madness. 
The axe we filled with water, so that the wielder would feel
the full torrent of emotion, and thus conquer all manner of
enemies with the power of the raging tide and floodwaters. 
The necklace was infused with air, to give the wearer a
soul-beauty that would bring harmony to all.  Anyone who
wears it will find that all will look them straight in the
eye without malice.  The ring is infused with the power of
the void -- the formlessness the brings about all
possibilities.

Loki took our offerings without anything in return.  Before
you look at me that way, you must understand that this was
the way that things were.  Strangers always came, and we
made things for them without any thought of compensation or
payment, because we produced things for the love of
creation.

Perhaps this was our biggest mistake that we could ever
make.

The hammer was wielded by Thor, who you must know from your
mythology.  He was such a hardened killer that he brought
about the deaths of countless Jotun.  I understand that
Surtur, who still lives, has vowed that he will die only
when the last of the Aesir are dead. 

We have no idea who wielded the others, but we know that
they are still out there.  Perhaps they were famous killers
or healers, or perhaps they were not.  But I would bet that
they were all individuals known in history.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder raised a question at this point, "For an engineer, I
find that your 'infusion' of elements into common objects is
quite odd."

"Spoken like a true scientist," smiled Stein.  "You find
such a statement opposed to your objective training.  But
let me ask you this: is elemental theory invalid because you
cannot quantify it?"

Mulder found himself thinking, //People living in glass
houses shouldn't throw stones.//  That made him wonder where
Scully was, and if she was all right.  "I find that I don't
know enough about these weapons to make a judgement of any
kind."

Stein smiled even wider, "You have a heart like my own. 
What would you say if I told you that the elemental power of
these weapons rise from their physical shape, the care that
resides in the heart of their creator, and the intangible
feelings that are produced in the user?  Would you say that
alcohol produces a mystical experience because the drinker
enters an altered state of consciousness?  Would you say
that art is mystical because it brings an art lover into a
different state of being?

"The problem with explanations that involve 'magic' is that
it excludes the perfectly reasonable explanations.  Though I
say 'infused with earth' for instance, all I really say is
that I infused it with a 'mood' that people either pick up
or not.  There's nothing magic about it."

That left both Mulder and Skinner with their heads spinning. 
After all they saw, and all they experienced, they expected
a Castaneda-like explanation.  The fact that they got as
reasonable an explanation (as possible, at least) was as
severe as shock as they could possibly get.

"So why is it that I get all these memories?" asked Skinner,
his face downcast.  "Am I going insane?  Is it a dream?"

Stein threw up his hands.  "You might be.  Maybe you watched
too much television as a child?"

"Wait a minute!" barked Mulder.  "You've just spent the last
half hour telling us stuff that we'd get thrown in the
looney bin for even thinking, and you're saying that
Skinner's transformation -- and Odin's transformation -- is
the product of too much television?"

Stein threw up his hands, "I'm sorry.  I just don't know
what to tell you -- whatever's happening, it's not our
fault.  We just made the weapons."


          *              *              *

Mulroney stared right at Vachon with a dead look in his
eyes.

Vachon's eyes were intent and stabbing right into Mulroney's
eyes.  He even forgot about Tracy as he felt his own heart
shaking his very body more strongly than an earthquake ever
could.  ^^What are you?^^

Mulroney couldn't resist answering.  "Altered."

^^What do you mean?^^

"I was an officer of Her Majesty's Army in India, long
before Gandhi was even born, and was taken by the Invisible
Ones.  I don't remember what happened to me, but I was made
immortal."  Even while under vampiric control, he was a
decorum-freak.  He would not make it appear as if he were
under control, even while he was.

That intrigued Vachon, who had no idea about any of the mess
that Mulroney was mired in.  ^^How many times have you
died?^^

"More times than I could count."

//Hmm...// thought Vachon, //there's some potential here.// 
^^What are the Invisible Ones?^^

"I don't know for sure."

^^Guess.^^

"They are the remainants of the Atlanteans, so they have
said.  I haven't seen anything to contradict that."

A voice spoke out of the shadows, "You're asking the wrong
questions."  The speaker emerged, and it turned out to be
none other than LaCroix.  Tracy hadn't been introduced to
him quite yet, but Vachon had.  He nearly broke his hold on
Mulroney with his startlement.

LaCroix, however, didn't care whether Vachon retained a hold
or not -- he muscled him to the side, taking over control as
well.  ^^How many are the Invisible Ones, and where are
they?"

Mulroney began to sweat.  "There are thirteen.  I know that
one is in Paris, five are in Toronto, six are in Washington
D.C., and one is at the Landing, waiting for the band of
immortals flying up there."

That shocked LaCroix so much that it was visible on his
face, "How do you know about this?"

Mulroney smiled, even under hypnosis, "How much do you want
to pay?"

LaCroix had a sense of humor, "How about eternal hell?"  He
grabbed Mulroney by the shoulders so strongly that the bones
snapped, nudging his chin out of the way.  "I pay you with
hell, and you give me *all* the answers!"  His teeth bit
through the skin.

What happened next could only be described as something
highly unusual to say the least.  The taste of the blood
wasn't too unusual -- the same taste that any gin drinker
would provide.  What was unusual was the *experience*.

He drank and drank compulsively, as if he were starving, and
Mulroney's blood were the only blood left that would fill
him.  It filled him with an energy so powerful that he could
have crushed walls down, or even battled the sun, but at the
same time, it filled him with memories that he never had.

This was the boon and the curse of vampirism: with the blood
came the memories.  Some primitive cultures still believe
that the life and mind exists in the blood -- LaCroix and
the Romans knew better, that the mind and memory exists in
the heart.  And with the draining of the heart-blood came
the memories...

     //What are you doing?!  Stop!!  NOOOOOO!!!!!!//

     He felt his whole body being slashed to pieces, without
     the scalpel even touching his skin.  Blood sprayed out
     in all directions.

     %%Do not be afraid.  We only wish to improve the
     quality of life...%%

     He felt his very nerves catch on fire, in a way that
     sunlight could never do.

     //Will you feed my hunger if I swallow lies right down
     my throat?//

     %%Yes.%%

     //The PAIN!!!!//

     %%That too will pass.%%

     %%It's time to roll the dice.%%

LaCroix opened his eyes with a sharp snap.  In just a
heartbeat of time, he sat both Vachon and Tracy staring at
him with fear and confusion.  Vachon knew what must be, and
even he was confused.

Then he understood.  He had drained blood with the intention
of bringing one across.  He didn't provide his own blood,
which made it all possible.

He spoke in a very shaking tone, "Die."

In a split second, he searched around for the implement. 
There was none...  until he saw Detective Vetter's gun. 
Vachon, the much younger one, was barely able to flinch even
after the gun was snatched away.  

When five bullets blew away most of the neck, Vachon had
only managed to extend his arm.

When the head was twisted off the body and tossed callously
away, Vachon had screamed two syllables and had moved only
an inch.  Vetter hadn't even managed to blink.

There was no quickening.  Though LaCroix identified himself
as a vampire, his recent experience with the Provincianus
had made him expect to receive a quickening after the
decapitation of all non-vampire immortals.

"What have you done?" asked Vachon.

LaCroix had stood still for many moments.  Time had slowed
down even more.  A statue would have moved faster than time.

//It seems that Nicholas has influenced you, my flighty
friend.  The old Vachon would have understood.  Even if I
wanted to kill him for the sake of thirst, he would have
understood.//  LaCroix smiled slowly, "I gathered
information that he would not have provided you.  I have
information from the source, and he is no longer necessary."

He stared down at Mulroney's form, "I suppose I should say
'good game,' but you weren't even a mediocre player."

The situation finally registered to Tracy, who vomited.  She
had killed her own, but only in the line of duty.  She had
seen vampires drain blood, but only out of hunger.  She had
only twice in her life seen murder face-to-face, and it
still shook her.

LaCroix smiled at her, while she expelled her last meal,
"You should be thanking me.  You would have never had the
guts to do it yourself... forgive the pun."

                         Chapter 13

When Mulder chased after that monk, Scully was nearly
incapacitated with pain from something that was totally
beyond a headache. 

You'd expect that anyone suffering from any obvious ailment
-- a heart attack, a diabetic episode, extreme alcohol
poisoning, and so on -- would get some attention from
someone who would ask, "Is everything all right?"

That's what you'd expect, but that's not what you get.  What
you get is about 90% apathy and 10% curiosity.  It's the
curious fraction that just observes you suffering or dying,
saying, "Hmm...  Looks like a heart attack.  What do you
think, Jim?"

Scully was in such pain, however, that none of those things
ran through her mind.  All she knew was that she was going
to die...  or at least that she wanted to.

"Here," said a voice cutting directly through her pain. 
"Swallow this."

She didn't even remember swallowing the pills, but she did
remember the bitter coffee with which she swallowed them
down.  It was the bitter taste that helped cut a path
through the pain.

A few minutes must have passed, but when they did, she could
see Mr. X sitting down across from her, his face filled with
genuine concern.  "How are you feeling."

Scully didn't know what to say or think.  Every time she met
him, she saw an amoral bastard, and not a human being.  She
wondered how genuine his concern was.  "I'm feeling better,
thank you."

Mr. X's concern changed to nervousness.  "We need to get out
of here right now.  Come on.  I've paid your bill."

"What about Mulder?"

"Don't worry about him.  He's being taken care of.  Come
on."

Scully was both confused and concerned, but she didn't
argue.  She knew enough to at least give him a chance to
prove himself.  If he said that Mulder was being taken care
of...  there were two sides to that statement, but at least
she could trust that he was being attended to.

They left out the front door, making a sharp left turn.  In
the distance, she could hear some faint yelling, but Mr. X
deliberately ignored it.  "Come on.  That isn't our
concern."

"If I may ask, what *is* our concern?"

"The Hunt."  The way he said it sounded strange, as if
Scully could almost hear the capital 'h' in the word.

"What are we hunting?"

"'What' is the right word, and you have no idea how right it
is."  Though they had kept up a pretty fast pace, he wasn't
winded.  "We're going after the people who... how should we
say, took you on an extensive 'experimental' medical trip? 
The people who are responsible are here, and we're going to
pay them a visit."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Yes.  I didn't."  He didn't answer any more questions.

After another block, they met a limo that pulled straight
out of traffic.  The door opened, and Mr. X ushered her in. 
"Come on.  Come on!  We don't have all day!"

               *                   *              *

Amanda and Lenny returned to the boat.  For some reason,
Amanda looked very annoyed, but she wouldn't talk about it. 
Duncan and Connor were busy snoozing on the sofa -- but not
with each other.

Lenny smiled wickedly, shaking Duncan gently by the
shoulder.  "Wake up."  

Duncan snapped awake, his hand reaching for his sword, but
Lenny stopped his hand before he had a chance to draw it.

"Time for a workout."

"What?"  He was now waking up enough to get his bearings,
but he wasn't awake enough.

"You have too much time on your hands if you're snoozing. 
Come on up."

Duncan sensed that there was something more to this than met
the eye.  "All right," he grumbled.

As Duncan left with Lenny out the door, Amanda grimaced even
more, but she didn't say anything.  "Damn priest needs a
touch of temptation!"  She smiled at that thought, but
remembered what he looked like and scratched that notion. 
There were some things that even she wouldn't do...

...On the deck, Lenny and Duncan were squared off.  Duncan
was uncertain and tense, even though he could have easily
smashed the old man into bits and pieces; Lenny was totally
relaxed, unarmed, and held his arms out wide.

"I am the enemy," Lenny spoke loudly.  "Kill me."

Duncan hesitated, "What game are you playing, old man?"

"Just do it."  Lenny was still light-hearted, but his voice
gained a touch of steel.  "Are you afraid of an unarmed old
man?"

Shrugging, Duncan drew his sword and went for the old man... 
and wound up flat on his back.

"You have the reflexes of a drunkard, and the oomph of a
sloth!"

Duncan got back up, grinning a little evilly.  "All right,
old man, you want it -- you got it!"  He attacked with full
force, and found that he was only attacking the air.  Though
he aimed right, he found that his vicious attacks would
swing through empty air at the last moment.  Always the last
moment.  Again and again he attacked, and each time he
missed.  Almost.

"Is that the best you can do?" taunted the old man.

That was when Duncan snapped.  He yelled in a deep bass,
throwing away all of his restraints.  It wasn't play
anymore, or even serious practice.  Deep down, he knew it
was wrong, but his heart took control, and his heart wanted
blood.  Lots of blood.

Duncan charged forward in an aggressive series of swinging
chops to the head, thrusts to the heart, and the occasional
kick to the abdomen.  None of them hit their target, but
Lenny seemed to be very pleased at this development.

It ended when Lenny calmly slammed his palm into Duncan's
chest, throwing him down to the wooden deck.  The thump must
have sounded through the whole boat.  "*That* was what I was
looking for!"

Duncan was shaking his head, trying to get up, "What are you
talking about?"

"Richard Sharpe.  I've found him."  Lenny helped to pull him
up.  "He's been there all along.  You just have to listen to
him."

"You're crazy!"

"Am I?  How would you explain the fact that you've fought in
the styles of fighters whom you've never encountered,
screaming at me in Sanskrit and an extinct dialect of
Japanese?"

"I did?" Duncan now looked confused.  "I don't remember
that!"

Lenny squatted into a full lotus.  "That's because he's
integrated into your being.  Whenever there is a quickening,
that is what happens."  He seemed to be at a loss for words
for a few brief moments.  "When anyone dies, the *I* is
lost.  You could say that Richard Sharpe is dead, just as
you could say that the cow meat you ate last night is dead." 
He made a face at that.  "But just as you took his life-
force, you also took something that is distinctly 'Sharpe'."

Lenny's expression grew grave, "Do not breathe a word of
this to anyone, but this is why I truly came.  Your bout of
insanity has unlocked something that may be of great
potential for either health or illness -- forget about good
or evil for the world.  You believe that you have 'kicked
this thing', but even today, I could see the quickening
taking you over. 

"All it takes is one stress or another, and it will come
through.  At the moment, all you show are some clever moves
and knowledge of languages you never encountered.  Next will
come the memories, and finally, the personalities will come
through.  

"I can help you to control this.  But whether you accept my
help or not, you *must* control it."

Duncan looked very skeptical, "Who are you to know all this? 
You're not an immortal."  He amended himself, "Or at least,
you're not one of our kind.  What makes you think you can
really help me, provided I need help?  How do I know you're
right, even if you *are* telling the truth?"

"Hey, is everything all right?" asked Connor from the cabin
door.  His eyes were full of innocence as he brought out his
own matching katana.  "My turn to play."

Lenny bowed, his eyes never leaving Connor.  "I would be
honored."

Duncan smiled as Connor failed miserably to maintain his
dignity as he was led into making himself look like a clown. 
Seeing it happen was different than experiencing it himself. 
The old man wasn't just good: he was perfect.  His moves
were smooth, and had an air of foreknowledge about them, as
if Lenny knew what would happen ahead of time.

//I wonder who this monk really is...  For a peaceful man,
he could probably give Grayson or Kalas a challenge...//

               *              *              *

Bill was grumbling to himself, rubbing his hands together. 
//Goddamn cold!  And to think I thought I'd seen the last of
it!  Damn Watchers -- I'm tempted to quit and start watching
vampires!  At least they know where to live!//

The bearded and gruff bartender tapped the table in front of
him, "Hey, boy!  What do you want to drink?"

"Something to warm me up."

The bartender whispered harshly, "If you want a mind-reader,
go back south where you belong.  If you want a drink, tell
me what you want."

"Sorry," muttered Bill.  //Jerk!  I'll have your head nailed
to the wall if you don't watch that attitude!//  "I'll have
a beer."

What he got was some unnamed local brand that as might as
well have been reclaimed sewage by the way it looked.  
Drinking it wasn't as bad of an experience as he might have 
thought.  A step below Bud, but drinkable.

It was then that he noticed something.  Both of the
bartender's inner forearms had burn-scars in the shape of a
dragon and tiger.  This wasn't some ordinary bartender. 
When he looked at the bartender's face, he suddenly realized
that it didn't look right.  It was a fake -- a good job, but
still makeup.

Bill whispered softly over the noise in the bar, "What's the
word?"

The bartender smiled, "The *word* is that I'll bash your
head in if you don't mind your own business."

Bill showed his tattoo.  "This *is* my business."

The bartender snorted, "Not now, it isn't.  Go back south,
boy."

Bill stood up, smiling, "Thank you."  He slammed the rest of
the beer, making a face.  Then he left a generous tip,
leaving without making any peripheral scans of the room.

Two of the bar fixtures looked at one another, nodding. 
Caine didn't like the look of this.

Outside, the two grimy men approached Bill, who was leaning
against the outside wall, smoking a cigarette.  His eyes had
that 'deep thought' look about them, so he didn't notice the
presence of his visitors.

"I hear you had some questions," one of them said, tapping
him on the shoulder.

Bill didn't jump.  "You heard right."  He didn't pay the men
any attention.

The other one grabbed him by the lapel, holding his fist up
threateningly, "We don't take well to people asking too many
questions."

Bill smiled.  "I wasn't asking you."

"Smart alec college boy!" snarled the man, punching him
solidly in the face.

Bill's head snapped back, but the rest of his body remained
still.  His head returned to place slowly.  Blood flowed
freely out of his mouth.  But his expression said that while
he felt it, he didn't care.  His eyes weren't too lively.

A second blow to the gut didn't produce any more effect.  

Bill just shook his head, saying or doing nothing.

A third blow to the gut made him flinch a bit, but again, no
reaction.

The two fixtures were pretty baffled.  They were the types
who worked for a living, and so they expected any paper-
pusher (this is what he obviously was) to be on the ground
by now.

"Go back to your beer," suggested Bill.  "They must be stale
by now."

"Leave him alone," said the stern voice of the bartender
from behind them.

Bill shrugged as they returned inside with baffled and
guilty looks on their faces, wiping off the blood with a
tissue from his pocket.

"You're playing a dangerous game, boy," said the bartender
flatly.

"I've been playing dangerous games all my life.  Live with
it and stop trying to treat me like a child.  I know you
have something to tell me, and I can spot genuine pity and
concern a mile away.  Don't waste it on me."

The bartender smiled wearily, "Don't ignore the advice of
your elders..."

While these two were having their exchange, Coleen stood
back up after tightening the laces on her boots.  She was on
the other side of the street, knew that there was a violent
exchange at the front door of the bar, but didn't pay
attention to it.  But when she heard Bill's voice, she
snapped to attention, her eyes staring at him in disbelief. 
He looked like death warmed over, but it was still Bill.

//What the hell is that bastard doing here?!//  Then she
remembered that he was a Watcher.  //Please don't let it be
true!  Please don't tell me he got assigned to *me*!//

Richie moved up from behind her, "What's up?  You look like
you just saw a ghost."

"Not yet.  Wait."  Coleen moved purposefully across the dirt
street.
                         Chapter 14

Nick felt nothing but pain.  There was so much pain that he
didn't even know where it was hurting.  He couldn't see, and
he was pretty sure that he couldn't hear.  What he thought
was noise could have been the sounds of his own mind.

"Nicholas."  The voice that boomed throughout the remanent
of his conscious mind was... Provencal.  Not Parisian
French, that was for certain.  He knew that it should be
significant for some reason, but he didn't know why. 
"Nicholas.  Wake up."

He opened up his eyes, finding himself in a hospital.  He
stared at a doctor complete with a white coat and notepad. 
She was a young woman without a touch of gray in her hair. 
//She must have been a quite a remarkable woman to become a
doctor at such a young age.//  In his state, a great many
thoughts went through his mind.  Even the most trivial
thoughts seemed important.

She leaned closer to him, inspecting his eyes.  "I see you
are awake."  Her accent was the same Provencal accent that
he heard in that limbo.

"Nat?" he asked weakly.

"Don't worry," she smiled.  "Dr. Lambert is recovering in
another room.  She just got a nick, forgive the pun."  She
smiled even wider, then her face became grave.  "You, on the
other hand are in a much graver situation, and I feel that I
must be brutally honest with you."

That was when Nick noticed that he had several iv tubes
hooked into his arm and a plastic tube attached to his
privates.  He looked at the doctor in confusion, and she
took a seat next to his bed.  "You have diabetes.  But it's
not that simple.  For some reason, over the last ten hours,
your body has suddenly stopped producing insulin.  Although
we have never seen that happen before, we're not shocked. 
We're shocked because your body destroys any and all insulin
that we inject into the body."  She looked at him straight
in the eye, "If a miracle doesn't happen, you will die
anywhere from one day to a week."

Nick stared at the ceiling, in total shock.  He heard every
word she said, but it wasn't registering.

The doctor nodded with pity, "If you need any help, just
ring the buzzer."

A memory sprang to Nick's mind then: "Don't eat or drink
anything for a day and a night."

Nick's nerves snapped tight as a sudden realization dawned. 
He hadn't followed Janette's directions for his 'cure.' 
//My god, what have I done??//

          *                   *                   *

LaCroix was slumping against a pillar, barely able to stay
in control.  He was drunk.  Drunk on blood.  Drunk on the
experiences that flooded through his mind.  He screamed as a
million images, voices, tastes, smells, and feelings fought
for dominance.  While he was slumped against the pillar, he
was also fighting Indian rebels, sticking Tracy in the trunk
of a car he didn't own, and making a deal in a smoke-filled
warehouse.  The taste of gin hung in his mouth, as did the
smell of gin.

Vachon was looking at him with fear, while Tracy merely
looked on with confusion.  For some reason, Vachon threw
Tracy out of the way as LaCroix tensed and howled in agony. 
He supposed he must have been screaming, but he didn't know
what he was saying.  He did know that he was smashing around
chairs and ripping pews from the foundation.

Eventually, the foreign sensations ceased trying to invade
his mind, but the absorbed memories remained.  He stood in
the middle of wreckage, and saw Vachon standing cautiously
about twenty feet away, a sharpened spike in his hand.

"It's over," whispered LaCroix.  "Don't worry.  I don't
bite.  Drop it!!"  Vachon reluctantly lowered it to the
ground.

LaCroix was still breathing heavily, and stared up near the
roof.  "Every time I think I have learned everything, that I
know everything, there is something that humbles me."

Vachon knew better than to ask.  He waited.

"I have seen into the Irishman's memories.  From his eyes, I
see the faces of the Invisible Ones."  His eyes were wide. 
"I have also seen their faces with my own eyes, and I didn't
see them for what they were.  For three years, I saw him
come and go, and I never saw what lay beneath his skin."

Vachon raised his eyebrows.

"His name is Schanke.  He was Nick's partner until the time
when you were introduced to us.  We were all led to believe
that he died, but some deaths are less permanent than
others."  A rage seemed to fill LaCroix' eyes, "I will *not*
allow him or any other of his kind to bring harm to my
children!"

LaCroix turned around furiously, looking around for some
kind of exit, but he knew there would be none until sundown.

"Calm down," smiled Vachon.  "There's nothing you can do for
a few hours at least.  Calm down and fill me in.  Maybe
there's something I can do to help."

LaCroix looked at Vachon skeptically, and looked away. 
"Schanke was assigned to watch the vampires in Toronto."  He
snorted.  "There could be no better way to learn about
vampires than to have one for a partner.  All this time, and
he assessed us.  He learned our strengths and weaknesses... 
When he felt he had enough information and wanted to leave
in a fashion that none of us would question, he found a
disturbed individual and 'suggested' that he start blowing
things up."

He looked upwards.  "Voodoo indeed.  Even he didn't
understand why he did it.  When he sang that song, he was
crying for help, and none of us knew what he was really
trying to say."

"Hold it!" Vachon held up his hands. "Why would Schanke have
done this?  He *died* in that crash!"

LaCroix shook his head, "They never found his body.  No
body, no corpse."

"Oh.  I forgot."

"But when I find him, he's going to wish he *had* died in
that crash."

               *              *              *

Scully rode silently in the limo for one minute too long. 
"Where are we going?  What are we hunting?"

"That's fair."  He zipped open the back of the seat in front
of him, pulling out a folder file.  Inside were several
blown-up black and whites.  

Scully inspected them closely.  They were shots made with a
telescopic lens.  It was of a woman that she had seen only
once.  "Good god!  Mulder's not going to like this one bit!"

Mr. X nodded.  "That's why we're handling this ourselves..." 
He breathed in deeply.  "She's one of the Invisible Ones,
but not only that, she's quite evil and has some pretty
horrible plans in store.  She has to die, and we're the ones
who have to do it.  Mulder can't ever know what's going to
happen tonight.  He can't ever know."

Scully shook her head, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. 
"Samantha an Invisible One...  How did it happen?"

"You remember your excursion into that vault in West
Virginia?  All the files with the samples?"  Scully nodded
wordlessly.  "You also remember that Mulder was originally
slated to be 'tested', but it was switched."  Scully nodded. 
"It wasn't switched."

"That doesn't make any sense!  How can it be switched and
not switched?"

"Names were switched, but Mulder never had a sister.  It was
all faked.  His 'sister' was an adopted girl that his father
intended to use for a very cold purpose.  He wanted to spare
his son, but he couldn't openly pull his son out.  So he
played a shell trick.  Mulder was spared, but at a high
cost...

"Mulder's memories were completely false.  And because of
that, he's torn apart a neat little covering that's
protected the status quo for decades."

"What do you mean by 'false'?"

"Mulder was blindfolded and pumped with so many drugs that
he wouldn't see what really happened that night.  His father
encouraged it because he'd rather have his son believe that
'aliens' took his 'sister' away, rather than know the colder
truth: that his very own father handed her over, screaming
and crying.

"Two of Halscombe's men took her away in a taxpayer limo,
and she was never heard of again.  Naturally, there would be
inquiries, but it would cover his trail if he had a son who
would insist that aliens took her away.  It made
investigators laugh and say, 'Sorry I asked.'"

Scully leaned back, her headache threatening to incapacitate
her once more.  "Do you have any other surprises for me?"

"You're not going to like this."

"Show it to me."

What she saw made her want to throw up, but she kept it
down.  It showed Samantha standing over her sister's
freshly-dug grave, handing over a bundle of cash to
Halscombe, who also stood over it.  In the next picture,
they poured a bottle of wine over the grave together,
kissing passionately.

"Does this mean that Halscombe deliberately had my sister
murdered?  That it wasn't an accident?"  Scully could barely
keep her tone level.

"Maybe, or maybe not.  What it does mean is that they
certainly thought it was a good thing."

Scully didn't know whether he was talking about the murder
or the kiss.  She shuddered at the thought.  //The guy is
slime! The crime is its own punishment!//