Chapter Two

Bum. Tha-dum-bump.

Duncan pulled the pillow over his head and violently willed the knocker to go away.

Tha-dum-bump-bump.

The Highlander groaned. "Coming!" he yelled through the pillow, and didn't move.

Ba-dum-bum-bump.

"For God's sake, don't ye know what time it is?" he growled into the pillow. Kicking his feet free of the covers, he rolled off the bed. As he stood, a chill of nausea shuddered through him, warning him that the knocker was an Immortal. In an instant, Duncan came fully awake.

Instinctively lifting the katana from where it lay, Duncan crossed the long apartment silently, blade held before him. The brief hallway to the door was narrow. Opening the door with the weapon to the fore was a long-practiced chore of turning sideways behind the door, to greet the arrival with the blade rather than his neck. Wary, but not terribly alarmed -- most Immortals intent on taking his head wouldn't bother to knock first -- Duncan pulled the door open.

The slender man at the door was visibly shorter than Duncan, although he stood nearly six feet in height. His head was cocked to the side, an eyebrow arched over deep-set black eyes. Soft black hair spiked in a pattern that suggested it had been slept on recently, strands poking out over a face with the classical features of a Roman emperor. An aquiline nose complimented thin lips, which were currently curved in a rather sardonic smile. A black greatcoat, hitting him at midcalf, was worn over a grey, high-necked sweater and Dockers. A duffel bag was slung over his shoulder, held by there by two fingers.

"Took you long enough," Methos said pleasantly.

"For God's sake," Duncan repeated. He rotated the katana behind him, parallel to his arm, and gestured Methos in with a jerk of his head. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Around three fifteen, I imagine," the other Immortal said. He brushed past Duncan, knocking a light switch on with his elbow as he walked into the living room. It flooded the room, coloring in a couch and chairs that had been shadows a moment before. "Did I wake you?"

Duncan leaned on the doorknob without closing the door, watching Methos make himself at home in the flat. "What do you think?"

Methos dropped his lanky form onto the green leather couch, and the duffel bag beside it, looking Duncan over.

The Highlander was bare to the waist, wearing flowing gi pants. Faint red marks left from sheets and blankets criss- crossed oddly over a well-muscled torso. Black hair, cut short, was disheveled, and brown eyes under heavy eyebrows were sleep- filled. Only the katana glittering behind his shoulder, and the loose, easy grip on it, suggested Duncan was fully awake.

After briefly considering the Highlander, Methos ignored the question. "I had an idea," he announced instead.

With a sigh, Duncan shut the door, relocking it. "It couldn't wait until morning?"

"It could have," Methos said thoughtfully, "but my plane just got in, and the cab ride out here took all my money. I was sure you wouldn't want me to sleep in the street."

Shaking his head, Duncan came back into the living room, sitting in an armchair across from Methos and leaning forward to put the katana on the coffee table. "You could have stayed at a hotel next to the airport and called in the morning. I'd have come out to get you."

Methos stretched out on the couch. Even relaxed, he had a nervous energy about him, something that suggested too little sleep and too much caffeine. It gave him the aura of an overworked graduate student, completely belying five thousand year history the Immortal man actually had. "I hate sleeping next to airports," he explained. "Planes keep me awake. All that noise pollution."

Duncan smiled despite himself. "It's better to wake me up in the middle of the night?"

Methos looked over with a grin, folding his arms behind his head. "Infinitely. What's the point in friends if you can't impose on them? You were," he prompted the other man, "about to ask me what this great idea of mine was."

"It can't wait until morning?"

"Of course not. I couldn't stand the idea of you lying there all night, awake with suspense. I'm doing you a favor."

Duncan snorted, sinking back into his armchair. "All right, Methos. What's this great idea of yours?"

"I'm glad you asked," Methos said modestly. "I was thinking about the Watchers."

Inadvertently, Duncan glanced at Methos' wrist. Though he couldn't see it, the Highlander could visualize the blue tattoo on the inside of Methos' left arm, a circle encompassing an exaggerated Y. It was the symbol of an ancient organization of mortals; historians who, for centuries, had observed the Immortal Game, recording battles, but never interfering. It was a secret society, and a world-wide network. For the past decade, Methos, the oldest Immortal, had worked for them, as a research scholar called Adam Pierson. Pierson's focus of study was the legendary Immortal, Methos. The Watchers weren't sure if Methos was still alive. Adam Pierson kept it that way.

"What about them?" Duncan asked warily. He'd learned the hard way that not all Watchers followed the non-interference rule. While the years had built a friendship between Duncan and his own Watcher, Joe Dawson, the Highlander still harbored some suspicion and doubt of the society as a whole.

"You remember the Methuselah crystal, and the Watchers who found out I was an Immortal?"

Duncan nodded. The race between Watchers and Methos for the Immortality crystal had nearly cost first Amanda, and then Methos, their heads. Legend had it that the crystal would grant Immortality to the mortal who carried it. Methos had wanted it for his beloved Alexa, dying of cancer. The Watchers had wanted to it to be able to share the Immortality their charges were gifted with. In the end, the crystal had been lost, and the Watchers killed in the battle for it.

"They weren't terribly happy to discover they'd been harboring an Immortal in their ranks all those years," Methos went on. "It occurs to me the rest of them are going to find out eventually, one way or another."

Duncan nodded again. "So disappear. I've always wondered why they didn't figure it out when you took Kristin's head."

Methos shrugged, thinking back on the woman. Obsessed with Duncan, Kristin had come after him through the centuries, and the chivalrous Highlander had been unable to bring himself to take her head. Less concerned with niceties, Methos did it for him. "They thought you did it," Methos explained. "That's what Joe put in your record. Anyway, I have a better idea than disappearing."

Duncan sighed. "All that dedication to history, and he's doctoring the records. All right. What's your better idea?"

"Everybody doctors the records," Methos' voice was unconcerned. He toed his shoes off, sending them thumping to the floor. "I need to die, really spectacularly."

Duncan's eyebrows shot up. "Beg your pardon?"

Methos swung his legs around, sitting up. "In front of a lot of Watchers would be particularly good," he said eagerly. "I wake up befuddled. 'What? Me? An Immortal? After all this time studying them? It can't be!'"

Duncan pursed his lips. "You're insane."

Methos leaned forward. "No, listen. It'll work. Look: I'm mortal, you're Immortal. Why've you spent all this time hanging around me? The Watchers know Immortals can sense the undeveloped Quickening in potential Immortals. You're doing . . . " For a moment the older Immortal's conviction failed, and he continued more gently. "You're doing something they've seen you do before. Befriending a potential Immortal to train him if he gets in an accident."

Duncan looked away. "Richie," he said, quietly. "Dammit, Methos, I don't want another student. I'm not ready for that again."

Methos' smile quirked as he straightened up again. "I wouldn't exactly be your average student, Mac," he reminded Duncan. "It's a cover story, and I need your help to pull it off. When we're through, I'm Adam Pierson, died 1999, age thirty-four."

Duncan sighed, looking back again. "You think it could work," he said doubtfully.

"Sure. And just think -- I'd be the only Immortal with two records in the Watcher files."

Duncan laughed. "You're hopelessly vain, old man."

Methos tilted an eyebrow in acknowledgment. "I'm also practical, MacLeod. They won't be looking for Methos in me if they see Adam Pierson die the first time."

Duncan thumped his head against the back of the chair. "I'll think about it," he grumbled. Knowing he was agreeing to the scheme, he lifted his head again to glare impartially at Methos. "You can't live here," he warned.

Methos' eyes widened. "Would I impose on your hospitality like that, Mac?" The innocence didn't fade from his face as he added, "Can I have a blanket, by the way? The couch is comfortable, but you keep it chilly in here."

"What makes you think I'm not going to throw you out on the street?" Despite his words, the big Scotsman got to his feet, searching for a blanket. "What," he asked over his shoulder, "makes you think they'll assume it's the first death, anyway? That they won't figure you've been pulling the wool over their eyes all this time?"

Methos stood, to finally shed his greatcoat. "Because I'm a very good actor, MacLeod. I can't afford a bad performance."

Duncan balled up a blanket and flung it down the length of the room at Methos, hitting him in the back of the head. "None of us can." Two pillows followed the blanket. Methos turned to catch them neatly, grinning. "Don't you ever stay in hotels, Methos?"

"Not if I can help it. Researchers. Underpaid everywhere." Methos' tone was mournful.

"I'm overflowing with sympathy. Go to sleep. I'll tell you all the flaws with your hare-brained idea when I'm awake enough to think."

Methos shook the blanket out, grinning. "Good," he said brightly. "We should have the whole thing done before that happens."

The sunbeam crept determinedly up the bed. Duncan ignored it fiercely, even as it warmed him to the point of discomfort. Only when it slid over his face, turning the pleasant darkness behind his eyelids to a gold-tinged wall of fire did he roll out of bed, groaning reluctantly.

The apartment was silent, the heap of blankets and pillows on the couch unmoving. Rubbing his face, Duncan scowled good- naturedly at the couch's contents, and made his way past it to open the door and get the newspaper. Shaking it open, he went into the kitchen, setting the teapot on to boil. The headlines were typically depressing: war in India, a cop shot on duty, studies finding drugs were less and less effective against tuberculosis. With a sigh, Duncan flipped the paper over to read the lower half, and chuckled. "Wake up, Methos. Somebody's claiming to have found Atlantis."

The lump on the couch remained still. Duncan, undaunted, repeated, "Methos, wake up. You'll enjoy this. Methos?" Frowning, he set the paper aside and went to shake the blankets.

They gave way, nothing under them but pillows. Duncan straightened as the elevator rattled, in tandem with the rush of warning nausea. Duncan turned, eyebrows elevated, to watch Methos pull the gate up and step into the flat. He was barefoot, wearing a pair of sweat pants, and had a towel hung over bare shoulders, hands curled loosely around the ends of it. "Good morning, sunshine," he said cheerfully. "About time you got up. I was beginning to think you'd sleep forever."

"You can't possibly have turned into a morning person since the last time you stayed here," Duncan said accusatorily. "What are you doing up?"

Methos shrugged. "I slept on the plane coming in, so I got up about an hour ago. You're usually up much earlier."

Duncan glanced at the clock, discovering it was nearly nine. "I don't usually have unexpected guests at three in the morning," he said sourly.

Methos nodded blandly. "I'm sure Amanda always arrives at a convenient hour," he said, "and I'm sure she lets you go right back to bed, but then you have to spend all that time greeting her properly. I'm really far less trouble." He grinned. "What's for breakfast?"

"You're incorrigible."

"Encouragable," Methos corrected.

"Grapenuts."

"That sounds hideous."

Duncan brightened a little. "You could mix it with plain yogurt."

"You have got to be kidding."

"Not at all. What were you doing?" Duncan went back into the kitchen to make his tea.

"Working out. Even those of us who aren't health nuts like to work out every once in a while, and you've got that lovely gym down there. You're not really going to eat that, are you?" Methos asked in dismay, as, tea steeping, Duncan began to mix the threatened cereal and yogurt.

"Sure. You sure you don't want some?"

Methos shuddered. "Positive. Do you have anything that's not good for you around here?"

"Eggs and bacon in the fridge." Duncan pulled a stool over to the edge of the counter and sat down. "Did you see the paper?"

Methos crouched to dig a frying pan out from a cupboard, and pulled the fridge open. "No, why?"

"Someone's claiming to have found Atlantis." Duncan pointed to the paper with his spoon. "Some Chicago archaeologist. I haven't finished the article yet." He dug the tip of the spoon into the paper, pulling it towards him to continue reading.

"Seems unlikely," Methos said absently. "What's his name?" Half a dozen slices of bacon began to sizzle. Methos picked up his eggs and started juggling them.

Duncan blinked up at the motion. "I didn't know you could juggle."

"You don't know lots of things about me. What's his name?"

"Um." Duncan looked back at the paper. "Doctor Mary Kostani. 'The artifacts are dated at more than five thousand years old, and are of a superior workmanship than artifacts from contemporary civilizations. The legends of Atlantis support a more advanced civilization than those surrounding it . . . .' It goes on like that. There's bread under the counter if you want toast."

"Thanks. Is there a picture?" Methos put the eggs down in favor of finding the bread.

"Of what? Atlantis?

"No, the archaeologist." Methos dropped bread into the toaster, then looked over his shoulder. "Well, or the ruins. Ow!" He shook bacon grease off his hand, glaring at the frying pan.

"None of the woman. Some of the pottery they've found. Here." Duncan stretched to drop the paper next to the stove, and stirred his yogurt again. "Sheff ghibbng a leffhur in ffiffaffo."

"Finish your food, you Scottish barbarian, and speak clearly. Oh, she's giving a lecture in Chicago." Methos nudged the paper up, reading the end of the article. "I can't believe she found Atlantis. That stuff could be from anywhere." He squinted thoughtfully at the pictures. "Terrible photographs. Detail's bad. Looks like it might be pretty nice stuff."

"It'd be the find of the century," Duncan said. "Even if it's not Atlantis, she'll get enormous publicity."

"Yes, and it'll embarrass her department when it turns out to not be Atlantis. I wish they'd published the location."

"Why?

Methos shrugged, flipping eggs. "So I could see how close she was."

Duncan stopped eating, spoon halfway to his mouth. "You know where Atlantis is?"

Methos looked over his shoulder again, expression deliberately bored. "Sure. Doesn't everyone?" He turned back to grin at the frying pan.

Duncan put the yogurt down, spluttering. "My God, Methos, that's -- that's -- you can't just keep that sort of thing secret! That's criminal!"

"Of course I can. I told you a long time ago, Mac. One of the advantages of being five thousand years old is that you remember where all the great stuff that everyone else has forgotten about is."

"But nobody's forgotten Atlantis!" Duncan protested, in half genuine outrage.

"Maybe they should." Methos slid his bacon and eggs onto a plate. The toast popped, and he danced it on his fingertips while buttering it, chanting, "Hot hot hot!" under his breath.

Duncan leveled a stare at the older man. "Are you going to explain that cryptic remark?"

Methos pulled up a stool, grinning wolfishly around a mouthful of eggs. "I shouldn't. I should make you wonder."

In a voice of reason, Duncan said, "I'd have to throw you out a window. You wanted to die, right?"

"Duncan MacLeod would never throw a helpless mortal out a window. He also wouldn't bring a new Immortal over that way. They'd never buy it." Methos took another bite of toast.

"Atlantis, Methos."

Methos waved his fork. "All right, all right." He got up to pour orange juice, and sat back down, looking thoughtful. "Even if they did find it, it's not going to have all the wonderful knowledge they're looking for. They wrote on paper, Mac. Really fine paper. It's been underwater for thousands of years. It'll have dissolved. Even if it's not, I'm the only person in the world who knows the language, and I'm not about to volunteer to read it for them."

"They figured out the hieroglyphics," Duncan pointed out.

Methos snorted. "Some of them. Occasionally I have to suppress the desire to tell them where they got it wrong." He ate a piece of bacon. "At any rate, some of the stories about Atlantis are right. It was an astonishing culture. There were a lot of scholars, artists, architects, that sort of thing. It was run by a counsel of the ruling Houses. Men and women both served on it -- no gender issues in Atlantis." Methos folded a piece of toast in half and ate it, tapping his fork against the plate. "It'd be nice if they'd get back to that."

"They're getting there," Duncan said patiently. "So what happened?"

"It sank," Methos supplied helpfully, "and it should be left where it is. You remember the Methuselah stone," he asked for the second time since he'd arrived. Again, Duncan nodded.

"They made that."

Duncan stared, caught off guard. "What?"

"They made it. I don't know how. That was what made Atlantis special, Duncan. There are things in this world that we can't explain. Ourselves," Methos stressed, "for example. Cassandra's ability to manipulate people with her voice, and her visions of the future. Your own encounters with that demon- thing. There are elements of magic that we can't explain."

Duncan nodded, slowly.

Methos stabbed an egg yolk. "Somebody in Atlantis figured out how to harness those elements to a degree no one has ever duplicated. A lot of the legends we hear about are derived from articles the Atlanteans had. Christ's holy Grail, and the sword they called Excalibur were both from Atlantis. They were the ones who bred the unicorns."

"Unicorns," Duncan said, disbelievingly.

Methos smirked at his plate. "Unicorns," he repeated. "The point, Mac, is that somehow they'd gained the ability to make objects of fairly phenomenal power. I don't know what else drowned with Atlantis, and frankly, I don't want to. That knowledge is long gone, and it's better that way. Would you want to see six billion Methuselah crystals handed out across the world? Or maybe worse, only a few thousand, to the wealthy?" Methos shook his head. "I'd rather Atlantis and its magics stayed under the ocean."

He speared the last bite of breakfast. "Now. How are we doing to kill me so I can gain my Immortality and hornswoggle the Watchers?"

Suddenly curious, Duncan asked, "How did you die the first time?"

Methos shook his head. "I have no idea. Painfully, no doubt. That's usually how it happens."

"You must be the only Immortal in the world who doesn't remember his first death." Duncan finished the yogurt and threw the cup away.

"I'm the only Immortal in the world who's five thousand years old, too. Do you suppose there's a correlation?" Methos got up to rinse his plate off. "It has to be public enough for a Watcher to notice, or to hear about it quickly, but I'd rather not get the police involved."

"The police usually get involved when there's a violent death, Methos. They already don't like me very much. The last thing I need is for a buddy of mine to walk away from an obviously fatal accident."

"I could get in a car wreck," Methos went on obliviously.

"In whose car!"

Methos grimaced. "Maybe not. Adam Pierson's not really the type to be racing around at unhealthy speeds, anyway."

"What is Adam Pierson the type to be doing?"

Methos' expression turned glum. "Getting mugged, I'm afraid."

"No Watcher in his right mind would believe I let you get mugged."

"I guess you'll have to be doing something else. Do you know anybody who could mug me?"

Duncan stared at him, and Methos shrugged. "Okay, I didn't think so. I don't suppose Boy Scouts know muggers."

"I'm not a Boy Scout."

"Only because they didn't have them in the Highlands when you were growing up."

Duncan rolled his eyes. "For God's sake."

Methos grinned. "C'mon, Mac. Where would I live in town if I wanted to increase my odds of getting mugged?"

"Methos, this could take years."

"Do you have any more pressing business?"

Duncan sighed. "I'm almost positive I could think of better things to do than wait for you to get killed. You know, you should go call Amanda and ask her to find someone to kill you. I'm sure she'd know who to go to."

"It could be another Immortal," Methos said thoughtfully.

"Why would another Immortal be after you if you're not dead yet?"

Methos shrugged. "We've all heard the stories about unfocused Quickenings being their own sort of rush. Maybe it could be somebody after that. He deals me a fatal wound and you dash in to save my head."

"Methos." Duncan sighed again, shaking his head. "You know I don't kill people for the fun of it. I'm not setting anybody up for that. The Watchers wouldn't believe that I wouldn't take the head of someone who tried to kill you?"

Methos frowned across the counter at Duncan. "Isn't it awfully inconvenient to have a conscience?"

"It isn't," Duncan said dryly, "nearly as much of a bother as you and Amanda seem to think it must be."

"Maybe you'll grow out of it," Methos said hopefully.

Duncan shook his head again, picking up the paper. "Want to go to this thing?"

"What thing?"

"The lecture on Atlantis. You could made snide comments about where she got it wrong."

Methos looked interested. "Maybe. Do you know anyone in Chicago who could kill me?"

"You have a one-track mind, Methos."

The ancient Immortal inclined his head in agreement. "Yes, and the track is surviving another day, every day. You have to plan in advance for that sort of thing, Duncan. Who's buying the tickets?"

"What, to Chicago?"

Methos nodded. "You don't think Adam Pierson can afford to fly to Chicago on a lark, do you?"

Duncan couldn't help smiling. "I think Adam Pierson wouldn't fit on a lark. They're not very big. Have you been a mooch for five thousand years, Methos?"

Methos scratched his chin. "Pretty much."

Duncan nodded. "I thought so. Maybe I'll ask Joe to come along, too."

"Good idea. He'd like the lecture."

"You just want a bigger audience."

Methos grinned. "Who? Me?"