Celli Lane slumped against the nearest low wall and dropped her burden to the cobblestoned street. She needed a break. She pushed back loose hair from her face and groped for the water bottle she always kept in a top pocket of the backpack. The spring weather had turned amazingly hot and her University of South Dakota sweatshirt stuck to her like a wet blanket. The railroad station lay two miles back along San Sebastian's main streets, and she'd been lost in the narrow, twisting streets of the old town for over a half hour. Her pocket map and the true location of the hostel didn't seem to agree. And she was getting very tired of lugging herself up and down the narrow, twisting streets, trying to get directions from people with her very rusty Spanish and their equally limited English.

For the first time that day she almost regretted not going to Pamplona with her twin sister Shannon and their friends. This two- week trip through Europe on an Eurail pass had been an early present for the twins, whose birthday was in July. They'd both recruited classmates for the trip. Everything had gone surprisingly well, considering the four girls had never been overseas before. But nine days of very little privacy and constant travel had worn on Celli's nerves, and she knew she needed a few days by herself.

So while Shannon and the others took the train from Paris to Pamplona, Celli had gone to the Basque coast and to San Sebastian, one of Europe's oldest and most popular summer resorts. Traveling by herself didn't scare her, but she was tired from the overnight train and just wanted to find the hostel, find a bed, and rest her weary legs. Slinging the backpack onto her shoulders, she set off again. Ten minutes later she found the large, quaint hostel in a yard set off the street, and got knocked into the bushes by a bunch of German boys barreling down the walk.

"Stupid idiots," a strangely familiar voice said as hands reached out to help Celli from the bushes. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Celli replied, slightly dazed, as she brushed dirt and grass from her jeans and struggled to rebalance herself. She gazed up at her benefactor, momentarily blinded by the sun, and then felt the whole world shift six inches to the left beneath her feet. He was her age, slender but strong, with short, curly blond hair and the most incredible blue eyes she'd ever seen, on or off a television screen.

He gave her a charming smile. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," Celli said, her throat dry, her heart hammering. "You're . . . you're . . ."

"American," he laughed. "Just like you. I think you need to sit down."

With a firm hand on her elbow he escorted her up the stairs and into the cool, dim lobby of the hostel. He slid the backpack to the floor, made her sit on one of the battered but clean sofas in the sitting area, disappeared, and then returned with a tall paper cup of water. Celli gulped it down, unable to tear her eyes off him.

"Have we met before?" he asked.

"Not exactly," Celli replied. The world shifted another few inches beneath her. "I don't think. No . . it would be impossible." Then, bluntly, she asked, "What's your name?"

"Richie Ryan," he said, extending a hand.

"Oh," she said, in a very small voice, as her vision threatened to go completely dark.

"Whoa," Richie said, catching the cup and then pushing her head down between her knees. "Come on, deep breaths. In and out. You're not going to faint, are you?"

"No," Celli said. Her body did as instructed while her mind spun off into a thousand different directions. Richie Ryan was a fictitious character on one of her favorite television shows, a French-Canadian production called "Highlander." She knew that the actor who played him, Stan Kirsch, was currently filming a movie in Los Angeles. This incredibly cute American boy, whoever he was, couldn't possibly be Richie Ryan - and if he was Stan Kirsch, he had no good reason to be wandering around Europe going by his character's name.

Shannon was never going to believe this.

Celli lifted her head and drank some more water. The lobby steadied around her. She wanted to ask him a dozen questions, but all that came out was, "Thanks."

"No problem," he said. "Are you staying here?"

She nodded. "You?"

"Actually, I'm at the pensione just down the street, but I was looking to see if they have any beds here. None available for guys, it seems." Richie gestured to the front desk, where a teenage clerk sat flirting with an Italian traveler. "You probably want to get settled in, huh?"

"That would be good," she admitted. "By the way, my name's Celli. Celli Lane."

"Pleased to meet you," Richie smiled.

"Would you . . . " Celli started, then stopped. She felt flush creeping up her cheeks. "I mean, do you know anything good to do here? Any place to go?"

Richie pulled a battered guide from his back pocket and flipped through the pages quickly. "Well, there are the beaches. And the Plaza de Constitution, the central square, but this says that it doesn't liven up until later. If you like museums, there's a Basque one set in an old Renaissance monastery."

"Holy Ground," Celli murmured before she could stop herself.

Suspicion crept into his expression. "Yeah. Holy Ground." He shrugged, his eyes avoiding hers, and put the guide away. "You're probably not interested in any of that."

"No, I am," Celli insisted, reaching and touching his arm. He was real. Warm and solid and real, and incredibly sexy in tight jeans and a blue T-shirt. "Would you like to . . .I don't know. See some of the sights together?"

Richie nodded. "Sure. I think I'd like that."

"Good. I think I'd like that too."

***

The girl's dormitory was on the east side of the third floor. Celli found an empty mattress in the large room of bunkbeds and dropped her newly rented bedroll on it. Quickly she dumped out her backpack, found a reasonably clean and unwrinkled blouse, and changed out of the clothes she'd slept in all night. Richie had promised to wait downstairs for her. She took a few seconds to freshen up in the communal bathroom and then dashed down the stairs, half-afraid he might have vanished.

But he hadn't disappeared. "Hungry?" he asked. "The clerk says there's a great cafe just three blocks over."

"Starved," Celli said.

The cafe was dark and old but did deliver up great sandwiches, hot French fries, and Coca-Colas in glass bottles. As they ate Celli found herself chattering nervously. She told him about USD, studying English and theater, and her various writing projects. She didn't dare mention anything about fan fiction, or the fact she and her friend Carol Ann published a fanzine devoted to him. He listened attentively, asking interested questions, and occasionally snatched fries from her plate with a smile to let her know he was doing it.

"What about you?" Celli finally asked, trying to work the conversation to him. "Are you in college?"

"Nah," he said, with an aw-shucks expression that made her want to hug him. "School and I never did get along."

"You never know," Celli said, patting his hand in encouragement. "You might like it."

He shrugged. "Right now I'm just traveling around on my bike, seeing what I want to do with my life."

"You've been to Europe before?"

"Lived in Paris for awhile, with a couple from Seacouver." Richie took a sudden interest in playing with the straw from his mostly- drained Coke bottle. "They had a really neat barge on the Seine. Then we went back to the States, and stuff happened, and I decided to strike out on my own."

Celli looked away at the patch of sunlight falling through the screen door from the narrow street. She knew about the barge, of course. She knew what had happened to Tessa. And Richie hadn't decided to strike out on his own as much as he'd been kicked out, by Duncan, after taking his first Quickening.

Richie met her gaze squarely. "Ended up driving all over America, and then all the way down to Brazil. Carnival in Rio - that was a blast. Then I hopped a freighter to Spain and here I am."

A deathly cold chill crawled up Celli's spine. "Rio?" she asked. "You came here all the way from Rio?"

"Just got off the ship yesterday," Richie grinned. "I'm still trying to get my land legs back. The whole city is rocking back and forth."

"Where are you going from here?"

"No special plans. Maybe Pamplona, maybe Madrid or Barcelona. I don't have anyone to answer to, just me and the bike and the open road."

And Martin Hyde, Celli thought in dismay. Not only was this Richie Ryan, but it was a Richie Ryan two years behind her in time - a Richie Ryan pulled from the second season. She grasped frantically in her mind for details from "Prodigal Son." It was in Madrid that Richie would draw the attention of the evil Immortal Martin Hyde, who would kill Richie's mortal companions and then drive him like a cornered rabbit all the way to Paris and Duncan's haven.

She knew his future, then. If she could persuade him to go to Paris now, or Italy or Germany or anywhere but Madrid, he might escape Hyde. He wouldn't arrive on Duncan's doorstep looking desperate and exhausted and shell-shocked. But if she spared him that fate, how would he and Duncan reconcile their differences? They would never hug in the barge, after Duncan told him he'd missed him too. They would never sit on the steps by the Seine, sharing cognac, laughing in the golden light of dawn.

"Excuse me," Celli said. "I have to use the bathroom."

She dashed off to the back of the cafe and found a payphone. Trembling, she pulled out her pocket address book. Carol Ann wasn't home. Celli flipped through the pages trying to figure out who else might be able to help. She tried Debbie Douglass, but the Highlander list owner was in a meeting. She called Angela Mull, but she was off covering a feature story at the Grand Canyon and the her college newsroom didn't know when she'd be back. She wanted to call Marina Bailey, but couldn't make the connection to South Africa go through on her MCI card.

Afraid Richie would think she was dawdling, Celli hung up the phone and went in search of him. He'd paid the bill and was sitting outside on the sidewalk, enjoying the sun. He squinted up at her.

"I know we just met and all," he said, "but they say the public park at the top of Mount Urgull is really nice, and you can get a view of the whole city. Would you consider going for a ride on my bike with me? I promise I'm trustworthy and won't do anything a gentlemen wouldn't do."

Celli rested her hand on his shoulder. "I'd love to," she said, and watched his face light up with pleasure.

True enough, from the park they could look back at San Sebastian's low, lovely skyline. The scallop-shaped bay, Bahia de la Concha, shimmered with clear blue water and gentle waves. Richie and Celli strolled the well-kept grounds of the military museum and then returned to town for souvenir-shopping in the narrow maze of the old city. By eight o'clock the Plaza de Constitution pulsed with people and shops and bustling restaurants, and they ate a light dinner from street vendors while watching mimes and musicians and magicians ply the crowds for money.

Purely by accident they found a disco full of people their own age, including the German boys from Celli's hostel. Richie and Celli danced for hours in the hot, crowded club to the thump of European videos played on a large wall screen. Celli had never had so much fun before, and couldn't believe that she was dancing with Richie Ryan - Richie Ryan, she kept thinking over and over to herself, no matter how incredible or amazing it might seem.

Sometime close to eleven Celli felt herself beginning to drag. She'd spent the previous night and most of the morning on the train, and it had been a great but tiring day. Before she could say anything to Richie, though, he got a funny look on his face and pressed his hand to his stomach.

"I have to find the bathroom," he told her over the loud music. "Be right back!"

Celli nodded and slumped to an empty chair set by the wall. She felt utterly exhausted, but incredibly happy. Idely she wondered what would happen when she and Richie returned to their hostels. Would he kiss her? Would she dare to kiss him? Would the kissing lead anywhere else?

She was half-imagining all sorts of scenarios when one of the German boys raced up to her and pulled her on the sleeve. "Your friend!" he shouted to her. "Someone's hurting him outside!"

With no thoughts of her own safety Celli dashed outside and found Richie slumped to his knees in the alley, his rapier to the side, one hand pressed over the flow of blood from his stomach. Two of the German boys were trying to help him. Another returned, red- faced and breathing hard, from an apparent chase down the street. Celli slipped down to Richie's side and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

"Are you all right?" she demanded. Stupid question, she knew, but one spoken from the habit of dealing with mortals, not Immortals.

Richie nodded. He looked pale and waxy, his breath coming in short and shallow gasps, his hands trembling. "I have to get out of here," he muttered to her, and tried to drag himself upright. "No hospital. No police."

"Okay," Celli said. Already a siren was piercing through the night air, and she knew they didn't have much time. Celli scooped up his rapier and then started him down the alley, supporting as much of his weight as she could. She could feel his cold, clammy skin through his shirt, and prayed he would start healing soon. She had no idea what to do in Spain with a corpse.

"Who attacked you?" she demanded, navigating him down the street towards a darkened neighborhood.

"I don't know," he choked out.

"At least you still have your head," she said, as he bit back a moan. When she was sure they wouldn't be seen Celli eased him to the pavement. He curled up against the pain in his stomach, stifling his own whimpers, and she soothed him as best she could by stroking his head and rubbing his shoulder. The healing took several minutes, and left him whole again but shaken and exhausted. Celli helped him sit up and held him in her arms against the cold night air. "You . . .know what I am," he finally managed to say.

"Yes," Celli said softly. "You're an Immortal."

His blue eyes fixed on her in dazed confusion. "How?"

Celli took a few seconds to compose a careful lie. "A close family friend was killed three years ago in a car accident. But he came back."

Richie nodded ever so slightly. "I was shot," he said. "Almost a year ago."

Celli smoothed damp curls from his forehead. "It was an Immortal who confronted you back there, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but I don't know his name. He just came for me." Richie struggled to his feet, his voice heavy with bitterness and a little fear. "It doesn't matter, you know. Any Immortal in the world could come around the corner and try to kill me, just because of what we are. And I have to fight or be killed."

"I know," Celli said. She pressed his rapier in his hand. "It must be very hard."

Richie shivered as he examined the rip in his shirt. "Sometimes," he admitted, as if he were ashamed. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

They took his bike back to her hostel. Richie walked her to the porch but wouldn't go inside. "Thanks for a great day," he said. "I had a lot of fun."

"Me, too," Celli said. "How about tomorrow?"

"You sure you want to?" He sounded raw, and vulnerable, and very tired. "I don't know if that guy will come back . . . "

Celli leaned over and kissed him.

"I'm sure," she said.

He kissed her back and they stood outside, under the stairs, two young Americans in Spain.

***

Before going to bed she decided she had to take a shower. It had been almost two days since her last one, in Paris, and now she had Richie's blood beneath her fingernails in addition to road grime. Although it was close to midnight, Celli slipped down the hall and into the bathroom. She showered for a luxuriously long time, letting the soap and hot water ease away the tension in her shoulders and stunned amazement in her head. When she was done, she wrapped a towel around her body and another around her dripping hair and crept back towards the girl's wing.

Halfway there she dropped her shower kit, scattering soap and shampoo and her make-up across the linoleum floor. Celli muttered a curse and then scooped to pick her things up, one hand holding the towel in place. She was so intent on her task that she failed to notice the soft tread of footsteps behind her.

"Oh, my," a male voice said in surprise. "I think I took a wrong turn. This isn't the men's wing."

Celli bolted upright in recognition of that voice and came face to face with a slender, dark-haired gentlemen who was no less than five thousand years old.

"Oh my gosh," she said, keeping herself at the last minute from blurting out his name.

"Sorry I startled you," he said. "My name's Adam. Can I help you?"

Celli stared at Methos, the oldest living Immortal, whose current alias was Adam Pierson. The towel around her chest began to slip off, and she clutched it demurely.

"I've got it," she said in disbelief. "And I think you very definitely are lost."

"Then I should backtrack," he offered gallantly, "before the house mother finds me and thinks I'm trying to corrupt young American ladies. You are American, aren't you? I can tell from your accent."

Celli nodded dumbly.

Methos beamed at her. "Not from New Yawk. Not from "the valley." Maybe somewhere in between?"

"Definitely in between. My name's Celli Lane," she said, offering him a handshake.

"Adam Pierson. Have you been to San Sebastian before? I'm finding it to be quite a quaint little place."

"It's turning out to be more popular than I first thought," Celli admitted. Silently she added that when Shannon and the others arrived in two days it was going to be even more popular. Assuming Richie and Methos were still in town, they might soon have all sorts of Highlander list fans flying across the Atlantic.

Richie *and* Methos. Celli's thoughts took an abrupt turn. Richie and Methos weren't supposed to meet until season four, nearly two years away in Richie's timeline. If Methos was approximately at the same point in story development, he hadn't even met Duncan yet.

"What?" she said, realizing she'd missed his last few words.

His smile grew wider. She noticed for the first time that he was dressed casually in black jeans and a black pullover sweater and white sneakers. The actor who played him, Peter Wingfield, was a marathon runner. This Methos was no less slender and sinewy, and just as devastatingly charming.

"I said, seeing as I'm brand new to the area, and you're obviously a tried and true veteran, would you mind having breakfast with me and telling me all the things I should see?"

Celli almost started laughing. Two Immortals in one day. Two entirely fictitious Immortals in one day. Her parents would never know what an awesome gift they'd given her in that one Eurail ticket.

"I'd love to."

"Good," he said. "I'll meet you downstairs at what? Seven thirty? See you then. Sleep tight."

Celli watched him retreat down the hall and then stumbled to her bunk, sure that everything was a dream that would end with sunrise. But when she crept downstairs the next morning and spied Methos lounging on a sofa with the international Daily Tribune in his hands, she felt a definite, renewed kinship to Alice in Wonderland.

The cafe where she'd eaten with Richie yesterday also served breakfast, and Celli pretended not to notice the chef's raised eyebrows at her having a new companion. They took a table by the window and relaxed over tea, eggs and muffins. Or, rather, Methos relaxed. Celli could barely keep her words straight coming out of her head. She felt shivery and light, and kept resisting the urge to poke to see if he was real.

She found it amusing how her reactions to Richie and Methos differed. She wanted them both, of course. Wanted them badly. Richie's youth and energy made her feel young and energetic too, and the wide-eyed awe and appreciation for new things that he showed made her see the world as an exciting adventure. He'd been badly hurt in his life, which brought out a definite streak of maternalism in her. She wanted to hold him and soothe away his sorrows. Then again, she wanted to hold him in a way that had nothing at all maternalistic about it - hold him, and see what they could do to one another for pleasure's sake.

With Methos, the world was not a brand new adventure. How could it be, after so many thousand of years? He carried an air of genuine sophistication, nothing phony or pretentious about it. He'd seen it. He'd been there. He was calm, unruffled, patient. She imagined he would be the most tender of lovers, carefully dedicated to his partner's needs and only then claiming his own. Alexa, the fourth season terminally ill waitress, hadn't deserved his love and kindness. But Celli had never been surprised that he'd offered it.

He found out she was a university student, and admitted to being partial to academics himself. When she told him she was an English major, he took particular delight in reciting in part one of his favorite poems - Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Renascence." Celli nearly choked on her coffee when he started. He couldn't possibly know it, but she had an Edna St. Vincent Millay link on her homepage back at USD. She could easily imagine laying in a green field of grass with Methos at her side, both of them staring up at the sky and exploring the universe in their minds.

After breakfast they walked down to the ocean. The unseasonably hot weather was back for today, and because it was still too early for the tourist season, the families and residents of San Sebastian had the acres of wide, sandy beach to themselves. Already wide umbrellas sprouted across the sand, each more colorful than the last.

"Would you like to go swimming?" he asked.

Celli looked down at her shorts and T-shirt. "I'm not exactly dressed for it," she admitted.

"Easily remedied," Methos smiled, and they ducked into a shop along the boulevard that had just opened. Celli winced when she saw the pricetags of the expensive little boutique, but Methos persuaded her to pick out a bathing suit. She picked out something she hoped was flattering and he chose, seemingly at random, a pair of tight blue and yellow swimming trunks. They changed in the back, and Methos stopped by another store to outfit them with towels and lotion.

Celli started daydreaming about what it would be like to travel around Europe with Methos. Not that she wanted to use him for his money, but after so many thousand years he probably had vast financial resources. Once they were settled into a spot on the beach he persuaded her into the water, ignoring her protests that she was a poor swimmer.

"I won't let you drown," he promised.

The water wasn't as cold as she expected, and his hands rubbing the goosebumps off her shoulders was definitely worth the cool saltiness against her body.

She took his hands and they floated on the waves beneath the perfectly blue sky. Celli took a deep breath and then traced, very gently, the tattoos on both of his wrists. She looked up and met his gaze.

"Rather unique," she said.

Methos' gaze revealed nothing. "Indulgences of my youth."

"Funny," Celli said, forcing her tone to be light, "I thought they marked you as a Watcher."

Methos turned her wrists over, seeking a similar tattoo. Celli shook her head. "My father was a Watcher," she said, hoping Dad would forgive this little lie. "I've known for a long time."

"That's a dangerous bit of knowledge," Methos said, smiling. Celli relaxed. She'd been afraid he would see her revelation as something of a threat. Methos continued, "Unless, of course, you plan on hitching up yourself. The benefits are okay, but the initiation process is annoying."

Celli laughed ruefully. "I think my schedule is a little too full to be joining secret organizations. And I'm not sure I'd want the excitement that comes with the job."

"Well, yes, at times it can get a little exciting," Methos said dryly.

Even more exciting, she reflected, when you were an Immortal who'd infiltrated the Watchers - taken cover in enemy territory, so to speak. She wasn't about to let him know that she knew that, but she did hazard to ask, "Are you here on work or pleasure?"

"Just pleasure," he said. "Thought I'd see the sights. I hear, actually, that there's some good discotheques in town. Do you dance?"

"A little," Celli said, and she broke contact with him to ease beneath the water and swim around him. It was a ploy to gain a few seconds of thought, to push down the panic in her chest. At first she'd been worried that Richie or the Immortal who'd attacked him in the alley was Adam Pierson's assignment.

But what if Methos had been the one to attack Richie?

Silly, she chided herself. Methos was not a headhunter, killing his own kind in the chase for the undefined Prize. He had told Duncan - or would tell Duncan, since it hadn't apparently happened yet in his time - that he hadn't taken a head in hundreds of years. Two hundred? Three hundred? She wished she'd packed her Highlander FAQ with her for the trip, but who would have imagined she'd need it? Of course, there was no guaranteeing he hadn't lied to Duncan. Some people she knew even argued that this Immortal, whatever his real name might be, was only pretending to be the ancient Methos.

When she surfaced they drifted some more on the waves, talk turning to Shakespeare and then figure skating. They both liked the amazing Elvis Stojko. By the time they stretched out on the large beach towel, equally pale bodies paying homage to the sun, Celli was quite happy to imagine she'd found her perfect mate.

With a flash of guilt she remembered Richie, who she was due to meet in just an hour and a half. He was her perfect mate, too. She ached to see him again. Their kisses on the porch of the hostel had kept her tossing and turning in bed half the night.

Shannon was definitely not going to believe any of this.

Carpe diem, Celli thought. She picked up the suntan lotion and squeezed some out between her hands. "You're going to burn," she said. "Let me put this on you."

Methos stretched out beneath her. "That would be great," he murmured, and she quite happily began spreading the lotion across his pale skin. She could feel an electrical connection between them, humming just below her range of hearing. He shifted every now and then, obviously enjoying himself, and Celli dared to bring her hands to the base of his spine and around the top of his briefs.

He caught her hands and kissed them.

"Turnabout is fair play," he pointed out. "Your turn."

Celli said, "If you insist . . "

He rubbed the lotion into her shoulders, down her spine, around the small of her back. His hands massaged strongly and firmly, easing muscles sore from carrying around a backpack for over a week. Celli drifted, more content than she could ever imagine, and felt herself glowing under his careful touch. She wanted to talk, but it was easier to flow and drift on the cushion of sand beneath the towel. . .

She fell asleep.

On a beach in Spain, being massaged by one of the leading men of her dreams, she fell asleep. When she woke it was to feel a solid, heavy weight against her side. Celli turned and saw Methos had decided to take a nap, too, and was nestled against her. She smiled and resisted the urge to ravish him while he slept. Then she focused on her watch, realized what time it was, and jumped to her feet with a gasp that made him bolt upright.

"I'm late!" she said, groping for her shorts and shirt and sandals. "Oh, my goodness. I'm so late! I have to go. Is that okay?"

"Of course," Methos said. He ran a hand through his short dark hair. "You startled me."

"Sorry," Celli said, going to her knees beside him. "I didn't mean to. But I promised someone I'd meet him back at the hostel - "

"Him?" Methos grinned. "Just some guy," Celli said. Oh, goodness, here she was lying again. "Comes from the same school. Amazing coincidence. But this has been great - I'd like to see you again - "

"Celli," he said gently, "go and keep your appointment. We'll meet again later."

"Really?"

"Of course. How does dinner sound? There's a restaurant called Carlos Zepaida on Calle Corro. One of those trendy places. I'll meet you there around nine. Spaniards always eat so late, did you notice?"

Celli realized she was only inches away from him. "I hadn't noticed," she said, somewhat breathlessly.

"I did," Methos said, his face taking on a different hue, and he leaned forward to kiss her.

For a moment she forgot why she was clutching her sandals so tightly in one hand, or where she'd been going in such a hurry. Then thoughts of Richie tore her away from Methos' lips.

"See you at nine," she grinned.

Celli raced all the way back to the hostel and found Richie chatting at the sidewalk with two Swedish girls. Well, she thought to herself, at least he hadn't left in a huff, thinking she'd stood him up. She was exactly twenty two minutes late, breathless from dashing through the streets, sweaty and sandy and sticky with suntan lotion. If Richie noticed any of it, he didn't comment. Instead his eyes lit up and he waved goodbye to the Swedish girls.

"I'm so sorry," Celli said. "I meant to be on time, honest."

"It's okay." Richie put his arms around her and gave her a welcoming kiss. Celli nearly melted. "Did you hit the beach?" he asked.

She improvised. "I found a great spot, if you're interested."

"Actually," he said, "I was thinking more about the mountains than the ocean today. How would you feel about a spin out along the coast? They say the view from Mount Igeuldo is fantastic."

Celli grinned. "I'd love it. Let me go change. I promise I'll only be a few minutes."

She showered, changed and was back downstairs in exactly eight minutes and thirty seconds, a personal record. Richie had dug up a spare helmet from somewhere and helped her put it on. Driving around the city was one thing; the mountain roads, he explained, was quite another. And while he might heal, she wouldn't. Not right away.

Celli settled onto the back of the motorbike and linked her arms around Richie's waist. He drove them up the sweeping curve of the Concha coast as she snuggled against his leather jacket and strong back. She couldn't remember any part of her life before San Sebastian. The view of the city, the bay and the ocean nearly took her breath away. After that they turned into the mountains and the Cantabrian coast road, stopping for lunch at a small roadside cantina. The English-speaking waitress asked if they were honeymooners.

"Not quite," Richie grinned, squeezing Celli's hand.

"You look like honeymooners," the waitress said, as if she didn't believe them.

In the town of Guernica they saw monuments to the Spanish Civil War and reproductions of the town's destruction. Celli bought a postcard detailing Picasso's famous painting about the decimation of 2,000 men, woman and children in less than three hours' time. Richie was quiet about the deaths, maybe reflecting on his own recent killing of Mako. Celli wanted to tell him that Mac would stand by him when he reached Paris, but couldn't. How would she explain her foreknowledge?

She could tell him so many things, but the consequences were unforeseeable. If she told him not get involved with racing, he would never have to leave Paris and get kidnapped by Kristov. Then he and Duncan would never have their touching farewell hug at the airport. If she told him not to get involved with Kristin, Duncan would have no occasion to fret and worry and splash Methos' nose with house paint. No wonder time-travel was so complicated, she sighed.

They spent the day sightseeing and holding hands, kissing whenever the impulse struck, discovering each other, and by the time they returned to San Sebastian the city lay in a golden glow beneath the spring night. Celli had only a short time to make her date with Methos. She tried to think of a way to ditch Richie for awhile, but was tired of telling lies. When he dropped off her at her hostel she slid from the back of the bike and undid the helmet. "Richie, I had a great time-" she started.

"Me, too," Richie said. Then a look stole across his face in a way Celli understood all too well. He dismounted, one hand moving to push her behind him and the other reaching for his rapier.

Celli scanned the dark street until she saw what Richie sensed - a man at the corner, his silhouette enormous against the night, the glittering edge of his sword catching starlight. Her knees went weak. Never in her wildest imaginings or fanfiction had she imagined facing a real-live sword-yielding Immortal. Richie stepped in front of her to protect her, and his gallantry made her heart rip.

"My name is Antonio Montoya and I've come for your head," the Kimmie said. But he wasn't really a Kimmie, Celli thought crazily. He didn't have a K in his name.

"Richard Ryan," Richie said, his voice flat and unreadable. "You want to do it here, and not in an alley?"

"Last night was just a test," Montoya said. "To see if you were worth the meager effort. And we can do it wherever you want."

"Not here," Richie said. Not in front of her, Celli realized.

"Fine. There's a park on the top of Mount Urgull. Be there in a half hour."

"You trust me?" Richie asked.

Montoya smiled icily. "If you do not show, I can always come back for your girlfriend."

Celli wanted to tell the other Immortal exactly where he could put his sword, but instead she withdrew behind Richie just a little more.

"I'll be there," Richie promised.

When Montoya was gone, Celli turned Richie by the arm and said, "Don't. Don't go to him. He's probably hundreds of years older. It's better that you leave town."

Richie's face betrayed his inner anguish. "I can't. I can't let him come after you or anyone else in my place. You'd be a pawn, like Tessa."

"Oh, Richie," Celli said, and took his face between her hands to kiss him. She broke away with, "I don't want to see you lose your head."

"You won't see it," Richie assured her. "You're staying here."

"I can't!"

"You have to!" he said. "Celli, listen. I'm not very good at this. I've only taken one head in my entire life, and Mac said - " he swallowed hard. He hadn't mention Duncan by name in the two days she'd known him. "Mac said I was lucky. I may not be lucky tonight."

"You have to be," she said fiercely. "You have to win."

"I want to. I don't know how much that counts." Richie held her tight against his chest and then took her into her hostel lobby. Borrowing a pen and piece of paper from the clerk, he bent over the counter for several minutes and scribbled out long lines of a letter.

"If you don't hear from me," he said, pressing the folded paper in her hand, "then mail this to Duncan MacLeod. He owns a dojo in Seacouver, it's listed under DeSalvo's Martial Arts. He'll get it eventually, I think."

"Richie - " Celli protested. She couldn't do this. She couldn't let him go off and face Montoya. Now she knew what Tessa had felt, what Anne had felt, and she hated it.

"It'll be okay," he promised, his voice earnest even if his eyes were afraid. He kissed her quickly, and then left her standing in the lobby.

Celli knuckled away tears. She couldn't let this happen. She had no illusions about her own ability to help Richie - she'd never even picked up a sword in her life - but she knew someone who could. She wrangled directions from the clerk to Calle Corro, and fled through the city streets as fast as she could. Which restaurant had Methos said he'd meet her at? She was so panicked she couldn't remember. Celli forced herself to stop and take a deep breath. Carlos something. She searched the street shop by shop until she found the small, elegant restaurant beside a shoe shop.

Looking tanned and rested, Methos sat at the bar in long pants and a beige shirt. Celli raced in still wearing road dust and dirty clothes. "I have to talk to you in private," she said, pulling him to the side.

"I was thinking we might go to the casino later - " Methos started, but her expression silenced him. "What is it?"

"I have a friend," Celli said. "A long-lived friend, you know?" She tapped the Watcher tattoos on his wrists. "He's in trouble. You have to help him."

"I can't. We record and we observe, but we never interfere," Methos replied.

"You have to!" Celli said. "He's very young, and very inexperienced. The other guy's going to take his head. And if that happens - "

She stopped, suddenly overcome. Methos' hands gripped her shoulders. Celli gazed at him blurrily. She'd told herself she wasn't going to cry.

"If that happens," she confessed, "it would break my heart."

Methos' face tightened. For a few long seconds he said nothing. The conversation and music of the restaurant flowed around them, as if they were rocks in a stream. Finally he said, "Let's go see what can be done. But Celli, I can't promise anything."

"I know," she whispered.

Methos gave her a long, hard hug. "Where are they?"

She told him. Methos didn't have a rented car - she supposed Adam Pierson's budget precluded that - but he flagged a taxi that took them to the gates of the public park. Luckily the driver spoke no English, because Celli spilled out all she knew about Richie's limited fighting ability, the fact that he was only nineteen, the circumstances of his first kill. They heard the clash of steel as soon as the cab pulled away. Methos put a restraining hand on Celli's arm.

"There are some Immortals who feel no compunction about killing mortals," he warned her. "Whatever you do, stay behind me."

Celli nodded. She was too frightened now to even speak. Richie couldn't die - he still had at least two seasons ahead of him - but she couldn't count on anything in this crazy, mixed-up crossover universe. They hurried around the darkened military museum in time to see Richie and Montoya going at each other with horrible blows. Celli couldn't tell in the moonlight who was winning, but Richie's shirt was dark with blood and his right leg was bent horribly beneath his weight.

Despite her promise, Celli found it impossible to just stand by and watch someone kill Richie. Methos had to physically restrain her from the suicidal impulse to race across the grass and attacking Montoya. Now she knew what Anne had truly felt. She was so desperate she could barely feel Methos' arms around her, holding her back.

Montoya delivered a crashing blow. Richie went down, rolling, but then came up to slide his sword neatly between the Spaniard's ribs. Montoya grunted, as if in surprise, and then pulled a gun from his pocket. The bullet ripped into Richie's chest, and with a choked-off scream of sudden agony he collapsed. His body convulsed and a death rattle choked out of his blood-filled mouth.

Montoya raised his sword to chop off Richie's head but found himself blocked by Methos' steel instead.

"You cheat," Methos said, eyes glittering with menace. "You go after children, and you cheat while you're doing it."

"I'll take any head," Montaya shot back. "Even a young one like this."

"Well, let's see what you can do when you're faced with a real fight."

With a snarl Montoya launched himself at Methos. The two Immortals went into pitched battle across the open ground, and Celli realized Methos was maneuvering the Spaniard away from Richie's body. She cradled Richie's bloody head in her lap, feeling for a pulse at his throat. Definitely dead. Her heart shifted to Methos. What if he lost? How could she face Lisa Krakowka and the MFW's if she got him killed here on the top of this Spanish hill?

As it turned out, she didn't have to worry. Methos might not have taken a head in recent history, but he'd certainly been practicing. After a flurry of furious blows Methos sent the Spaniard's sword sailing off through the air and felled him with a fatal blow to the stomach. The ancient Immortal lifted his sword to the sky, ready to decapitate Montoya.

"No!" Celli said, coming to her feet. Methos looked at her, his eyes wild with adrenaline. She went to him and put a shaking hand on his chest. "You said it's been two hundred years."

Slowly he lowered his weapon and looked at Montoya's body. Then he slumped to the ground, breathing in ragged gasps. Blood streamed from cuts on his arms and thighs.

"So now you know," he mumbled. "I'm not just a Watcher."

Celli pulled his head to her chest. "It's okay. I won't tell anyone."

"I know you won't," Methos said. His arms went around her, and he shook with exertion. Slowly he calmed down, and then his head lifted. A second later, she heard a gasp from Richie's direction.

"Your friend is coming back," he said. Methos forced himself upright on weak legs. "I think it's best if I disappear. If this one has a Watcher nearby, my cover is blown. I'll take him with me, though, and persuade him to rethink his strategy about cheating." He glanced towards Richie. "And don't worry. If we ever meet up again, I'll pretend I don't know your friend."

Torn between the Immortal at her side and the one stirring in the grass, Celli asked, "Will I ever see you again?"

"I don't know," he smiled sadly. "I'd like to think so. Maybe I'll drop by your school some day. Take care, and keep to your dreams, Celli. You're going to be great someday, I can tell."

His farewell kiss brought tears of both longing and sorrow to her eyes. Then Methos urged her back towards Richie. The last thing she saw of him was him dragging Montoya's body away across the grass and into the blackness.

The next morning, in the street outside of Celli's hostel, she and Richie said goodbye. She'd tried to persuade him to stay longer - at least until Shannon and their friends arrived from Pamplona - but Richie had been withdrawn and depressed after the fight with Montoya, and wanted to hit the road.

They'd spent most of the night talking. He didn't like losing to anyone, and the thought that some unnamed Immortal just wandering by had saved him stung as surely as if it had been Mac, protecting him from the harsh, cruel world.

"But you're alive," she'd asked. "Doesn't that count?"

Richie's answer was distant. "I guess it beats the alternative."

Celli stole a line from Methos. "Live, grow stronger, fight another day," she soothed, tracing the lines of his face with her hands.

After that there had been little talking.

Richie seemed in better spirits now, and Celli told herself to let him go. What was she going to do? Kidnap him and take him back to the States to keep to herself? Attractive thought, but unfeasible. She could stay with him, giving up her studies and mortifying her family, but he needed to go to Madrid and suffer according to Hyde's plan. She comforted herself knowing it would all turn out all right for him, at least until the fifth season dealt its cards.

"Take care of yourself," Richie told her, with one last kiss. "Maybe someday I'll drop by the University of South Dakota and look you up."

"I'd like that," Celli said, suddenly shy, and she watched him drive away until there was no trace of him in the sunny, tree-lined street.

It occurred to her that with her luck, Methos and Richie would probably both show up at USD on the same day.

Worse things could happen.

By the time Shannon and the others arrived a few hours later, complaining about the walk from the train station and the maze of San Sebastian's streets, Celli had already decided not to tell them about Methos and Richie. She could never prove it. Her camera had been stolen in Paris, so she had no pictures. And even if she'd had pictures, all they'd show was that she'd met Spanish lookalikes for Stan Kirsch and Peter Wingfield. The bathing suit Methos had bought her was just a bathing suit, nothing more. The Picasso postcard only proved she'd been Guernica. She'd have to make do with the memories, and the memories were more than enough.

It wasn't until that night, as the girls were getting ready for bed, that she felt something folded in her pocket and pulled out the note Richie had hastily written for Duncan, in fear that he might not live the night.

Celli sat on her bunk and read Richie's small, crooked handwriting. In the letter, he apologized to Mac for not listening about Mako. He said he understood why Duncan had sent him away, although he regretted the way Duncan had done it. He wished the Highlander all the best luck and fortune in the world, and regretted he couldn't have brought the letter in person.

He wrote, as his last line, that he'd loved Tessa and loved Mac as the father he'd never had.

"What's that?" Shannon asked, dropping her head over from the top bunk.

"Love letter," Celli said absently. She carefully folded the paper and put it in her wallet.

Shannon grinned. "To you? Someone wrote a love letter to you?"

"Not for me," Celli told her twin. "To someone else, for a friend. You don't know them."

The overhead lights went out. Celli lay back on her pillow, thinking of Methos and Richie both, of San Sebastian and Mount Urgull, the beach, suntan lotion, a sunny cafe, Fate. She should have told Methos and Richie both not to watch USA television when in the States. They had no need to know of future joy and future heartbreak. All would come, in time, as ordained.

She started dreaming about her own future, the joy and heartbreak it would bring too, but just before she fell asleep she whispered, "Hey, Sunny?"

Shannon's voice sounded very sleepy. "What?"

"Happy Early Birthday."

"Happy Birthday to you too, Celli," came the reply.

THE END!