Title: Pearl of Great Price Author: Kat Solano Email: orchydd@hotmail.com Rating: PG-13 Keywords: Action, Clan Denial admirer Characters: DM, M, J, RR, lots of OFC's Summary & Disclaimer in 0/5 ****************************************** Flip G-11: DeSalvo’s Dojo, Seacouver, USA... The hollow sound of Jean gulping down his fifth glass of milk reverberated through the barren loft. His eyes were closed, concentrating on getting the tingling feeling of his numbed legs out of his mind, of ignoring the ache in his shoulder that made his head explode and the one in his hand that made his entire body throb. As soon as he got back to base, he was going to drug himself with so many hormones and meds that he wouldn’t feel anything for a week. Duncan MacLeod hadn’t taken his eyes from him. Funny, those eyes. They were very rishi, dark, hunter’s eyes, eyes that could and would focus on a single prey and not let it go come death or Hel-ice. Jean put down the glass. Burped. “Thanks again for this.” He lifted his heavily bandaged right hand and gestured to the opposite shoulder. MacLeod waved it away. “You saved my life. If you want to thank me, you’ll explain all of that.” Wincing, Jean said, “It’s a bit... complicated. And hard to believe.” “After everything I’ve seen especially in the last three years, very few things are hard to believe.” “Hmm. Natch.” Leaning away from the counter, Jean gave the Scotsman another weighing look from behind his lashes. He knew of the Highlanders of Glenfinnan; important players of their Game were Connor and Duncan. Kay had once told him that the one person whom she’d hate to see on a sparring mat was Connor MacLeod and if his student was as good... Duncan slowly crossed his arms, glaring pointedly. That was on un-rishi characteristic: impatience. “I know about the Game,” Jean began slowly, “though you can probably tell that I’m not Immortal.” The Scotsman didn’t say a word; just lowered his head slightly in acknowledgement of that fact. “I’m a warrior. The man you were fighting with today was a Caelum, one of the things that I fight.” Jean fiddled with his empty glass, rolling it about his hands. “They don’t die very easily either. When I saw him using unfair tactics...” He shrugged. “We were enemies anyway. Killing two birds and all that.” “Why are you enemies?” Shaking his head vigorously, Jean answered, “Now _that_ is a very long and convoluted story that no one can understand unless they were born into it. I wasn’t and even after all these years, I’m still having difficulties.” “Well, it’s a story that almost got my head cut off.” MacLeod unfurled his muscular frame from the post that he’d been leaning against. “And I’d naturally appreciate some information to keep it from happening again.” “I can’t tell you.” Jean shrugged, not looking him in the eye. “Classified information. I forgot my handy-dandy secret organization badge in my other trenchcoat so--“ The Scotsman loomed over him. Jean was only two inches shy of six feet; MacLeod shouldn’t have seemed that threatening. The man obviously had some major Alpha genes. “That... that _thing_ knew about us, about how to kill us, probably about the rules of the Game. I have to know about them for the sake of my other friends.” “I. Can’t. Tell. You,” Jean repeated through clenched teeth. “Then would you at least tell me who Noel MacLeod is?” Jean’s mind froze though he was sure his face showed nothing. Casteciel called Noel out by name? Oh, hell and a half on a bamboo kebab, Rydr was going to flail someone. “That’s classified as well--urp!” MacLeod had reached over the counter and locked Jean’s head between his arms. It would have been immobilizing but Xeno Core was known for unveiling most of the tricks in the book. Slipping away from the manoeuvre was a bit tricky with his legs relatively useless but by pressing a few sensitive pressure points in MacLeod’s arm and torso, Jean managed to slide away to the floor. He let his knife-claws unsheathe again and twirled around to face the Scotsman just as he was about to make another dive. Three of the ten claws stopped in mid-slash inches from the Immortal’s neck; another five rest just under his ribs. Jean ignored the new blood dripping through the layers of gauze wrapped around his hand. “Forgive me,” said Jean, striving to be pleasant, “I wasn’t born speaking English which I hear is a necessity if one is to understand all the nuances of the language. _But_” --and here he jabbed a knife-claw just hard enough to puncture Duncan’s shirt, “I am sure that ‘classified’ means none of your business.” “What the hell are you?” Duncan’s throat worked, holding back anger or fear, Jean didn’t know. Somehow he doubted it was the latter. “You worry about yourself, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.” Reaching down, Jean cut the tape from his legs but kept his eyes and a knife-claw at the immortal’s neck. “If any of the Caelum go after you again, just keep cutting off body parts then run like hell. They heal a lot faster than your average Immortal and they’ve got plenty of normal humans to hide behind should they need more recovery time.” Jean’s sensitized hearing noted the sound of a door being unlatched downstairs. It must have been another Immortal because MacLeod stiffened into alertness. The Scotsman drew his attention back on Jean. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because...” Jean lowered the claw. “You’re too important to lose.” As the footsteps on the stairs grew louder, Jean twisted away towards the windows. He sighted the pavement; not too far away, he could handle that drop. He saluted MacLeod cockily with the six-inch knife-claw on his middle finger. “Watch your head, Mac.” Methos entered the loft just as Duncan saw Jetblayd’s legs disappear behind an alley across the street. “He was here.” There was no need to ask the older man who he was talking about. Duncan nodded distractedly. Seeing that there was no couch upon which to sprawl, Methos deigned to lean against the kitchen counter. That gave Duncan a start; it was practically the same position that Jetblayd had taken just minutes ago. “So,” Methos picked up the glass, sniffed the contents and wrinkled his nose, upending it in the sink, “are you going to tell me about why the dojo looks like it when through World War XI or should I just chalk it up to a rabid cockroach exterminator?” “It was him,” replied Duncan and briefly, he summarized what had happened. “Have you ever heard of these Caelum?” Shaking his head, Methos said slowly, “I haven’t heard of that particular word, no, but I _do_ recall some sort of fracas back in the mid-Republican period in Rome about a very dangerous, very mysterious, very pale man. He was an assassin of sorts, a religious zealot who took it upon himself to rid the world of any persons he found didn’t conform to his sense of righteousness.” “What was his name?” Methos shrugged. “Beats me. It had gotten to the point where just speaking his name seemed to be enough to bring him down on you.” Disturbed, Duncan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And what happened to him?” “Don’t know either,” said the other Immortal, “I decided it was a good time to see Persia and hauled myself eastward. By the time I went back to Rome, she had an emperor again and this assassin had disappeared into the realms of myth along with the boogie man and self rule.” When Duncan didn’t say anything, Methos sighed and turned to rummage around the refrigerator. It was pitifully empty. “What do you think?” the Highlander finally said. “Think?” parroted Methos though he knew very well what track MacLeod’s mind was veering towards. “Of the Caelum and him.” He jerked his head towards the open window. “Ah, MacLeod.” Methos perched back on the counter, the long, loose sleeves of his sweater pooling on the stainless steel. “Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?” He shook his head. “If you want to hear it out loud: I think we should leave well enough alone. That... Jetblayd character knows a lot more about how to get rid of the Caelum that we do. And he does that nifty trick with the exploding sword. I think he can take care of himself.” “And this Noel MacLeod?” Duncan straightened, stiff and bristling with frustration. “They are two names I hold close to my heart--“ “Obviously,” Methos murmured, rolling his eyes. “--and this man has used i’ flagrantly, endangerin’ my kinsmen an’ my friends--“ “Couldn’t it just be a coincidence?” Methos interrupted the tirade with a curt gesture of his cotton-clad arm. “Jetblayd _has_ to be some sort of pseudonym. Noel MacLeod--“ “I dinna believe in coincidences,” Duncan said, “Nae any more.” That fine Scotch chin stuck out bullishly. Methos tried to hold back his groan. “You’re going after him, aren’t you?” Duncan had already jerked on his coat and was tucking his katana in its hidden scabbard. “Ye dinna have tae follow.” But Methos was already in the elevator. “No, no, I’ll come with you. It’ll save me a lot of headache later on.” _________________________________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com.