AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please enjoy this teaser for the first chapter of Conflict of Interest, a new story to be released soon. (I hope.)

The man who called himself Adam regarded his opponent through the driving rainstorm. Robert de Valincourt, he decided, had seen better days. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face drawn; his knees shook ever so slightly, and the tip of his rapier wobbled through unpredictable and often unrecognizable patterns. To the man's trained eye, it appeared that Robert was running on adrenaline, and little else--in all likelihood, he had not slept in over a day.

Having to kill your wife of three hundred-odd years would do that to a man.

It was a major reason why the man who called himself Adam had never become seriously involved with another of his kind; this day, and the demands it would bring, had always loomed large in his conscious. He wanted to live, and being reduced to a quivering mass like his opponent was most emphatically not the way to go about this.

Ironic, considering the role he had played in keeping Robert and Gina together not all that long ago. Then again, perhaps that was what he'd had in mind when he agreed to MacLeod's fool scheme. He couldn't clearly recall; too much had happened since then. But the possibility that he was, at least in part, responsible for the sorry spectacle before him prompted an unfamiliar surge of...was it guilt?

Odd. He hadn't experienced guilt since the eleventh century.

And while he wasted time on that perfectly pointless observation, Robert sprang into action, crossing the distance between them in three swift strides, and lashed out at his neck.

The man who called himself Adam barely brought up his sword in time to block, and fell back a step from the force of Robert's swing even as he pushed away. Robert wasted no time in again lunging forward, this time aiming for his belly.

The man twisted to the side, barely dodging the attack, and struck weakly at Robert as he passed, leaving a thin score across his backside. Robert staggered forward, then spun around with a wild swing to try and keep his opponent away as he righted himself.

The man shifted his grip on the rain-slicked hilt. Perhaps he had underestimated Robert's energy reserves.

As if in confirmation of this, Robert again leaped forward, swinging his blade down in a stroke meant to slice the man who called himself Adam from shoulder to hip. He brought his sword up to block, but was forced down to one knee by the power of the blow. Robert pressed down, trying to force the man's own blade into his face. Thinking quickly, he rocked back and lashed out with a kick to Robert's midsection. Robert stumbled back, and his opponent rolled to his feet.

This time, it was the man who went on the offensive. He leaped forward, driving Robert back with three precise thrusts. Heart...groin...shoulder... Robert swatted away each attack.

There!

The man who called himself Adam struck directly at Robert's head. Robert, off-balance, barely got his sword up in time to block, and the man slid their hilts together--then, without pause, drove a knee into Robert's groin.

Robert doubled over, swinging his blade out of sheer instinct and driving his opponent back...but not before he'd scored a deep gash in Robert's sword arm.

Robert gripped the wound with his off-hand and watched as the man circled him in a slowly closing spiral. He lunged straight forward, trying to surprise his opponent. The man jumped back--but Robert was a hair faster.

Hot flares of pain coursed through his system. The man staggered back, praying to gods whose names he could no longer remember that the wounded leg would not collapse on him. Damn! He's still that--Let's try something else. There was no hesitation, no quarter for his leg; as thunder exploded overhead, the man who called himself Adam launched forward, blade raised for a strike. Robert fumbled with his blade in the rain, fell back a step--

And a loud yowl pierced the air.

Robert stumbled forward as the cat he had stepped on continued to express its displeasure. His sword hung at his side as he struggled for balance.

It was too good an opening to pass up. The man plunged his blade deep into Robert's stomach, impaling him to the hilt.

For a moment, neither combatant moved. A flash of lighting illuminated the pair, giving the man a clear view into Robert's eyes. An understanding passed between them. As the light died, Robert tried to lift his sword one last time. His opponent punched him in the nose, and that was that.

Robert slid off the blade and fell to his knees, oblivious and resigned. The man who called himself Adam drew back, then let loose with one final swing. Robert's head fell to the ground, rolled a few feet, then came to a stop.

For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the sound of the rain striking the pavement. The man watched as the ghostly form of the Quickening rose from Robert's body and drifted toward him.

A startled hiss drew his attention down to his side, where he could just make out the dark outline of the cat. Its tail was a rigid pole in the air, and its teeth were bared. He chuckled, drawing its attention. "Don't worry, it won't hurt you." The cat blinked its bright orange eyes--an odd color for a cat, he thought--and cocked its head to one side, almost as if it understood him. "Thanks for your help, by the way."

And then the misty white body settled upon him, and the time for talk was past.

There was something truly addictive about the Quickening--about having the essence of another person laid out before you, yours to savor...yours forever. Robert had led a fascinating life, even for a pirate. And then, there was Gina...

Disgusting!

The man who called himself Adam whipped around. "Who--" But even as he did, the first bolt struck, the discharge causing him to cry out. Everything that was Robert seeped into him, ran through his blood, made his bones tingle. The memories, the emotions, the euphoria of the successful hunt--this was the Quickening, an exaltation of the self as powerful, as personal as anything he had ever experienced in his long life. It always brought him profound joy--

But not now.

Now, he was not alone.

Someone else was here, and its--no, her--presence defiled the experience. The Quickening was supposed to be private, without barriers or defenses, and this--this--interloper had taken advantage of that. At least when this had happened with MacLeod, he had already been judged; this invader passed sentence with a harshness and decisiveness that struck him to the core.

His first head...

The Horsemen...

Cassandra...

His impostor...

Murderer. Slaver. Rapist. Thief.

Coward.

He wanted to protest, to argue, to offer some sort of justification, even as he knew any such excuse to be innately futile. But he had no such opportunity; he could neither speak, nor see his accuser. He could only endure this perversion of ecstasy as it stretched out over an endless series of eternities, ripping him apart from the inside out--

And then, it was over.

The man who called himself Adam sank to his knees, leaning heavily on the crosspiece of his sword. His bones had long since turned to water, but he kept himself upright by sheer force of will. He couldn't affort to collapse.

There was another Immortal somewhere nearby.

...Or was there?

If his own limited experience was any guide, the flow of communication in a shared Quickening went both ways--he certainly knew more about Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod than he had ever wanted to, and MacLeod had pointedly refused to discuss the matter, which was a fair indication that the reverse was also true. But while this woman had been able to more or less do whatever she wanted in his mind, he still knew almost nothing about her.

Beyond that, why could he not feel her presence? The other Immortal had to be within range, to have shared the Quickening. Hell, without her own Immortal to decapitate, she would have had to be right on top of him, and the only living thing in sight was--

No way.

He let his eyes rest on the cat beside him, only now regaining its senses. He picked it up by the scruff of its neck, and brought it up to eye level. His night vision was good, but the black fur and the rain made it hard to discern any features. Well, other than the white crescent on its forehead--he peered closer; was that fur, or a bald spot?--and the collar around its neck. There appeared to be something inscribed on the collar; but between the darkness and the sloppiness of the writer, he could not make out what it said.

"Meow..." The cat opened its eyes and raised its head, and he stifled a gasp--it was very, very faint, so much so as to be practically nonexistent even at this close range, but he could sense a Buzz!

The cat remained very still. Its eyes--again, he noted their unusual orange hue--met and held his own. "What are you?"

"Meow?" The man who called himself Adam blinked. For a second, he could have sworn he saw the crescent patch glow--there it was again! He watched, fascinated, as the patch flickered and pulsed uncertainly, but with increasing frequency and strength. A warm glow surrounded the feline head, and he shifted his grip slightly, raising his eyes from the cat's to the glowing patch.

There was a bright flash, and the crescent shot forward, enveloping his sight.

flicker

"Split up! Quartz and Magma Divisions, stay here--don't let anyone else through!"

flicker

What wouldst thou have of me?

flicker flicker

What, in all the world, dost thine heart desire...

flicker

...Methos?

flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker fli

"What?!" With a start, he came back to himself. The cat still hung in his grip; its eyes were wide and its jaw slack, almost as if in amazement. Almost? He snorted softly to himself, then returned his attention to the cat. "What was that?!" The cat continued to stare. "Well?" He gave it a little shake.

He wasn't sure what he wanted the act to accomplish, other than rousing the cat from its doldrums. This it did, sure enough--but he certainly did not intend for the cat to then sink its teeth deep into his wrist. Nonetheless, this, too, came to pass. He let go with a yell and fell back, cradling his wrist. The cat sprang free, and scampered a few paces away. It turned back, hissed once, then disappeared into an alley.

The bite wound had already healed, but he did not let go of his wrist. He was in no hurry. Come to think of it, what was a cat doing out in the rain like that? Had it been drawn to the battle? Or could it sense Immortals? He looked to the place where the cat had vanished, and pondered.

A siren wailed in the distance.

On second thought, pondering could wait. The man who called himself Adam picked himself up off the ground, sheathed his sword, and hobbled down the road. There was a church, he knew, about a kilometer away; he could catch a few hours' sleep there.

The Gathering had begun, after all, and it would not do to be caught off Holy Ground.