Part 8

Kaitlyn came back to stand beside her friends' table. She had her guitar in hand, and her whole face was transformed by a grin she just couldn't suppress. "I see you two have worked things out."

Janice reluctantly pulled herself from the warmth of Mel's gaze and looked up. "Not completely, but I think we're off to a good start. Thanks, kid . . . I needed a damn good kick in the rear to do this, but does it ever feel great!"

The linguist chuckled. "Yeah, I bet it does, doesn't it?"

Mel agreed, then asked, "How did you know, Kaitlyn?"

"Know what?"

"How to make us realize what we needed to do. That song was incredible . . . it said everything we needed to hear."

"Oh, that. Yeah . . ." Kaitlyn shrugged dismissively. "I've done better, I think. Anyway, I noticed at breakfast this morning that you two were still being distant. But when Mel sneaked in and surprised you, Janice, I caught a glimpse of that old familiarity between you, and I knew that if I could remind you that it was still there, you'd fill in the rest for yourselves." She reversed a chair, straddled it, and stowed her guitar in its case, pulling a manuscript from the case as she did so. "As for what gave me the idea for how to go about it . . ." She tossed the manuscript on the table. "Last night's work. Read up."

The sea voyage from Prydein was, perhaps, not as long as it seemed to me, but my mission was urgent, and every day stretched into an eternity. As soon as the ship was docked, I was astride Alaeth-and it had taken no small amount of persuasion to bring her with me-and away, riding in search of my friends.

The search took me to a village of the Greek Amazons, where the Regent Ephiny greeted me.

"Gabrielle is here, yes . . . I'm concerned," she admitted, guardedly. "She's in the sweat hut, undergoing the Amazon purification ritual. She's been there since yesterday morning-two nights ago, the funerals for Hope and Solan were held, and Xena left shortly afterward. You can't imagine what it's done to Gabrielle, her falling-out with Xena and her daughter's death. The whole village is frightened for her. She's more dead than alive."

I shook my head. "Then it's already begun."

Ephiny regarded me with curiosity. "What has? Why are you so insistent on finding the Queen?"

"I'm a friend, Ephiny." I saw her start in surprise; she had not yet told me her name. "I knew them in Britannia and I fought at their side, and I know of all that befell them there. I also know what will happen to them next. I need to stop this tragedy before it goes too far!"

She looked doubtful. "Is there anything you can do to stop it? Who are you, in the first place?"

Bran's head, there was no time for this! "Rhonwyn," I told her shortly. "Daughter of Balach. A Druid. Regent Ephiny, please believe me when I say that I can and will do all in my power to heal this Rift between the Queen and Xena!"

She studied me a moment. I held my breath. Then I saw hope flicker faintly in her eyes, and the Regent extended her arm to me. I clasped it. "I welcome you, then," she said. "Losing Xena has been a cruel blow to Gabrielle. If you can bring them back together, the whole of the Amazon Nation will be in your debt."

"Na, na . . . there is no debt, Regent Ephiny. I don't ask for such a thing. Xena and Gabrielle have a destiny that far outstrips anything we could imagine. Knowing that alone makes the fight well worth it."

She pressed, "Is there anything we can do?"

"Protect Gabrielle, at all costs. Until I find a way to reunite them, that's all that can be done."

Her eyes narrowed. "And how do you intend to do that?"

I sighed. That was a question I had no answer for-just the germ of an idea, but no answer. I needed to find one, and quickly. "Do you have any place where I can be secluded?"

"There's a vacant hut on the far side of the village. No one will disturb you there."

Ephiny was true to her word; the hut was indeed secluded enough that no one would interrupt what I had to do. There was a small firepit in the center of the floor that would serve my purpose admirably; I set to work kindling a fire and sprinkling a special mix of wood chips and herbs over the embers. The hut began to fill with a sweet, heady smoke that cleared my mind even as I stripped of my garments and stood before the flames, sinking deeper and deeper into the inner recesses of my heart where the awen trance awaited me.

For those who walk this realm, the paths of the Otherworld are winding at best, shrouded with mist, for we do not know the Otherworld in all of its glory. It is a place where the limits of the body, as imposed upon our world, can be transcended, and for that reason I chose to dare my arduous journey into its depths.

Time there passes differently than it does here; nearly a full moon of sweat, danger, and endless travel had gone by before I found myself at the gate to Hades's realm. (For the Greek gods, you see, are not so different from our own, and the Otherworld extends through the godsrealms of all beliefs, whether or not they choose to acknowledge it.)

He must have known I was coming, for the lord of Greece's underworld met me there at the gates, grim and forbidding. "This isn't your place, mortal," he told me. "I suggest you stay with the dead of your own people, or better yet go back to the land of the living, where you belong."

"Lord Hades, I am loath to interfere, but the matter I am about does concern you," I told him urgently. "Right now your nephew Ares is stirring Xena to levels of hatred that she had long ago put behind her, and both Greece and my own land, and likely many others as well, may suffer dire consequences if his plan is not thwarted."

He sighed. "Will he never learn?"

I pressed on, trying to sway him. They say Taliesin had such skill as could sway the gods themselves-could I do the same? "He hopes to turn Xena and Gabrielle against each other for good, thereby upsetting the balance that the two of them bring to the world. You know, Lord Hades, that he will not rest until Xena rides at the head of his army again . . . and that cannot be."

Hades turned aside in thought, pacing and looking, as always, slightly distracted. "You must know I can't directly involve myself in Ares's affairs. I'm really far too busy, besides . . ."

I stepped in front of him; he stopped his pacing and glared at me. "I am not barred from doing what I can, am I?" I asked. He shook his head, some of the anger melting from his face, and before he could speak I continued, "All I ask, Lord Hades, is that I be allowed to speak with Xena's son, who is now, as you know, within your domain. I believe that he is the key to reuniting Xena and Gabrielle."

He stared at me for a moment, as if to gauge my intent. "All right then," he said at last. "I'll allow you to come in, but you can deal with Solan, and no one else, understood? No one else."

I bowed my head, grateful for his concession. "No one else should be needed. I thank you, Lord Hades, and I will keep to the agreement."

"Think nothing of it." I was almost certain I saw a smile on his face as he faded from view. "Someone has to help keep my nephew in line . . ."

Shortly, a young boy, perhaps twelve winters old, appeared before me.

"You sent for me?"

I nodded. "Solan, I know you don't know me, but I need your help."

"It's about my mother, isn't it? You're her friend, Rhonwyn." His intuition surprised me, but I agreed. "And she needs to come clean with me before she can stop hating Gabrielle. Otherwise she'll listen to Ares, and turn back to evil. Forever this time."

"That's right," I said softly.

His eyebrows knit in contemplation. "I can help with that," he said. "I can forgive her for not telling me who she really was . . . but she needs to know that I do. She needs the chance to tell me herself. That's what's cutting her up inside, that she never got to look me in the face and spend time with me as my mother, not just a friend. She thinks she's lost that chance forever now, and that's why she hates Gabrielle. I don't want her to hate Gabrielle though, Rhonwyn. I don't want to see her go back to being evil." There was a pleading expression in his eyes that broke my heart.

"None of us do." By Lleu, how much I agreed with him!

"I think," he remarked slowly, "that once she gets the chance to set things right with me, she won't have a reason to hate Gabrielle any more. I just don't know how to get in contact with her."

"Solan, you leave that to me. I can arrange it. Only tell me one thing: how do I help them get beyond the hatred?"

Xena's son sat on a rock and cupped his chin in his hand, his long fair hair falling across his face. "They have to get away from the rest of the world . . . to a place where it's just them, and their emotions. No distractions. No warlords to stop, no friends' problems to set straight. They have to confront each other . . . understand where their pain's coming from. Remind them of their love, and let them reach out to one another again." He smiled shyly. "I had to do that, you know, just to make friends with her . . . stop hating her for killing my father-even though I know now she didn't do it-and just let the love take over. After that, it'll be easy for her to forgive herself . . . and my death won't be a sore spot, and they can work through everything else. And then they can go on with their lives."

I shook my head and felt the tears forming in my eyes. "Solan, you are truly a wise young man. No wonder she was so proud of you."

He shrugged, trying like any boy his age to disguise his emotions, and betraying them even more clearly in the action. "It's the least I can do for her. I know she loved me, or she wouldn't have given me to Kaleipus."

"Then I'll create the place for them to go, and see to it that they get there."

"And I'll wait for them at the end."

We clasped hands resolutely. "I have to get back to them," I told him. "When this world is created, I'll summon you there."

"All right. Oh . . . one other thing." His face lit up with inspiration. "I think you should make everything have a familiar face. It'll mean more to them."

"Brilliant, Solan. And now I'd best hurry . . ." I gripped his shoulders and gave him one more smile before I turned and hurried back the way I came.

When I awoke from my awen, my fire had burned out, and the shouts of fighting carried clear across the village into my hut. Shaking the stiffness from my body, I dressed, seized my weapons and rowan staff, and rushed out to see what had happened.

The scene was not at all to my liking. Wounded Amazons were sprawled in the dirt. Among them was Ephiny, nursing a broken arm; also there was the young man named Joxer, an angry bruise spreading across his face.

"What's happened?" I demanded. "Where's Gabrielle?"

Ephiny pointed to the east, where the earth was scored with hoofprints and a curious trail, as though someone had been dragged across the ground. "Xena came," she said, her teeth clenched against the pain.

"Mighty Manawyddan," I groaned, "I have to hurry! Ephiny, I'm so sorry it had to come to this . . ."

"No time for that," she hissed through her teeth. "Just go, Rhonwyn, quickly!"

I wasted no further breath. Throwing myself astride Alaeth, Lludchen at my hip and rowan staff in hand, I galloped off, following the tracks. I knew where they would lead; my visions had shown me that. I drove my horse on, racing against time, straining my every sense forward as if the effort might speed our way. On we galloped, finally reaching the base of that oceanside cliff. It suited my intentions perfectly, for water is the element from which all life takes its beginning, the element upon which life is fully dependent.

So I came to a stretch of sand on the shore near that cliff, raised my staff above my head, and listened with every nerve in my body-listened for the sound of Oran Môr, the Great Music.

Music, understand, is the great force that can stir the depths of the human heart, and in the hands of those trained as I was, it can move people far better than mere words can.

So I listened. Then I heard it-a golden thread of melody, countless layers of complexity ringing in every pure note. I gave myself over to it, let it absorb into every part of my being, allowed it to take the desires in my heart and spin them into a separate world. I drew on every emotion I had experienced in my visions of my friends, reached out to them, and pulled them into this Otherworldly web.

As a result, the world created by Oran Môr was one familiar to them in many ways. Each was given a guide in the form of one she knew, though the unlikely guises chosen-Callisto as Xena's guide, Joxer as Gabrielle's-were no exertion of my will, but rather the doing of the Great Music.

I set them at extremes, showing them what life might have been like, had they never met; with each step they took, I let them peel back every layer of the resentment between them. Each thing from the past that had wounded them became one more obstacle to confront and overcome-Xena was even allowed to strike an apparently mortal blow to Gabrielle. Here, such a thing would not truly harm her, but it would show Xena the consequences of the hatred she believed she felt, and make her realize that vengeance would not ease her pain. The outright brutality of the attack would also bring the deadly reality of their enmity into stark focus for them both.

The Great Music plumbed the depths of my friends' hearts and brought the shadowed things there to light before their eyes. Even though I hated to do so, I let them revisit the moment when the true seed of hatred had been planted in their lives: Xena's crucifixion by Caesar, and Gabrielle's terror in the Temple of Dahak. The significance was this-they had to realize that they were not so different after all, and that the only way they could overcome their hatred was by reaching out to each other.

And so they did, realizing that hatred only causes old wounds to fester, while love and trust can heal them. Once that was accomplished, Solan revealed himself to them. What happened next, though, was not of my doing.

The death of Ming T'ien, the truth of which Xena had kept back from Gabrielle, had to come out into the open. It was the last thing she had withheld from Gabrielle, and it had followed her like a shadow throughout her journey through Illusia. It took shape before her, preventing her from passing through the barrier of water that separated her from Solan and Gabrielle. Once she admitted to the deed and pleaded for Gabrielle's forgiveness-as well as Solan's, for never telling him that she was his mother. Both readily gave absolution, true to their natures, and Xena was allowed to cross the barrier.

The events that followed, I cannot easily remember. I only know that upon witnessing the reunion of Xena and Gabrielle, I was overwhelmed by joy, and the strain of holding Illusia together finally took its toll on me-for Oran Môr was using me as a conduit, taxing my strength. At the same time, exerting my will on Illusia and its events was draining my mental energy; in truth, the endeavor might very well have killed me. Therefore, it was little wonder when the flood of elation, pouring into me as I saw the hatred between my friends melt away, proved to be too much for me to handle.

Gabrielle tells me that she and Xena later awoke upon the beach and found me lying there, unconscious, in the wake of my awen's passing.

That was the true test of my abilities, and the one that ultimately fufilled the destiny bestowed upon me. Sad to say, we never did make it back to Britannia in time; when I finally returned to my homeland the next summer, Boadicea and my father had been defeated, but not before wearing Caesar's forces down to a nonthreatening size. So many of my friends had been killed . . . my father had survived, but would never fight again . . . both tribes had been decimated. Heartsick, I stayed only long enough to help rebuild, but as soon as I could, I fled back to Greece to join my friends again. It is a bittersweet ending to the saga of the war with the Romans, to be sure, but that is the way of it.

"Wow. What a thing to go through." Janice handed the manuscript back to Kaitlyn, amazement still evident on her face. "Wow," she repeated dazedly. "Rhonwyn must've been one hell of a friend to put herself through that for them."

Kaitlyn smiled. "The way I see it, she felt that Xena and Gabrielle were worth it, and much more. She'd have done anything for them, I think."

"Including risking her life to bring them back together," Mel marveled. "So that's where you got the idea."

"Yeah. I took my cue from the line about music being the great force that can stir the depths of the human heart and all that, and an idea Pete gave me. Only I was determined not to let things get as bad between you two, this time around." The linguist gave an apologetic shrug, grinning warmly.

"Well, I'm glad," the translator responded. "Thank you again, Kaitlyn."

"It's the least I could do . . . you two mean a hell of a lot to me." Kaitlyn paused reflectively. "Hell . . . I'll come right out and say it, since I know now that I can't afford not to. I love the both of you. I hope you know that."

"Speaking for us both . . . right back at you, kid." Janice punched the young woman playfully in the arm.

A brief round of hugs and friendly swats ensued before Kaitlyn leaned back and stretched. "How about we get back home?" she asked. "I'm kind of tired, and besides, I found out who my Greek ancestor is."

Mel raised her coffee mug and drained the last of it. "I'll drink to that!"

"Your Greek ancestor, huh?" Janice asked as they headed for the door, never noticing the figure who slipped away from a corner table and followed them outside. "This I have to find out . . ."

Kaitlyn hummed cheerfully to herself, maneuvering the jeep through the winding Berkshire backroads that led from Housatonic back up to the summer house. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of Janice and Mel snuggling up in the passenger seat and grinned. She still wished she had someone like that-a few short days wouldn't be enough to heal that void, but after that night in the Cambridge cemetery the ache was duller, less insistent. She felt . . . Pretty damn good, actually, she admitted to herself.

. . . And then there was that tingling at the back of her neck again, and the sick feeling in her stomach that had nothing to do with not having eaten much all day. Kaitlyn looked down at her hands. Her fingers, wrapped around the steering wheel, were twitching slightly in reaction to her body's strange silent alarm.

A glance into the rearview mirror showed her just what she didn't want to see-a pair of headlights, following close behind the jeep.

Shit . . . shit . . . how goddamn stupid can you be, Velasquez? Kaitlyn hurled deprecatory, accusing remarks at herself with bruising impact, fighting off her rising panic. You were so wrapped up in trying to get them back together that you completely forgot why you're up here in the first place . . . and now you damn well went and blew your own cover! Velasquez, you stupid little idiot!

Then the rational part of her mind took over, pleading, Beat yourself up over it later, Kaitlyn . . . after the trouble's over.

Because more likely than not, those headlights meant nothing less than trouble. That was for sure.

"Um, Mel, Janice . . ." she ventured. The feeling in her mouth suddenly reminded her of that trip she'd once taken to Death Valley.

"Hmm?" Janice's query was lazy, muffled by Mel's hair.

"You know, I hate to be the one standing here with a bucket of cold water to throw, but, uh . . . you ever get that feeling of déjà vu?"

Mel jerked upright. "We're being followed?"

Janice twisted to look over the back of the seat. "Again."

"Gods, I swear . . . if it's not one thing, it's another. Brace yourselves and get ready to duck; it's deserted out this way and nobody will hear if they fire on us out here." Why was she getting images of guys with tommy-guns? Muttering evil-sounding imprecations about getting upstaged by dumb bastards who couldn't mind their own business, Kaitlyn eased off the gas pedal and watched the speedometer needle drop. It hit 35 as they climbed uphill on nothing but momentum, and she jammed her foot down hard on the pedal to send the needle leaping up to 55 miles per hour again.

Janice monitored the headlights behind them, watching as the other vehicle kept up with the jeep's fluctuating speed. "They're matching you, kid," she warned.

"Wonderful. I haven't got more than half a tank . . ." The linguist peered ahead, anticipating a particularly sharp curve in the road, and took it as fast as she dared, applying the brakes judiciously down the slope of the hill. Their pursuer followed close behind. "Can't keep this up, can't outrun them . . . wish we had your car that you don't drive, Mel. Could lose these guys easy if all three of us could fit, you know? Two-seater drop-head coupe . . . hundred twenty-five miles an hour, supercharged . . . now that's a Duesy."

Janice and Mel both groaned.

"Hey, just trying to lighten the mood a bit! Don't take it as punishment or anything!"

"Oh, you'll be punished for it later on, all right!" Janice returned. Her voice tensed, and her green eyes darted between the curving road ahead and the vehicle behind. "First things first, though. How the hell do we shake these guys?"

Kaitlyn glanced up at the mirror, then winced as she nearly missed taking the next curve. "Don't know. It's not like I need to worry about paved road with this jeep, but in the darkness, in these hills? I'd rather just have them shoot us."

"Be less painful, that's for sure." The archaeologist rubbed her chin. "Anywhere we can get them to flat ground?"

"Yeah, there's a lake around here, coming up pretty soon."

Mel spoke up. "Go there."

"I don't think now is the right time for that, Mel . . ."

"Kaitlyn, really, go there. Please. I think they're trying to pressure you into driving off the road." There was stubborn insistence in the translator's drawl.

Janice agreed, "She's right, kid. You may know this area, but you're starting to watch that car more than the road. Keep that up and we'll all be smashed to pulp at the base of one of these hills. Get 'em to the lake. We can take 'em out." Her hand tightened purposefully around Mel's. "Right, Mel?"

"Right."

The linguist exhaled through her teeth. "Okay, Covington, but you two better come up with a plan, 'cause I sure as hell don't have one."

"They were looking for a fight last time," Mel remarked, grabbing the dashboard as the jeep swerved hard around a series of hairpin curves. "And the time those men tried to beat you up, Kaitlyn . . . I doubt they were interested in talking."

"Probably not." Janice slipped a hand inside her jacket and touched the smooth wood and metal of her revolver. "But if they are . . . well, that's your department, sweetie." She gave Mel a gentle nudge.

"All right, but don't expect me to just stand around and let the two of you do all the fighting!" Mel returned, feeling relieved that she'd opted for a casual ensemble tonight.

"Wouldn't expect you to, sweetheart. Some Southern gentlewoman you turned out to be." Janice chuckled.

The jeep slowed. "Here's the road to the lake." Kaitlyn turned left onto an unpaved stretch of dirt and watched the headlights in the rearview mirror, following them. "There's a cricket bat in the back if you feel the need to swing something."

"A cricket bat? " Twin voices were incredulous and amused all at once.

"Smack 'em now, I'll explain later." Kaitlyn shifted her battered vehicle into park and cut the engine. She pointed toward a small cluster of boulders outlined in the moonlight. "Right over there, if we need to take cover."

The three women clambered out of the jeep and stood side by side, watching the car behind them pull into the clearing.

"Well, well, well," muttered Janice. "1938 Packard Rollston town car . . . aren't we just the high rollers? Anything we can do for you, boys?" she yelled to the four sillhouettes that emerged from the vehicle.

"Four on three? Call this odds?" Kaitlyn recognized one particularly massive figure among the advancing bunch, flanking a smaller, slighter figure, and quickly added, "Although, with our dear friend Tubby over there . . . and Mr. One-Track-Mind . . ."

"Anything you can do?" Dobson's cultured tone was so sinister it was disgusting. "You can do as we've told you several times, and simply give up your work on the Scrolls. Permanently, that is. Or better yet, you can hand them over to us." He was face to face with Janice now, staring down a furious pair of sea-green eyes.

"And why would I hand over the biggest archaeological find of the past hundred years to an idiot who's afraid of what they say?" she growled.

Suddenly the polished demeanor was gone, and Dobson was screaming, "Because we don't need your kind in the world, Doctor Covington! Because this world doesn't need a band of godless, corrupt degenerates making sure they're accepted into society! I know about the relationship between these precious ancestors of yours, believe you me-how dare you insinuate that those despicable heathen women had anything to do with the great men of the Bible? That they had any bearing on the civilized culture that we have today?"

Kaitlyn growled, Janice took a deep breath . . . but it was Mel who snapped first.

"How dare you, Mister Dobson!" she raged, pushed to her breaking point. "Call yourself civilized and enlightened, while you try to shape the world to your own agenda? Try to deny people the basic right to knowledge, and assume that your way is the only right one?" She was taller than he was, and when she stormed up to him and glared dangerously down into his face, there was a certain twinge of satisfaction that came from watching him fall back a step. "If there's one thing I abhor, it's censorship and those who promote it, and you have just proven yourself to be one of the most small-minded, bigoted creatures I've ever had the misfortune of meeting, you and your efforts to stop our work!"

Dobson's face twisted in anger. "Don't think I'll back down, you wanton-" Mel's fist crashed into his jaw before he could finish.

The blow shocked them all, the translator herself no less than anyone. I can't believe I just did that . . . but oh, did it ever feel good!

"Whoa. Go, Mel!" Kaitlyn mumbled, just as everything broke loose. Yelping, she ducked the meaty fist that came whistling toward her head. She jabbed out hard with her elbow and heard the rush of air as it was expelled from the lungs inside the chest she'd just hit.

The graduate student scrambled clear and whirled to face her attacker. Even in the darkness, he was familiar all right . . . she'd seen that leering face before, in a side street outside a South Carolina tobacco shop. Right before she'd planted her boot in it, that is.

Height advantage definitely didn't favor her at the moment, but luckily, Kaitlyn Velasquez was not above throwing a few low blows if she had to.

Now was one of those times.

Her heel slammed into the man's stomach, followed by three or four quick punches and finally a knee to the groin that left him curled up on the ground, whimpering in a voice that shouldn't have belonged to someone of his size.

Rule number one: Never mess with an angry Southern woman, especially if she happens to be descended from a certain Warrior Princess.

Dobson, apparently, had less common sense than that, because he wiped the blood from his mouth and went after Mel again. But he hadn't had any fighting experience, really. He was used to having other people do his dirty work for him.

Mel, on the other hand, had spent the past three years traveling around with Janice, from Macedonia, through war-torn countries, and finally back to the States. While she preferred to leave the fighting to her more aggressive partner, she did what she had to.

"I see your eye still hasn't fully recovered from our first meeting," she told him sweetly, and decked him again. This time, he went down for the count. Mel flexed the fingers of her right hand, which still stung from the impact. "Oooh. I'm still not used to that."

Rule number two: When your supposed victim is a self-avowed clothes horse with a volatile temper, tripping her into the dirt is a very bad idea, especially if she happens to be wearing a very big pair of boots.

Kaitlyn heard Janice yelling for help, and spun to search her friend out. Dobson's big flunky Ming and a lean redheaded man in a dark suit were circling her; their growls and grimaces were meant to be intimidating, but the rough-and-tumble archaeologist had met the god of war face to face. These two were just annoying in comparison. Not that it made her feel reassured . . . Ming was easily twice her size. The redhead looked pretty agile and conniving, too, judging from the catlike way he was prowling around her.

The graduate student started toward Janice. "On the way . . . oof! " A hand snaked out and grabbed her by the ankle, dropping her flat onto her face. "Ouch." She quickly rolled out of the way as a booted foot came hurtling down toward her head. "Oh," she growled, taking hold of the boot and yanking it and its owner to the ground, "you're gonna pay . . . all my laundry bills! You know how hard it is to get mud out of these pants?"

A split second later, she made good on that promise, crawling over the thug's body and slugging him twice in the jaw for good measure. He was more resilient than she'd anticipated, though, and caught Kaitlyn in a headlock, turning the tussle into an all out wrestling match. She'd have a real score to settle with him over the laundry bills when it was over. And it had better be over soon-she was leaving Janice hanging.

Rule number three: If the archaeologist has a history of being a magnet for trouble, she probably has more tricks up her sleeve than you do.

And Janice Covington certainly did have such a history. A very long and colorful one.

"Hey . . . hey Tubby!" Janice glanced around Ming's bulky frame and saw Mel creeping up behind the redheaded guy. "Yeah, you . . . come on and get me!" The bullwhip came off her belt and struck a taunting crack across his knuckles; its wielder then turned and ran for the trees, hanging onto her fedora as she hurdled a rock or two.

Ming lumbered after her, but Janice had had a good head start, and he lost her in the dark woods. Annoyed, he glared into the woods around him as though he hoped they might give away her hiding place.

Green eyes twinkled devilishly at him from above. "Thanks for teaching me how to climb trees, Dad," Janice whispered amusedly, from where she crouched on a heavy limb. She shifted her weight forward, felt the uneven, rough surface of the tree limb beneath her boot soles, and let herself drop suddenly, landing on the big man's shoulders and pummeling at his head with both fists. "Ha-ha!" she whooped, hanging on tight despite all his efforts to dislodge her.

She heard his nose crunch after a particularly well placed blow-a lucky one, really-and jumped to the ground behind him. A swift kick to the back of his knee made him stumble, which gave Janice enough time to wrap her whiplash around the branch overhead, pull up, and swing into his back with both feet extended. He slammed into a tree head-on and crumpled with a grunt.

"Yeah . . . that'll linger," muttered Janice as she threaded through the trees again, back in search of her lover.

The redhead was quick all right, and Mel was hard pressed to remember everything Janice had taught her about reading her opponent. She hadn't had as much practice as Janice had, though, and he was wearing her down. She'd dodged a dozen or so punches that came so close they made her sweat, but this time around, he didn't miss, and swept her feet out from under her.

Mel felt the air rush out of her lungs when she hit the ground hard, a split second before pain raced through her body. Her head hurt and her vision was blurry, but the redhead's low chuckle and the glint of metal in his hand were unmistakable enough.

"Mel!" Kaitlyn heard Janice's terrified shout ringing across the clearing, and looked up to see the archaeologist tearing toward the man who now stood over her fallen lover with a knife in hand.

She's not going to make it in time! The realization made her sick and forced tears to her eyes.

The Colt .45 was in her hand before she had time to think about it, before she'd even finished hauling herself back to her feet. He was in her sights now. Kaitlyn knew she had to stop him. Her mind screamed in protest, but she forced herself not to listen. No choice! Either I do this, or we lose Mel, and Janice will never be able to take it, and I'll never forgive myself . . .

She raised the handgun before her face, training the barrel on him with practiced speed. Her aim was good, she knew; she'd been the best shot in her training unit. A quick glance, a slight twitch of the wrist, and she was lined up. Her stomach clenched in revulsion as her finger tightened on the trigger, and she shut her eyes as the shot rang out.

She didn't open them again until the last echoes had died away.

She'd seen Kaitlyn draw the Colt automatic and aim it, but before she'd even had time to process the image, the gunshot brought Janice to a skidding halt. Oh, kid . . . she lamented.

But a howl of pain followed just afterward, as the redhead dropped the knife and clutched at his bleeding hand.

Damn. Nice shot, kid! Janice launched into action again, hurtling herself across the space between her and Mel's attacker. She closed on him, spun savagely, and whipped her boot up to catch him under the chin and dump him unceremoniously into the dirt.

Her eyes were concerned as she reached out to help Mel to her feet. "You all right, sweetie?"

Mel adjusted her glasses-how they'd stayed on her face was anyone's guess-and nodded. "A little dizzy and sore, but I'm fine."

"You got that right . . . and I'm damn glad you are!" Janice pressed the taller woman against her in a crushing hug, tightening her grip even more when she felt her lover's body trembling with shock. "It's okay, sweetie, I'm here, you're safe now . . . "

They stood that way a moment, clinging to one another in the wake of the terrifyingly close call they'd had, treasuring the sensation of being in one another's arms. It was a stark contrast to just twenty-four hours ago, and such a welcome sight that Kaitlyn hated to break it up.

Unfortunately, the supernatural sense of danger that seemed to have awakened in her was flaring up again, complete with more overwhelming nausea than ever.

So she holstered her gun, loped across the distance between herself and her friends, and rasped, "I think we better get home, ladies . . . I've got an extremely bad feeling about all this. Literally."

"The first time they came after the Scrolls," Mel remembered, alarmed. "They were going to . . ."

"Shit!" Janice seized Mel's hand and yanked her back toward the jeep, following Kaitlyn, who had already bolted toward the driver's seat. They clambered in breathlessly, grabbing onto the dashboard to brace themselves as the young linguist gunned the engine and peeled back out onto the road home, not even bothering to spare a second thought for the three unconscious men they'd left behind them.

They could worry about personal safety later . . . after they made sure the Scrolls were safe.

It was nearly dawn by the time they reached the house. When they got there, the front door was open. The lock was broken.

"Oh, no . . ." Mel was the first one inside. Kaitlyn and Janice were close behind her, guns drawn and every sense on the alert.

It was a mess-the furniture thrown everywhere, books and papers all over the floor, the framed paintings torn from the walls.

"This doesn't look like a warning." Janice's voice was tight. "Too haphazard. Oh, they were here, all right, and they were after the Scrolls . . ." She stormed into the library, scanning the room for the locked desk where the precious documents had been secreted.

There it was-she approached the ruined mass in numbed disbelief, oblivious to the splinters and chunks of mahogany that crunched underfoot. The desk was smashed open, practically split in two-completely ransacked.

"Dammit!" her voice exploded into the hallway. "God fucking dammit! "

Mel rushed into the library. Her blue eyes widened as they took in the sight, and her stomach wrenched into something unrecognizable. "No."

"Tell me what I don't want to hear." Kaitlyn, her tones rigidly calm, followed behind Mel, shoving her handgun back into its shoulder holster. The young linguist's face grew grimmer with each slow step into the library.

"Looks like you're out a perfectly good desk, kid." It was all Janice could bring herself to say, and more than any of them wanted to know.

"Well." Kaitlyn ran her fingers through her hair. "Lucky for us I took the liberty of doing a little research on our dictatorial friend, now, isn't it?"

Janice stared at her. "No wonder you're so calm."

"Only barely," Kaitlyn replied. "He's got an estate of some sort over in Schenectady, I know that much. A compound, more like, from what my friend Ondre tells me."

"Ondre?"

"Former colleague of mine from Harvard. He was researching on the history of Celtic Christianity . . . working with the theory that a lot of it was adapted from the indigenous Celtic beliefs. Things started happening-he was getting threats, running into the most unexpected opposition from the people funding his research . . . and when he kept going, he got railroaded out of the University."

"Dobson," Mel murmured.

"Yep."

"He's certainly being much more aggressive now."

Janice shoved her hands in her pockets and paced around the ruined room. "Maybe he thinks he can't take chances with us. We've got too much support at the University in Columbia, no matter what Mitchell says. Damn stupid, though, to go the witch-hunt route." She looked up at Kaitlyn. "You think the Scrolls are at that estate of his?"

"I'll take a bet on it," answered the linguist. "Seems Dobson likes to know all he can about the information he . . . ah . . . confiscates, before he destroys it. Gives him grounds for justification, supposedly." She tapped her fingers against her lips, thinking. "I doubt he's had time yet to secure a translator. That should buy us time to get them back."

"Well then!" Mel declared. "What are we standing around talking for? We have to get those Scrolls back." She crossed her arms and delivered a positively superior look to Kaitlyn and Janice over the rims of her glasses.

Janice stopped pacing and straightened her jacket. "You're right, sweetie. Enough of this. What do you say we take a little trip to New York?"

Kaitlyn was driving as fast as she dared; angry as she was, she didn't think she could trust herself at any greater speed. They'd left just after breakfast, since there wasn't enough gas in the jeep to get them across the state line, much less the full seventy-odd miles, and finding a gas station open at night was no small feat in the Berkshires, so they'd had to wait. It had given them time to change into clothing more suited to this espionage sort of mission-that is, all black-but the waiting had frayed all their nerves. No sooner was the fuel cap on the gas tank than they headed off toward Schenectady, hoping all the while that they'd find the Scrolls intact when they got there.

Janice felt in her pockets for the fiftieth time, fingering the extra ammunition she'd so hastily stowed there. "God. This guy must really have stuff to hide if he's working out of here. We're in the middle of nowhere!"

"No doubt." Kaitlyn shrugged, swore at a rock in the road, and kept driving. Night was falling, and they were somewhere outside of Schenectady by now, following the directions Ondre had given her.

The poor guy. He'd been kidnapped and brought there, where some of the men in Dobson's pay had tried to force him into writing papers countering his own research. But Ondre was a good guy, with a lot of integrity . . . he'd never walk again, now.

That was what made the linguist madder than anything-that anyone would have the gall to physically and financially cripple someone else for the sake of furthering an agenda, especially one as dubious as Dobson's seemed to be. At least they hadn't been able to touch Ondre's mind, though; he was as sharp as ever, and he'd remembered the way to the compound. And he'd been only too glad to supply Kaitlyn with that information.

She owed him one now. This had gone beyond just the Xena Scrolls-Kaitlyn would be damned if she'd let anyone try to control academia the way Dobson wanted to.

"Dear lord," Mel whispered, breaking into Kaitlyn's thoughts. "Is that the place?"

Ahead of them loomed a large stone complex, looking very much like a Gothic cathedral. Spiked iron gates surrounded it, outlined and glimmering weirdly in the moonlight.

"Talk about ostentatious." Janice whistled. "It's gonna be a bitch to get in there. Fortunately, I have-"

"Look, I don't want to hear about your many skills again, okay?" Kaitlyn interrupted as she parked the jeep behind a gnarled set of hedges. "Just leave the lockpicking to me."

"You can do that?" Mel's eyebrow shot up.

"Don't let her monopolize the skill department." Kaitlyn tugged the black wool fedora down over her head.

As quietly as possible, they slipped out of the jeep, skirting the compound until they came to a small gate probably meant for the grounds staff. Kaitlyn squinted at the latch for a few moments, studying it carefully in the scant silvered illumination.

"Looks easy enough," she whispered. A tiny black-bladed knife came out of her left boot, much to Mel and Janice's surprise. The linguist poked the knife into the lock, twisting, manipulating, providing a colorful stream of muttered curses to accompany the soft clicks and scrapes. "Nice lock."

It took a bit more work, and taxed Kaitlyn's not-inconsiderable supply of multilingual expletives, but the latch finally popped open. "That's more like it . . . I knew you'd see it my way," she commended the recalcitrant lock.

Janice took hold of the gate's bars and bunched her muscles in an experimental push. "Damn . . . it's heavy. Help me push, Mel?"

"Wait." Kaitlyn pulled a small oilcan from her coat pocket-typical of her, thought Mel, to have a trenchcoat to match her outfit, and to have thought of this-and set to work lubricating the gate hinges. She strained for the top one, but owing to her lack of height, came a good foot or two short. "Give me a boost here."

"Good God." Janice laced her fingers together to give Kaitlyn something to stand on, grunting at the weight as the linguist shoved off the makeshift foothold and scrambled up the bars of the gate. "Okay, up you go, kid."

"Much appreciated, Covington. Can't take chances." Kaitlyn let herself drop to the ground again and nodded to her friend.

Working carefully, the three women eased the gate open and slipped through to find themselves faced with a wide stretch of open ground that lay between them and the mansion proper.

"Oh boy." Janice looked at the expanse doubtfully. "Should we just make a run for it?"

Mel strained her eyes into the darkness, searching for a bush, or a shed, or some cover of any sort. "I don't think we have a choice," she admitted.

"Great." The rough whisper betrayed the archaeologist's agitation. "Well, what the hell." She held a hand out and gave each of her companions a glance. Steady, affirmative gazes met her own, and she dropped her hand abruptly.

On the signal, all three sprinted toward the mansion, covering ground with a desperation and speed that drove them up against the rough stone wall almost before they realized it. They pressed themselves against its cold surface, panting.

"So far, so good," whispered Janice. "Now . . . there a back door to this place that we can sneak in through?"

Mel was already inching along the wall, searching for an entrance. Her eyes were just adjusting to the darkness, and she could barely make out an outline a little bit further down to the left. "Janice, Kaitlyn . . . over here."

It looked like some kind of maintenance door, plain but sturdy wood braced with riveted metal bands, with no sign of a latch or hinges. Janice ran her fingers along the seam between the door and the doorframe.

"Sliding door, looks like, but I think it only opens from the inside. No go." She sighed. "Come on."

They kept moving, peering around a corner before heading further. "Wait a second," murmured Janice. "What's this?" She pointed upward to what looked like a fire escape landing on the second floor. A ladder was folded, accordion-style, in ready position beneath a darkened window. "Huh. Modern household improvements, fused to this hunk of old stone. Dobson's no slouch, that's for sure." The archaeologist crossed her arms over her chest and chuckled.

"I think we may have found our way in," Mel breathed. "If we can get that ladder down."

Janice's hand was halfway to the handle of her bullwhip, but Kaitlyn's voice was coming from somewhere overhead, and she looked up in surprise.

"Consider it done." The linguist was already scaling the corner of the wall, clinging precariously to the barely protruding edges of rough-cut stone. One good thing about playing guitar . . . strong fingers. Her calves were burning with the strain, and her arms were shaking, but she forced her way upward. Oops! One hand slipped, and Kaitlyn barely managed to claw another handhold in time.

"My god, you insane little daredevil, what the hell are you doing?" Janice hissed. "Oh, I'm gonna kill her . . ."

"I'm getting us in, that's what I'm doing," muttered the daredevil, who was feeling, at the moment, quite insane indeed. She came level with the fire escape and inched over as far as she dared, forcefully suppressing her awareness of just how much air was between her and the ground. Stretching her arm out, she strained for the iron grating of the fire escape. Just barely out of reach . . .

Wonderful. Kaitlyn gulped. I'm going to have to jump for it.

She climbed up further, about four feet higher than the fire escape. Shifting about a bit, she placed her feet as securely as she could; tensing, she focused all her concentration on the fire escape landing. Cool night air filled Kaitlyn's lungs as she took one deep breath, held it, and launched herself sideways, off the wall and down toward the fire escape.

The shock of gravity, warring with momentum, ripped through her every nerve and nearly terrified her into paralysis. Can't freeze up, she told herself fiercely. Can't freeze up! She was getting a little too much of that cool night air for her liking . . .

Then the welcome kiss of cold iron brushed the palms of Kaitlyn's hands, and her fingers wrapped themselves fiercely around the railing. She dangled for a moment, kicking against empty space, and pulled herself up with one final, exhausted hand-over-hand effort. The oilcan was out of her coat pocket and dispensing its contents onto the ladder's hinges in the space of her next gasping breath.

"Heads up," she whispered, extending the nearly noiseless ladder down through the hatch. Mel and Janice were scrambling up as soon as it was in reach, and reached the landing in no time.

"Nice work, kid . . . but I'm gonna kill you if you scare us like that again!" Janice swatted Kaitlyn's shoulder. "Now, give me a hand with this thing, will you?"

"You got it." The linguist crouched down to examine the window. It was a simple casement, with a single large pane of glass held in a wooden frame. "We could force it . . . be noisy though."

"Yeah." Janice ran her fingers along the seam where wood met glass. "Got a better idea . . . give me that knife of yours, will you?"

"Good idea." The linguist handed over the boot knife and produced another blade, this one much longer, from a sheath on her belt. Together, they pried off the wood panels and freed the glass, which Mel carefully removed and set aside.

"Thanks, kid." Janice gave the knife-which promptly disappeared into a certain army boot-back to Kaitlyn and reached for her holster. "Ready?"

"No gunfire." Kaitlyn put her hand over Janice's gun. "One shot and they'll all know we're here." The archaeologist grumbled, but dropped her arm.

One by one, they slipped through the window, Janice in the lead, Kaitlyn bringing up the rear with her combat knife in hand. The hallway was dark except for the moonlight shining through the ruined window, but by now they'd become accustomed to the scant light. Creeping along with a barely restrained urgency, they rounded a corner only to find themselves faced with another interminable stretch of hallway.

"This place is huge," Mel whispered. "The Scrolls could be anywhere in here!"

Kaitlyn nudged Janice with her elbow. "Finding scrolls in ancient structures . . . that's your department, Covington."

Janice shot a dirty look at her friend, but thought quickly. "Nowhere too secretive, I don't think . . . this place is so secluded to begin with, I don't think Dobson believes we'd know where it was."

"In the library, maybe?" guessed Mel.

"Most likely, if they're trying to translate them. Okay . . . so we find the library." Janice swore softly. She'd grown up in tents on dig sites, and cheap housing between those digs. Living in Mel's family estate was still something she hadn't gotten used to; she wouldn't know what to do with a place this size. "Wherever the hell the library'd be."

"Second or third floor." Mel gave a decisive nod. "A place like this would have servants' quarters and the kitchen on the first floor, a small study or two . . . more elegant society rooms like the library and the parlor would be higher up."

"Then we're starting off from a good spot." Kaitlyn tucked the knife under her left arm and took the lead, sneaking down the hallway. "Everyone, on your toes now."

The sharp click of a chambered round echoed off the walls and froze all three in place.

"You should learn to take your own advice, Velasquez. Looks like you started off from a very bad spot."

Kaitlyn looked up, straight into the barrel of a 12-gauge. Sneering at her from the other end of the shotgun was another one of Dobson's thugs, one of the guys who'd come after her back in Columbia. There was a pale, newly-formed livid scar running across his cheek, left over from when her fist had left it there, splitting his cheek open.

Oh shit. She didn't dare turn around, but she was sure that Mel and Janice were frozen in place behind her. Mel was probably standing rigidly, blue eyes darting nervously between the gunman and Janice, who in turn was probably fixing the gunman with a hard-eyed stare, fists clenched at her sides, poised to lunge. Kaitlyn let her shoulders relax and forced a nonchalant shrug. "Well, I've been known to be wrong before. Happens to all of us."

A snort. "Just drop the knife, Velasquez."

She gave him a poisonous glare, and flung the blade away to clatter away down the stone floor.

"Better." Scarface gestured at Mel and Janice with the barrel of the shotgun. "Now, all three of you are coming with me. The boss will be very happy to see that you decided to drop in."

To be continued...