Disclaimer: The Sentinel belongs to UPN/Paramount and The Scifi Channel. Highlander belongs to Rysher, Gaumont, and Davis/Panzer. No copyright infringement is intended and no money has changed hands.
Author's note: This story begins immediately following Night Shift, and this is the first time I've ever done an episode related story. I really want feedback on this one, so please don't hesitate to tell me what you think, as long as it's constructive. Also, all references to swordplay in this story come out of my own head. I have no real knowledge of swords or their use.
Cascade, 1998...
Blair was uncharacteristically silent as Jim drove them home that morning. The night shift had been incredibly wearing, not only because of the havoc that had ruled for the entire night, but because of the emotional upheaval caused when he had read the introduction chapter of Blair's dissertation. And he knew that they hadn't finished dealing with that particular can of worms yet. It was going to be a long day, and it would be even longer if Blair wouldn't talk to him. He was willing to admit he'd been wrong to read what was not his to read, but he hoped he could convince Blair to explain what he'd meant. And he was going to try his damnedest to get their friendship back on track.
He remembered what Gabe had told him. "What good does it do for a man to have ears that will hear a thousand miles if he cannot listen to the whispers of his own heart?" And he had, out of respect for a man who had given his life on this earth for a stranger. If Gabe hadn't been standing when and where he was, Martin Smallwood's bullet would have embedded itself in Jonny Macado's back. Instead, it was Gabe who had -- well, maybe not died, but he had definitely gone back to wherever he'd come out of the woodwork from. Jim wasn't sure if he believed that Gabe had been an angel, but whatever. If it works, go with it.
They boarded the elevator in silence. Jim was trying to figure out how to begin the conversation they were going to have when Blair's head suddenly shot up. "Jim? Could you check the loft before we get up there? I've got a feeling we have a visitor." He seemed distant, strange emotions flitting across his face, an alertness that Jim had only ever seen on him in dangerous situations. The first time had been on the bus holding a gun on Veronica Sarris.
Trusting his partner's instincts, he ran a sweep of the third floor with his senses. "There's someone waiting outside our front door."
Blair nodded. He knew, somehow, had known before Jim. The Sentinel wanted to know how, but he was determined not to ask. He knew that right now he would only come off as not trusting his partner, and he needed to wait until they'd had a chance to talk before opening that can of worms.
The elevator doors opened and they walked out of them, turning the corner to see a gorgeous red-headed woman leaning against the door jam. Without looking up, she spoke, using a thick Scottish accent. "Hello, Joshua."
A face and a name out of a very distant past, a name he hadn't heard or even thought about in over a century. "Marren. What are you doing here?"
She looked up at him with intense green eyes. "He's looking for you again. He isn't going to give up, Joshua."
"I'm not Joshua any more, Marren. I'm Blair Sandburg, and I have been for a long time." He didn't want this. He wanted to leave the past in the past. He didn't want to be a part of the Game anymore. He was so sick of the constant fighting. But instead of staying on holy ground at St. Sebastian's, he'd gone back, wanting to get his degree, something he'd never done, even in nearly two thousand years of living. Not to mention the fact that he was also a Guide now. No way he was letting that go, not even with the way Jim had been acting today. "I'm not in the Game right now. I'm a part of something even more ancient than we are, and I'm not about to give it up without a fight."
Marren's eyes narrowed. "One of your very first lessons to me was that we don't have that option unless it's on holy ground. Are you trying to tell me you won't accept Athan's challenge when he comes for you? Do you actually think he'll take no for an answer?"
"Blair?" Jim's voice was confused, worried.
"Damn." Blair sighed. "Look, Marren, it's been a long night. It looks like I'm going to have to tell my partner the whole story, but I need a shower and a coffee before I can deal with this. Let's go inside, all right?"
Jim didn't want to wait to have this conversation, but he knew Blair was right. Spending the whole night dealing with Cascade's homeless population, a young car thief-cum-murder witness, the murderers trying to off that witness, a homeless angel speaking Aramaic and the emotional fallout of his having read what he never should have and breaching Sandburg's trust had exhausted the both of them. A shower sounded really good just then.
With unspoken accord, the three were silent as they entered the loft. Blair took the shower first, while Jim got the coffee started and went up stairs to grab a change of clothes.
Showers finished and coffee poured, they all sat in the living room, Jim and Blair on the couch and Marren on the big arm chair. Blair had brought his guitar case out, the one Naomi had gotten from Jimmi Hendrix, as well as a washcloth from the bathroom. He looked at Jim. "There's no easy way to do this." He paused. "How old do I look to you, Jim?"
"Well, you told me you were born in '69 --"
"No, how old do I look.
Jim thought about it. "Early to mid-twenties."
Blair nodded. "Not a bad guess. I was twenty-four when I stopped aging forever." Not waiting to see the confusion on his friend's face, he opened the case, revealing the autographed guitar. He took the instrument out and set it on it's butt end leaning against the couch arm. Then he reached inside the formed depression, flipping the hidden catch there. The velvet-covered form released, and Blair tilted it up to reveal the hidden compartment and its contents.
To say it was a sword was oversimplifying the case. The thing was ancient, but it was well cared for. What Jim knew about ancient swords wouldn't fill one page, but he could tell that a lot of care had been taken to ensure that the blade never rusted and remained sharp. The scent of old blood, so faint Jim might have imagined it, made him wonder if the blade had also, some time in the distant past been well used. Why did Blair keep it concealed like this? He didn't think he was going to like the answer.
Blair took the sword out of it's case and stood. He held the weapon with an ease born of long practice and confidence that spoke of skill. The Sentinel looked up. Blair had been subtly transformed. This wasn't an energetic, naive grad student. This was a competent warrior, one sure of his abilities and at ease with his chosen weapon. Jim didn't know this man, and he wondered how the Blair he knew could have overshadowed him. "I was born in '69, just not 1969. I was born Joshuah bar Judah in the year 69 A.D. in Jerusalem, just a year before it was destroyed. My family moved out of the city before we could be caught in the destruction. We lived in Corinth for a number of years, even joined the Church there. When I turned eighteen, I told my father I wanted to travel, see the world. He had no problems with it, but he warned me that I might find it difficult. I was glad. After all, what good would it do me if the journey was easy?
"When I was twenty-four, I found myself with a large group of Christians, and we were all arrested. I was convicted of worshiping a false god, which meant anyone other than Caesar, and I was crucified. That was my first death. I woke up in a pile of bodies, because the Romans were executing so many at a time at this point, they weren't being given proper burial any more. That's why I can't stand the sight of dead bodies, Jim." He lifted the sword until the blade rested in his left hand, then looked his partner in the eye. "I'm Immortal. I can't get sick, age or be permanently injured. The only way I can die for good is if my head is cut off."
Jim was quiet for a moment, processing. Blair wasn't lying. His heart rate hadn't changed even once during his story, except when the memories of his own execution came back to him. Jim had seen that reaction often enough when the observer had seen bodies on the job. Well, helping Jim while he was on the job. Blair was telling the truth, but this story... "That's quite a tale, Chief."
He said, "I have proof, of course." And then he ran the blade of his sword across the palm of his hand, making a deep cut that bled profusely.
Shock hit Jim like a punch in the gut, and instinct took over. He grabbed the washcloth off the coffee table and crossed to his partner, pressing the cloth into the wound. "Jesus, Blair!"
Blair grinned through the pain at his partner's reaction. "It's all right, Jim. Look." He forced Jim's hand away from the wound, then pulled off the rag. The angry wound had already stopped bleeding. As he and Jim watched, he allowed his Quickening to heal it, flashing in tiny lightning bolts across the skin until it had seamlessly, scarlessly healed.
Jim looked up at him, his eyes wide with shock. "But I've seen you hurt before." Too many times, his conscience growled at him.
Blair sighed. "I know. That's really been the hardest part of this relationship, not letting you know I was all right. See, as old as I am, I've developed some control over those healing abilities. It allows me greater camouflage in a mortal world. And I can count on two hands the number of mortals I've allowed to know what I am. I don't trust easily or quickly." He hung his head. "With you, it's different. I trusted you almost immediately, but I didn't want you to have to deal with my world. You've lost so much in your life..."
Jim interrupted him. "So why would you think that this could hurt me? I mean, I always make you wait in the truck because I don't want you getting hurt. Knowing this... well I wouldn't have been nearly so pissed off when you didn't wait!" Of course, he still would have told him to stay put, but that was just because he wasn't a cop and technically should never follow him into a dangerous situation in the first place. It was procedure.
"Because of the Game." Blair took the bloody washcloth out of Jim's hand and wiped off the blade of his sword. He'd clean it more thoroughly and oil it later, but for now, removing the moisture was enough. "That's what we call our way of life, because it has rules and a Prize, but it's not for fun. It's for keeps. When an Immortal is killed, his Quickening, which is his life force, is released. It resembles a lightning storm, though there's usually no storm front to attribute it to. That force is absorbed by the victor, and with it, his power. The first rule any Immortal learns is that, in the end, "There can be only one."
The implications of that hit Jim in a flash. The blood drained from his face as he said, "Then this Athan guy..."
Blair nodded. "Yeah. He's been after my head for five centuries." He snorted. "I've always been a psycho magnet, all through my life. Athan was already insane when he died for the first time. He was ambitious, and used to getting what he wanted, and when I didn't let him have his way, he tried to kill me." The conversation drew the memories of those times to the foreground, as vivid as yesterday.
London, 1514...
Joshua walked the streets of London, looking well-to-do, but not exceptionally wealthy. He preferred the non-descript, especially when dealing with a Catholic town. If you could blend in, you didn't have to dodge mortals as much, and these days, that was exactly what he wanted. Not only was he a Jew, but if someone accidentally discovered his Immortality, he'd have to deal with a witchcraft trial and a hanging. Joshua had never enjoyed having to claw his way to the surface after having been buried. He tended to die several times from lack of air before he could get out.
He was playing the merchant at the moment, trying to get the money together to book passage to the New World. He wanted to get a good look at the aboriginal peoples of that land before the conquerors of Europe had a chance to spoil their attitudes toward white men. Joshua had no doubt that this would happen; greed and the Church would see to it rather quickly.
As it was, his anonymity was in jeopardy, and the reason was just now coming around the corner. Joshua turned quickly to try and avoid the approaching man, but there were too many people in the street. Athan caught up to him and pulled him off to the side. "Have you thought about my offer, Jew?"
Joshua sighed. The man was insistent! "I'm not going to help you overthrow the crown. I told you I would help you learn about what you are, and I'll teach you to fight and keep your head, but I won't help you destroy a nation."
"But after all they've done--!"
"No, Athan. You were executed for murder, not because of your beliefs. You're talking about a bloody siege that could last for a decade or more, all to avenge yourself on a civil government which was doing its job. I won't be a part of that."
Again, Joshua turned to try and leave, but Athan grabbed him and spun him back against the wall. "You'll regret this, bar Judah, make no mistake. And when we meet next, it will be without rules!" And with that, Athan shoved him into the wall of the building again, then left the alley, walking down the street as if the altercation had never occurred.
Cascade, 1998...
Blair shifted uneasily, remembering the insanity in the man's eyes. "I sold everything but my sword at that point and took the next ship to Virginia."
Marren spoke up at this point. "Of course, that wasn't the end of it for Athan Wallace. He's tried to kill Joshua at least twice a century ever since. In fact, that's how I met him. I was traveling with a friend of mine in 1832. As we passed through Boston, Duncan and I felt the presence of two more Immortals close by. We spotted a crowd of about twenty armed men surrounding one unarmed merchant. Naturally, Duncan had to intervene."
Blair snorted. "Naturally. It's not in Duncan MacCleod's nature to keep his nose out of other people's business."
Marren raised an eyebrow at him. "I wouldn't complain about it if I were you. That mob of Athan's would have killed you, and he'd have finished the job, permanently."
Blair sighed. "I know."
Jim said, "So this guy's pissed at you because you wouldn't help him overthrow the crown of England? You really are a psycho magnet." Blair flipped him off, and he grinned in response.
Then Blair sobered. "Where is he, Marren?"
The woman shrugged. "I don't know. All I know is he's here in Cascade. It won't be long, though, and he'll find you."
Jim had a ton of questions, most of them relating to Blair's past. But one stood out, and it was about the near future. After all, Immortal or not, this man was his Shaman and Guide, and the threat to his life could not be ignored. "What's this guy's MO?"
Blair had no trouble translating that question. Blessed Protector Syndrome. "No, Jim. You can't get involved in this. You may have the best skills that the Army and the jungle could give you, plus your other advantages, but Athan has the advantage of five and a half centuries of experience. Besides, the rule is that fights are one on one. Once I've been challenged, you can't interfere."
Jim got in his face. "He's already told you he won't be playing by the rules. He'll cheat. You need backup."
"Jim--."
Marren interrupted them. "Josh--I mean Blair, how long has it been since you picked up a sword?"
He sighed. "1983." She just looked at him. "Yeah, I know. I'm out of shape."
"Well I suggest you get back into it. Duncan wants you to come to Seacouver for a while, visit his dojo. You know if anyone could best you, it would be him."
Blair grinned. "Yeah, well at least it's not Connor. The elder MacCleod would have to brag about it for the next century or three." He was grateful to the other Immortal for changing the subject. Not that he thought Jim would drop it, but it gave them something else to worry about.
Of course, Marren had other ideas. "Good. We'll go there and your friend can see just how well he'd do with a sword in his hand."
Blair glared at her. "Marren--" he started, but she cut him off.
"No, Blair. You know that he will use your friends to get to you. Whether you want Jim in the Game or not is not the issue. Athan will come after him, and it would be best for the both of you if Jim had some way do defend himself."
Knowing that she was right didn't help him accept the inevitable, but he nodded anyway. "You're right." He sighed, then looked up at his partner. "I guess it's a good thing Simon gave you the next three days off, Jim. Duncan and I are going to work you harder than any drill instructor you've ever had." He paused. "This isn't going to work if you can't trust me, Jim. We still need to talk about what happened today."
Jim nodded in agreement, thinking wryly, There goes the weekend.
Seacouver, like Cascade, was rainy three out of four seasons of the year, and this day was no exception. But it wasn't too bad, and the trio had bigger things to worry about than a little rain.
Duncan MacCleod appeared to be in his mid thirties, with short black hair and strong features. He had a fighter's build, and Jim thought the man was probably skilled in the martial arts. Of course, since he knew that MacCleod was actually more than four hundred years old, he knew better than to take him lightly. That amount of experience would add up to one hell of an opponent. And it boggled his mind that his partner, a man he'd thought to be young and naive about life, who, while inventive under pressure, he had never considered to be a threat to anyone in a straight forward fight, had nearly five times that amount of experience.
Blair made introductions and explained the situation to MacCleod. "I need to get back into shape myself, Mac, but Marren's right. Jim is going to need training with Athan coming after me. I mean, I wouldn't sell Jim short. He has a lot of skill, and I know that he had to learn to use a machete and a saber as part of his officer's training, that and he's an instinctive fighter. It's a part of what he is. But Athan has a lot of years on him, and he's crazy to boot."
Jim raised an eyebrow at his friend. "Don't misunderstand me here, Blair. I think you know both of these people enough to know if they can be trusted with my secrets. But how many Immortals know you were looking for a Sentinel?"
Blair smiled at the careful wording. They had a lot of healing to do, but he thought they were well on their way. "Only these two. See we were all there with Sir Burton when he was in Paraguay. We met the Sentinels that are in those photos in the monograph."
Duncan grinned. "Yeah, we all met them, but you were the only one who got obsessed with them. He's worked on Sentinels ever since we got back to the States from that trip. I swear, I had never seen him so excited. In the past, he's just been 'Broody Joshua,' but Blair Judah was like a little kid with a new toy."
Jim smirked. "So is Blair Sandburg. Now, I know we're here for business, but I still want to hear more about your life before we met. And what's with Naomi, huh?"
Blair cringed. "Naomi is a long story, and I'll tell you tonight over dinner. Right now, I think we need to get started."
Mac showed them around the dojo first. It was very well equipped, with all the latest weight machines and exercisers, along with everything you'd need to learn to fight with your hands or a sword. Jim looked over the weapons that were available on the wall, trying to choose a weapon that suited him. He wanted a fairly lightweight blade, but he didn't like the two handed grip of the katana. He had used a machete in the course of his duties in the Army, but he didn't like the idea of trying to heft it's weight in a pitched battle. He wanted something that wasn't going to wear his arm out while he was learning to use it.
Finally he settled on a cavalry saber from one of MacCleod's display cases. His father had a similar one on display in his den, the blade of a Union officer who had fallen on a Texas battlefield during the Civil War. He knew that the older Ellison would not mind his having it, assuming that it was because of his interest in military history. Removing the blade from its scabbard, he noted that this one was also from the Civil War, and he briefly wondered about the blade's history before testing its heft. Liking what he found, Jim turned to the three Immortals who stood in the room. "I'd like to borrow this one, if I may. My father has one just like it on his mantle, and I know I can get it from him. I'd like to train with the weapon I'll be using."
Blair grinned with pride at his student's choice. "Good. I was hoping you would pick that one. It's really the best blade for a beginner, while still being a superior weapon." He pulled his own Roman blade from its case, which lay open on a handy table. "How much did they train you on blade combat in the army?"
Sensing that same subtle shift in his friend as he had back in the loft, Jim now recognized a superior, and he set in his mind to learn from him. "Not a lot. Mostly, they just made sure that we pointed the sharp edge in the right direction."
Duncan smirked. "This is going to be a long day."
The younger Immortal had certainly known what he was talking about. They had worked the same movements over and over again until Jim couldn't even stand up. Then they ate a light lunch and went at it again. By supper time, there was no way that Jim could have lifted anything heavier than his fork. And they hadn't even begun actual battle training. This was just muscle memory work.
They stayed the night in one of MacCleod's guest rooms, the Sentinel not even able to stay awake long enough to undress. But when he woke, he was only in socks and boxers. Blair must have taken care of me. He wasn't surprised, but that only reinforced the lessons that the past couple of days had taught him. He should have known better than to mistrust Sandburg so easily. Save for those lies he'd told Jim to protect him from the Immortal world, Blair had never lied to him, and he had always acted to protect him, even when it did mean lying to him. How could he have though that Blair wouldn't have done everything in his power to protect his Sentinel from his work?
Jim looked around the room, and he spotted his friend on the nearby couch, asleep. He sat up gingerly, more than aware of his protesting muscles, and quickly dialed his pain dial back just a bit so he could move more easily. Then he got together a fresh set of clothes and left the room, seeking out a shower.
MacCleod was in the kitchen making breakfast and pointed out the bathroom to him so he could get that shower. Jim's thoughts tumbled around in his head while the hot water cascaded over his shoulders. First was the thought that Blair had probably known more Sentinels than himself and those in Paraguay. A man that old was bound to have met a few in his time, even if he hadn't gotten so involved with them as he had with Jim. He remembered what he'd said to Marren back at the loft, that he was involved in something a lot older than the Immortals. That had to carry a lot of weight with him. He'd seen civilizations rise and fall, entire ways of life die out. That was why culture fascinated him, why he made such a good anthropologist. He'd seen the way it really was in those times. So to be this involved with a pattern that was even older than he was had to be the greatest thing he'd ever done. And there was no way he was going to jeopardize that.
Looking back over the past three years from that perspective, Jim wondered about a few things. Blair had never liked looking at bodies, but he had never let it get in the way of things. He would have had to get past that in nineteen centuries. It couldn't have been easy, but time has a funny way of changing things. He had handled every dangerous situation that came with Jim's job in stride. He could still be horrified by things, though he must have seen countless examples of how terrible humans could be to each other over time. Hell, he had been crucified! And yet he still had enough faith in human nature to become angry when things went wrong. Jim had always assumed it was naiveté. Now, he wondered how the man hadn't become a complete cynic. Or was it all an act?
No. It couldn't all be an act. Perhaps he exaggerated at times, but the anger was real. Jim sighed. He'd just have to ask Blair himself.
Jim finished his shower, then dried off, got dressed and left the bathroom. Blair was sitting at the bar in front of his breakfast, laughing over some joke MacCleod had made at his expense. "Yeah, well, Connor has no room to talk! Remember that party he went to in the late 1600s? He got so drunk that he accepted a challenge to a duel from a mortal after insulting his wife and then got himself stabbed at least fifteen times before he just apologized. Hell, what was it he'd called her?"
"A bloated warthog, if I remember correctly."
"Oh yeah! But can you imagine the look on the poor guy's face when he just kept getting back up?" They laughed over it, and the image made Jim chuckle as well, and they noticed that he'd emerged from the bathroom from the sound. "Oh, hey! You ready for today?"
The Sentinel made a face. "Probably not. But that's beside the point, isn't it?" Damn, that sounded bitchy.
But Blair just grinned at him, not taking the comment amiss. "You'd better believe it! Okay, you've picked up on the basics pretty well. You have no trouble with the concepts. So I thought we'd start in with drills. You're going to be on that for about a month." Blair stopped. "Simon is going to notice something up with you. You're going to be tired for a while until you get used to it. And I hope to hell we have enough time to get you ready. A month can be a lot of time for Athan Wallace, maybe not in his life span, but for him to learn all he can about you."
Jim nodded. "Yeah, I know."
"So if something happens in the mean time, you just need to remember that he's Immortal, not invulnerable. Give him what would be a fatal blow and then get the hell out of his range."
Jim agreed. "So, let's talk a little on the legal side. I'm a cop. Let's just say this all goes down, I'm ready and I'm standing over a beheaded body with the sword that killed him. Anyone have any ideas on how to keep my ass out of prison?"
Duncan answered him. "Most Immortals have a Watcher, and he'll clean up the mess. The Watchers are a secret society of mortals who have been watching us since God-knows-when. Their creed has always been to watch and record, never to interfere. That's not always been followed, but they had a recent house cleaning, and it should be from now on. When an Immortal dies, unless the one who killed him does something with the body, it's their Watcher's responsibility to deal with it. They have a vested interest in not allowing the rest of the world to know about us."
Blair picked up the story. "The Watchers' Society has been around longer than I have, though it wasn't as organized back then. They generally add someone to their records when they've taken their first head. The Watcher of the looser reports the new one and finds out as much about them as they can. I imagine that's gotten a lot easier in this century. But then, everything but the Game has."
Duncan grinned. "Tangents."
Blair stuck out his tongue. Jim just laughed, well aware of his friend's tendency to run rabbits in a conversation. "Anyway, should the Watcher not do his job, then let Forensics do theirs. With your military background, it shouldn't be too hard to convince people that you learned your skills in the service out of an interest in history. Forensics should be able to follow the fight, and you'll be able to tell a jury without lying that Athan was crazy and went after you with a sword. He's a collector, as many of us are, and he'll have several blades in his possession, so you can just say that you got the sword off of him and his prints were obliterated by your using it to defend yourself. Forensics findings will make it obvious that you were acting in self defense. The case'll make the papers out of sheer novelty, but you shouldn't land behind bars."
Jim looked at Blair. "You've thought this out pretty thoroughly."
Blair shrugged. "I've always worried about what might happen. The Game sometimes has a nasty habit of popping into my life at the worst possible moments."
Egypt, ca. A. D. 329...
Joshua looked out over the sands of the desert knowing that the oasis couldn't be far but wishing it were already on the horizon. His wife, Ahrail, rode beside him on a second camel, along with Bejahl, the twelve-year-old son of her dead husband, a man who had been Joshua's good friend. He had sworn to care for both of them, marrying Ahrail to give her the protection of marriage and adopting Bejahl. He did love them, and he hoped that with time, Ahrail would come to love him, as well.
Sand rose from the desert floor on the western horizon, signaling the coming of more riders. Joshua would have just continued on, for many sought the protection of the oasis on their way to Cairo, but the sensation of another Quickening cut into him, making his stomach roil. Great. That's all I need. "Ahrail! Get to the oasis as fast as you can. Those riders may bear me ill will, and I don't want you getting caught in my battles."
"Joshua, I—"
"Go!"
But she didn't get the chance. Arrows came flying through the air and sliced into the camels' bodies. Joshua and Bejahl rolled free, but Ahrail was pinned. With the riders fast approaching, the men fought to free her, but all too soon they were upon them. The leader of the bandits pulled off his head dress and revealed eyes as blue as Joshua's own, marking the man as a foreigner. "Well, well. A young one. You can't possibly be a century old yet."
"Two and a half. Leave them out of this."
The other immortal grinned. "But of course. Let's get them out of our way." And at his gesture, the mortals who were riding with him knocked back another arrow each.
Joshua screamed "NO!!" and tried to get in front of his wife and adopted son, but the arrows flew too quickly.
"I killed him, of course, but vengeance was little comfort to me."
Jim sat shaking his head at Blair's story. "You've seen so much in your life, and it seems like a lot of it was spent in pain and battle."
The ancient man grinned. "Yeah, but not all of it was like that."
Duncan laughed. "Naomi."
"Yeah, Naomi. Now there's a story. Back in the late sixties, I was running with Jimmi Hendrix as part of his road crew, and he got this sweet bird up on the stage with him. She ended up riding with us for the rest of the tour, and she wasn't just satisfied with Jimmi. She pretty much went through the entire crew, but I wasn't interested."
Jim grinned at him. "What, a skirt Sandburg wouldn't chase?"
"Ha ha. I just wasn't going for mortals at the time. To be honest, I was getting close to a major burnout. I had been in Vietnam, and I know I don't have to tell you how bad that whole scene was. I was just tired of watching people die, so I wasn't trying to get close to anyone who only had a few decades to go." He smiled. "But, as I'm sure you've figured out, Naomi can be extremely persistent. I left the bus one night to get beer, and there was a hold-up in the store I went to."
"The cosmic trouble magnet at work."
"Yep. But Naomi had followed me. She came inside, the kid with the gun was hair triggered, I jumped in front of her."
"Blair!" As Naomi knelt down next to the injured man, the kid who'd shot him ran out of the store, but she ignored him in favor of trying to help the man who'd just saved her life. She shouted at the clerk, who was staring in unbelief. "Call an ambulance!"
Blair, who was now coughing up blood, grabbed her arm. "No! Take me back to the bus. No hospitals!" He couldn't risk a doctor getting his hands on him before he'd come back and was able to defend himself.
"But you're dying!"
"I won't stay dead. Please trust me. I have no choice but to trust you." He couldn't believe he was trusting a mortal again, but really, what choice did he have? His body was trying to shut down, and he couldn't hold it off much longer. "Promise?"
"Blair, I—"
He gripped her arm harder. "Promise me!"
She nodded quickly. "I promise."
So Blair relaxed, and his body died. Naomi was true to her word and got him back to the bus. For four hours, she did what she could, cleaning the blood off of his still form and getting rid of the bullet-ridden shirt, putting a clean one on him. Then she paced. A lot. Finally, his Quickening coursed through his body once again, and he jolted back into the land of the living.