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Cassandra took the elevator down to the dojo, and the sense of another Immortal increased as the elevator descended. Duncan was not in his office; he was standing near the weight benches and talking to a man. She gave the stranger a quick glance as she lifted the gate, evaluating him as a possible enemy. He was slouching a bit, and he looked to be little shorter than Duncan, certainly more slightly built. But his slouch was deceptively casual, and the blue jeans and the baggy brown sweater he wore under his coat did not entirely hide the whipcord strength and grace in him.
Was he an Immortal? Probably. He was looking at her with the intensity that marked such meetings. Cassandra lifted the gate completely and stepped into the dojo, then looked at him again. This time, she did not give him a quick glance. She stared, dread coiling cold in the pit of her stomach.
“You?” she demanded incredulously, then kicked herself mentally for being so stupid. That had not been a simple dream last night; it had been a vision of the future, the first dream-vision she had had in centuries. She had wondered if the prophetic dreams had left her forever. But they were back, and Methos was back, too. Roland had lied to her again. Both Methos and Kronos were in Seacouver, and they were undoubtedly working together. But what was Methos doing in Duncan’s dojo, and why did they seem so friendly?
“Who’s this?” Methos asked MacLeod, apparently thinking he could pretend not to know her, thinking he could fool MacLeod.
Cassandra was not going to be fooled. The man standing in front of her was Death. Just as in the dream last night, the hair was shorter; the facepaint was gone; the clothes were different; but it did not matter. She would know him anywhere, in any costume, in any time. He was Methos, and she was going to kill him. The cold dread was replaced by rage. Never again would she cower in fear of him. “Draw your sword,” she commanded, as she whipped out her own sword and advanced on him.
He actually stepped back from her, then moved behind the weight bench, pretending to frightened, pretending he did not know how to fight. He kept watching her as he asked Duncan again, more urgently now, “MacLeod, who is she?”
“Cassandra, what are you doing?” Duncan demanded, and he moved to block her path.
“Stay out of this, MacLeod,” she warned, incensed that he would actually come between her and her prey.
Methos said, slowly and deliberately, lying again, as he always lied, “You—don’t know me.”
“Do you think I could ever forget you?” she snarled. She had dreamed about him just last night. “I am Methos,” he had told her. “Never forget that.” She never had. She never would. Cassandra borrowed a technique from Connor and let her rage go ice-cold. “You butchered my people,” she said, in a flat and deadly voice. “You killed me.”
“This is crazy!” he protested as he hid behind the speed-bag frame. Then he turned to Duncan and lied again. “It wasn’t me, MacLeod.” He still had not drawn his sword.
Cassandra did not care. He had killed her when she was unarmed and helpless, and she was going to do the same to him. Slowly. Several times. Then she would take his head. She moved closer to Methos, wishing Duncan would get out of the way.
Methos actually had the gall to ask Duncan for help. “Do something!”
Cassandra jabbed at Methos with her sword, enjoying the way he was backing away from her. She knew his pretended helplessness would not last long, but it felt good right now. “This is between you and me, Methos.”
But it was not, for Duncan was there. He came from behind and wrapped his arms about her, immobilizing her. “Get out of here now!” he yelled to Methos. “Go!”
And of course, Methos did, the opportunistic, conniving little worm. He turned around and ran.
“Let go of me!” she demanded, struggling in Duncan’s grasp, hating his touch, the way he was overpowering her, wishing she had never let him touch her last night. “Let go of me!”
“Only if you calm down,” he said, ignoring her futile attempts to escape. “OK?”
Arrogant, interfering man! He had no right to touch her at all! She took a deep breath and nodded. It was quicker to pretend to agree than to argue. “OK.” He finally let go of her, and she took off after Methos. He was not in the hallway; he was not on the stairs, and she could not sense his presence at all.
She stalked back into the dojo and confronted Duncan. “You had no right to interfere!” Didn’t Duncan know the rules? Hadn’t Connor taught him anything?
Duncan dismissed her objections casually. “He didn’t even know you.”
“He’s a liar!” she exclaimed, unable to believe Duncan could be so innocent, so naive. Had he learned nothing in the last four centuries? She took a calming breath and warned Duncan icily, “Don’t come between us again.” She headed for the door, ready to kill.
“Cassandra,” Duncan called after her, “he’s my friend!”
She pivoted slowly and looked at Duncan. He was so earnest. So confused. Methos had that effect on people. Methos always lied, and Duncan needed to learn that immediately, or he would soon be dead. Methos would betray him. She said distinctly, “Your ‘friend’ rode with Kronos, killed and raped alongside him.”

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