The Ancient Ones Endure

by Kadorienne
with author's commentary

Ichabod Crane confirms for me the theory that history is driven by heroes, not by cultural cycles or material necessity or any of the other dreary forces credited by modern scholars who cannot conceive of any man of greater dimensions than their own. No, only the shining vision and determined quest of a hero shapes history or changes its course.

When a contemporary American is arrested, he rests secure in the knowledge that he has inalienable rights which will almost invariably be respected. He will not be tortured. He can choose not to reveal anything. He will have a trial. He will have a lawyer. He will have witnesses testifying on his behalf. Policemen will search for physical and documentary evidence about the truth of the crime of which he is suspected. We take all of this for granted, but the fact is that it is all a gift, from a great man who devoted his life to fighting to give it to us. That man is Ichabod Crane.

~The Better Part of Valor: The Life of Ichabod Crane by Ivana Tagariello

Writing the imaginary history book gives me an excuse to voice my interpretation of Ichabod's character, and my admiration for him.
Shortly after the release of Sleepy Hollow, a fan of the movie outlined the parallels between SH and Highlander on a now-defunct website. I wanted to experiment with a different fictional universe, and making Ichabod an Immortal allowed me to cross it over with the only other fandom I cared about at the time, Beauty and the Beast.

He knew the night. He knew its moods and its secrets. And in the last few days, he had sensed restlessness about it.

Something was coming.

He had no idea what.

And so he walked the streets after midnight, his senses, more acute than those of an ordinary man, preternaturally alert and ready to find... something.

Chance or instinct or fate led him to the right street, that night.

He heard running footsteps, and gasps for breath. Someone was being pursued, and was in mortal terror. He knew the alleys, the fences, the buildings which could be climbed upon. In a moment he was pressed into a narrow sidewalk that separated two buildings, waiting. The first man ran past, limping. He was tiring.

Just keep on a moment longer, friend, he thought as he waited.

The pursuer's steps were more measured, less hasty. He knew that his prey would not elude him for long. He moved inexorably toward that prey.

But as he passed the alleyway, powerful, hairy hands grasped his shoulders and lifted him off his feet.

The man turned in Vincent's grasp with a snarl of rage which was stilled when he saw the lionlike face and fangs that faced him. Vincent used the expected moment of surprise, though he too was taken aback, because the man's weapon was not a gun or a knife, but a sword. A four-foot-long broadsword, like something from centuries ago.

Vincent preferred to merely wound those he pursued, but as soon as the other man recovered from his own shock, which took only a second — a seasoned warrior, this — he gave a battle cry and raised his sword. He wielded it with ease; Vincent could see that he knew how to handle this weapon. The man swung, powerfully. Had Vincent's reflexes been slower, the swing would have parted his head from his shoulders. As it was, it grazed his neck, drawing blood.

And the wound, the smell of blood — even his own — awoke the side of Vincent that he always wished to forget, the part that was as savage as his face made him appear. The pain made him roar, his lips curling back from his long teeth in a fearsome snarl. His opponent was affected by the sight, but after only a second he was grinning with the same battle-lust which Vincent felt. He thrust with his sword again.

Vincent dodged the archaic weapon neatly and retaliated with his own, even more ancient weapons. With the strong claws nature had so inexplicably given him, he tore the man open from throat to stomach with one furious lunge.

The man went down, of course. He collapsed at once, twitching for a moment — Vincent always hated to see that, but it only lasted a few seconds. And then Vincent's breath was slowing and the beast in him ebbing.

When he thought he could control himself, he turned to the man he had just rescued.

The other man was standing several feet away, leaning against the building, still panting, still shaking. He looked at Vincent fearfully. Vincent was resigned; he knew that it would always be thus. He spoke softly; his resonant voice often calmed those who were seeing him for the first time. It was the reason he had cultivated his usual soft, slow tones.

"I mean you no harm," Vincent said gently. "Tell me who you are."

The man started at the words. Then he advanced slowly to both of them, eyeing the fallen man's sword.

"Why was this man chasing you?" Vincent asked.

The other man licked his lips. "Maybe I can explain," he said shakily. Abruptly he lunged for the sword where it lay. Vincent had been expecting this and quickly moved back. But to his surprise, the man did not attack Vincent with it, but ran to the prone dead body with the blade raised.

Appalled, Vincent seized the man's arms. His powerful grip left the other man helpless. The trapped man began to weep.

"We've got to cut his head off," he gasped. "Or he'll kill us both!"

"He is dead," Vincent said gently, hoping to soothe the man's hysteria. "He cannot harm you now."

"You don't understand! You've got to kill him!"

"I already did," Vincent replied sadly.

"No! If you're smart, you'll chop off his head. It's the only way!"

With a swift motion, Vincent wrested the sword from the other man, releasing him. The man glanced frantically between him and the dead man.

"Listen to me," Vincent said. "He is dead now. There is nothing—"

With one last frightened look, the man broke into a run. As he fled, he shouted over his shoulder, "Cut off his head! Or run!"

"Wait!" Vincent called.

Before he could decide whether or not to pursue the terrified man, a movement on the ground distracted him. He turned. As he watched incredulously, the dead man's gaping, bloody wounds closed themselves. A moment later the man stood up, alive. And grinning wickedly.

He nodded to the sword, his eyes glinting, keeping a safe distance. "I believe that belongs to me." His voice was deep, the accent distinctly French. When Vincent made no move, he added, "Never mind, I will get another." And he began to run.

This time Vincent did give chase. He had to find out who — what — this man was. Through the twists and turns of various streets and alleyways he chased the man, until he lost him at last. He continued searching for another hour, but the man had eluded him, he had no idea how. He returned to the tunnels sorely troubled.

***

Lots of BatB fen dislike Diana. Personally, I like her, but only if it's kept platonic between her and Vincent. One reason I wrote this was that I wanted to show how I thought their relationship should have progressed -- that is to say, platonically.

Diana stood at the entrance to the tunnels, turning when a soft step behind her told her that Vincent was near. She smiled, but her smile faded quickly. He was grave.

"What is it, Vincent?"

"Diana... I must tell you a story that is very strange. Very fantastic." He spoke slowly, as always, carefully weighing each word. "It will be difficult for you to believe, but I know what I saw."

"Tell me," she said, with a gentleness in her voice to match his own.

"Last night, as I walked the city streets, I saw a man pursued, in mortal fear of his life. I stopped his pursuer. The man chasing him was armed with a sword."

"A sword? He was actually trying to kill someone with a sword?"

"He seemed to be quite skillful in its use," Vincent said. "I killed him, Diana."

Diana silently put a hand on his arm. No matter how justified the violence, Vincent never ceased to berate himself for any of it.

"I tore him open," Vincent added, a world of self-reproach in his voice. "In my rage, I inflicted wounds which no one could have survived."

"Vincent, he was trying to murder someone. You did what you had to."

"And a moment later, his wounds closed and he stood up, alive. Diana, I killed him, and he resurrected."

Diana frowned, searching Vincent's leonine face. After a long minute, she asked, "Vincent, are you certain that... that your own guilt didn't lead you to overestimate the wounds you inflicted?"

He turned abruptly, shaking his head. "I have killed enough people to know what death looks like, Diana! I tell you, the man was dead!"

Diana nodded, accepting. If Vincent was certain, then however fantastic the story, it must be true. "Then tell me. Every single detail."

Vincent told her all, including every word that had passed between him and the two men, and the fullest descriptions of each that he could.

"I'll tell you what I'm able to learn," Diana promised when he was finished. "And now — how's Jacob?"

Now that he had shared his worries, Vincent was relieved enough to smile at the mention of his son. "Come and see," he invited warmly.

Jacob had had an active day, Mary informed Diana when they reached the boy's room. He was now a capable crawler and was expected to take his first steps any day. Even on all fours, he kept the adults in his life busy chasing after him. He was quiet now, toying with a stuffed animal with a look of intent concentration on his wide-eyed face. That expression always made Diana smile; the child looked as if he were grappling with weighty matters indeed.

Vincent slowly came to sit on the floor beside his son as Mary left them. The boy dropped to stretch his little arms to his father, and Diana thought that something in the boy looked... more serene, somehow, now that his father was nearby.

Vincent lifted the boy with infinite care. Little Jacob made cheerful noises of greeting, grasping one of Vincent's large furry fingers with his tiny soft hands. His father stared at him in wonder.

"Every time I look at him, the miracle fills me anew," he breathed.

"He is beautiful," Diana said, and meant it. She had never wanted a child of her own, but Jacob had claimed a place in her heart.

"I've looked in his eyes a thousand times. Why does his power never diminish?"

"You can never run out of hope for a newborn child."

"Sometimes in my nightmares I relive what happened: the loss, the violence, all that I put us both through. But then in an instant it vanishes, carried off by his waking cries."

What could she say to that? What would be enough to reassure Vincent? "He can make it all right," she offered.

He shook his head once. "Nothing can make all of it right. Diana, you've done so much for both of us. Why?"

She blinked at him, surprised. "It's funny, I - when it was happening I never even questioned it. I don't know, Vincent, you make everything so possible I... I couldn't help but want to help you."

His cat-eyes crinkled in his version of a smile. "Jacob is not my only blessing."

She smiled gently, feeling, not a twinge, but the ghost of one. "You're thinking of Catherine."

"Always... and I'm thinking of you."

She did not read more into that than he had said. She knew better. "Sometimes I wonder - how all this can be happening, and whether I even belong here or not. Your... your world is... I don't know where I'm going anymore, I don't know where I'm going to be tomorrow."

"Tomorrow will come, Diana. We can only live each day as it comes to us, with its pains and joys, and all of its gifts."

She stretched out her arms. "Could I hold him?"

This dialogue is taken from canon.

He passed the baby carefully. Jacob promptly caught a tendril of her copper hair and tried to put it in his mouth. Patiently she prevented this, then glanced at Vincent.

Vincent was still smiling. "He looks exactly like his mother," he told Diana softly. "And I see her soul in him as well."

Diana studied Vincent's expression. It was true, the boy had inherited his mother's wide mouth and full lips, her grey-green eyes, her cheekbones. But Vincent remarked on the resemblance so often that Diana wondered if it were not only a wish to see the face of his love in their child, but also a wish not to see his own. Perhaps he said it as a charm, as if repeating it often enough would make it true, so that the boy would grow up to be his mother's son rather than his father's.

"I never knew Catherine," she said gently, "but I am certain he has some of your soul as well. The most beautiful soul I know."

A shadow crossed Vincent's leonine face. "I can only pray that he has inherited only that part of my nature that is human."

Diana chose her words carefully. "I don't believe there is any part of you that is anything else, Vincent."

Her heart sank as Diana saw a familiar, haunted look in his blue eyes. "Diana, if you knew — if you could feel the... the beast that wells up in me at times...."

Diana cut in before he could find the words he searched for. "Vincent, you've seen what beastliness humanity is capable of doing. My work is devoted to it. Believe me, you're no worse than any other man — and far, far better than most."

Vincent said nothing, but Diana was certain she had not convinced him.

"How is Stephen?" he asked.

Diana looked away and shrugged.

Vincent waited.

"Same old story," Diana said at last. "I spend too much time working, won't put him high enough on the old priority list. Just like all my boyfriends say."

"I am sorry, Diana," Vincent said softly. "I worry for you. Being so alone."

You're the real expert on that, Diana thought sadly, but only shrugged again. "If I had needed any of them, they would probably still be around." Hoping to change the subject, she asked, "What are you reading now?"

He reached to a nearby table and held up the book for her to see. The Wizard of Oz, the complete original novel. Perhaps with an eye to Jacob's bedtime stories a few years down the road, Vincent had been reading children's classics over the last few months.

"Listen," Vincent said, and she smiled, happy to enjoy the velvet gravel of his voice as he opened the book to a marked page and began to read aloud.

In the BatB canon, the characters are constantly reading aloud from classic works of literature to each other, so I continued that tradition in this fic, choosing works that had thematic relevance to Ichabod. Here we have the Cowardly Lion.

***

Diana made what inquiries she could, though there was little enough to go on. For two days she learned nothing. No reports of decapitations, no thefts of swords, no suspicious visitors from France.

On the third day, her colleague Michael stopped her as she was coming in. "Hey, Bennett, weren't you asking if anyone had had their head chopped off lately?"

She turned to him, promptly intent. "Yes. Has there been an incident?"

"I'll say. Nice grisly decapitation last night. Looks pretty freaky. You'll enjoy this one."

Her coat was on already. "Where was it?"

He handed over a report. "Here's the address."

***

Diana was at the tunnels as soon as it grew dark. Vincent was waiting for her, somehow knowing that she would be there. And by his expectant look, he knew that she had news for him as well.

"A man was found decapitated this morning," she said at once. She let Vincent take this in before adding, "His description matched the one you gave of the man being chased." She had to resist the habit of rattling off information swiftly and flatly, as police custom required. She could have gone on and told him that the wound was consistent with a sword as weapon, or that the victim, one Samuel Harrison, had reserved a flight to London for this very afternoon, or that there were no obvious suspects. No suspects, no witnesses, no obvious motive.

Odder was that the victim's identification was quite obviously fake. Diana had become suspicious of it when she looked at his driver's license and discovered that he was forty-four years old. The dead man did not look much more than thirty-five. He could have simply looked young, but a few inquiries revealed that Samuel Harrison had died at the age of three months in Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina.

Of course, using the birth certificate of a baby who died is a common way of creating a false identity. Roanoke Rapids is a tiny tiny town. I was forced to do a report on it in school, which was horrible, because there was nothing to report on, except that it used to have the world's largest damask mill.

Clues as to the victim's true identity were not forthcoming. Diana was wondering if there was some connection with government intelligence or organized crime.

"I can only continue to wander the night, and hope that our paths will cross again," Vincent said after a time, his soft-gravel voice full of regret. Diana knew without asking that he regretted both that he had to try to kill the assassin, and that he regretted that he had not already done so and saved Samuel Harrison's life. He was the most compassionate man she had ever met. On a sudden impulse, she took his arm.

"I'll find him," she said with an assurance she was far from feeling. There was so little to go on. Harrison had no personal connections to speak of, and the crime scene had yielded up little physical evidence. Besides that, she had only an unbelievable report from a witness who could not come forward. Furthermore, what was she supposed to do when she caught the killer? If he had come back to life after Vincent killed him…. She wondered if she could get authorization to drive a stake through the culprit's heart.

"Vincent," she asked hesitantly, "can you think of anything else at all? Does your intuition tell you anything?" Though it went against the grain of a trained detective, she had learned to respect Vincent's sixth sense.

He turned and walked a few paces away, and stood gazing into the darkness for a few moments before answering, in his usual measured tones. "For some time I have been feeling... an alertness. As if the city knows, without knowing, that something has come. Something dangerous, and different. Diana, this is no ordinary murderer. There is something... very powerfully evil here."

Diana nodded. She wished she could dismiss Vincent's fears, but she knew better. Slowly she moved to him and clasped one of his hands. The strong claws and coarse hair no longer felt strange to her.

"And we will face it together," she answered.

He looked at her, searching her face. "The power of your mind is like none I have seen before."

"As is the power of your spirit," she replied. She thought of telling him that she would alert him as soon as she knew anything, but that really went without saying. Vincent never wasted words, and he made her reluctant to say the unnecessary as well. She pressed his hand and turned to go.

***

The Captain interrupted her in the middle of tracking down Samuel Harrison's previous addresses. "Bennett—-"

Diana looked up. "Yes, Captain?"

"Cool it on the Harrison case."

"What? What do you mean, cool it?"

"I mean you're off it." Before Diana could protest, he explained, "The FBI just staked their claim on it. Sorry, Bennett."

She stared at him for a long minute. "Did they indeed," she said coolly and picked up her phone.

With resignation, the Captain strolled off. "If they say you can stay, I say you can stay," was all he said.

She found the FBI's number and punched it in, her eyes snapping with annoyance. When someone picked up, she quickly explained that she was a police officer with information on the investigation of the Harrison murders. They tried to brush her off. When she persisted, they connected her to various different offices and departments. At last she got someone to tell her the name of the federal agent heading the investigation: Zabdiel Galt. She hung up, called again, and this time simply asked to speak to him. A few minutes later, a male voice said impatiently, "Yes?"

"Agent Zabdiel Galt?"

"Zabdiel" is the first name of an illustrious ancestor of mine from the 18th century. I thought it sounded like a nice funky Washington Irving-esque name. As for "Galt", I figure Ichabod would be a Randroid, if he lived in the right time period.

"None other."

See? That's how he introduces himself in canon!

"Agent Galt, this is Detective Diana Bennett from the NYPD. I've been investigating the Harrison case."

"This is a Bureau matter now, Detective." The voice was clipped, almost British.

"What's important is finding this very dangerous killer," she said, her tone firm and calm though her hand was clenched on the receiver. She would not give up this investigation, and if some arrogant federal agent thought he could get rid of her, he had another think coming. "An interbranch investigation is the most efficient way to do this. I'd be happy to have you work with me on this." There, just a dash of arrogance of her own, almost a bluff.

A few seconds passed before he spoke again. "I appreciate your offer, Detective, but it's quite unnecessary. Good day."

"Agent Galt!" she said before he could hang up. "If you're going to continue this investigation without me, I suppose it's standard procedure for me to brief you on everything that I've found already?"

"Of course." She thought she heard a slight sigh. "Can you meet with me tomorrow afternoon?"

"Shall I come to your office?"

"I doubt you could get clearance that soon," he replied, and Diana gritted her teeth on her own annoyance. Was he intentionally putting her in her place with that remark? "I'll come to yours."

She gave him directions and they agreed on a time before hanging up. She then spent the rest of the day and well into the night reviewing the case file. She had to know everything possible if she was going to impress a federal agent. She had never had to work with a Bureau agent before, but she had heard that they were impossibly arrogant, and highly reluctant to cooperate in any way with local police. If true, Diana considered the attitude an idiotic one. The good guys weren't supposed to fight with each other. But then, men didn't seem to know any other way to deal with anything.

***

At dawn she was awakened by the phone. Automatically she reached for the receiver and held it to her ear. "Mmgmph," she said.

"Bennett! Are you awake?"

Diana groaned as she made herself sit up. As her head cleared a bit, she mumbled, "Scott?" Scott was her best friend on the force.

"Yeah. C'mon, are you conscious enough to listen?"

She rubbed her eyes vigorously. If Scott was calling at this hour, it had to be important. "Yes. What is it?"

"There's been another decapitation. You should get out here."

"Scott, did you know the Bureau took over that case?"

"So you'd better get out here before they do and close the scene."

Diana grinned. "Thanks, Scott. I owe you."

"Actually, I owe you. That's why I called."

"Ah, well, who's counting." Squinting, she switched on the lamp and fumbled for a pen. "Give me the address."

Twenty minutes later, she was at the scene, wearing the jeans and shirt she had pulled on because they were closest to the bed, her hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail instead of her usual neat braid. As she had hoped, the Bureau hadn't arrived yet. Scott let her in, and the other uniforms who were keeping the neighbors back didn't argue; she had a degree of prestige in the Department.

"No one's touched anything yet," Scott told her as she entered. "Victim's in the living room. The forensics people are dusting the other rooms for prints and stuff."

"Great." In spite of the lack of sleep, her brain had responded to her command to come alive, and she was fully alert for work.

The room's furniture was disordered, a few items knocked over as could be expected on a murder scene. The victim was a woman who looked to be in her early thirties. Her head was a few feet away from her body, and beside one of her lifeless hands lay a sword.

Somebody's radio crackled. The cop promptly answered, and in reply to a garbled question, explained, "We secured the area. Detective Bennett is here."

The voice on the radio rose, irate. Even through the static of the mediocre reception, Diana recognized the clipped tones of Agent Galt. "Who gave authorization for a police detective to be let in?"

Diana smiled wryly to herself, but did not pause in her scrutiny of the scene.

"Authorization? Bennett's a police detective!"

"This is a Bureau investigation! Get him out of there!"

Diana shook her head slightly as she continued to look around. He had spoken to her only yesterday and didn't remember her name.

The young man looked at her apologetically. "You heard?"

"I heard," she answered calmly, not pausing in her work. The man hesitated. After a moment, she looked up and smiled slightly at him. "Agent Galt and I are going to have a discussion when he gets here. Your rear is secure."

He nodded reluctantly, obviously thinking that this was a heck of a way to start the day. Diana continued, her energy rising to deal with the arrogant agent. What made him think he could order New York's Finest around that way? Besides her other reasons for pursuing this case, it had become a matter of pride for her to put this man in his place. She wished she had had time to prepare properly. But rumpled clothes, puffy eyes, and an attitude would have to do.

I'm very fond of the previous sentence. I was very happy with how Diana's voice developed, actually.

A couple of minutes later, a wave of dizziness swept over her. Oh, no, she thought despairingly. She hadn't had time to eat more than one of the nutrient-crammed energy bars she always kept in her car, and whatever the package said, those things were just not enough. Now it was catching up with her, more strongly than fasting ever had before. Now she wouldn't be in top form to meet the FBI agent. Dammit, dammit….

Before she could ask one of the uniforms if anyone had brought the customary doughnuts, she heard Agent Galt's voice, less peremptory than before, asking who was on the scene. The young cop reluctantly named her. "I thought I gave instructions that he was to leave," the agent said, annoyed but not as irate as she'd expected.

"I'm afraid you'll have to throw Detective Bennett out yourself, sir," the young man said. "She outranks me." He emphasized the feminine pronoun a bit. Diana swallowed a smile, even around her lightheadedness. Once she really proved herself, she found that her male colleagues were downright proud of her, even when she showed them up. But now — to take the offensive.

She turned to face him.

Diana hoped that she hid her surprise quickly enough. The first surprise was that the man in the doorway was young, surely too young to be heading Bureau investigations. But then, some people looked young well into adulthood; the force employed such people to go undercover in high schools sometimes, looking for drug dealers or gang crime. They'd had one man, a Tom Hansom, who'd passed for sixteen until he was twenty-five.

Inside joke. Tom Hansom was a character from a TV show called "21 Jump Street"... played by Johnny Depp.

The second surprise was that he was handsome. Very. High cheekbones slashed through his pallid face beneath obsidian eyes and ruthless black brows, and the sternly set mouth was perfectly shaped. He was examining her intently. Men. Always surprised that an attractive woman could be doing this job.

"Agent Zabdiel Galt?" she said, advancing to him briskly with a hand outstretched. She shook his hand firmly, something else that sometimes surprised men.

"None other," he said as he had the day before, in the same precise diction she had heard on the phone.

"Detective Diana Bennett."

He regarded her, his black eyes taking in her face carefully. She felt a stab of triumph, but was at the same time disappointed in him. He had been captivated by her appearance just like everyone else. Somehow she had expected more from this man.

Yes, he certainly raised your expectations of him in the two seconds you spent checking him out, Bennett, she thought irritably. After all, was she any better, her head so quickly turned by a handsome face?

"Glad to have you here with me," she said. As if she owned the place, she started showing him around the crime scene. Fortunately, her lightheadedness faded as she did so. As she had hoped, he was a bit taken aback by the way she had taken charge, and made no objection. He listened intently, his eyes moving between the evidence she indicated, and her face, and with a surge of triumph she realized that his expression was one of growing respect. Occasionally he interrupted with a question, and she always had the answer ready. She may not have started perfectly, but she was in top form now. And as she displayed her exhaustive knowledge, he won respect from her by swiftly forgetting the turf battle in favor of asking questions about the crime. And she knew the answer, every time. It might be five in the morning, but she was on it. There was no way he could avoid being impressed.

At length, Galt said, "After you called yesterday, Detective Bennett, I made a few inquiries about you. It seems you are quite respected in the NYPD." Diana made no response. He continued, "Your reputation has led me to reconsider. If you would like to work with me on this case, I think your work till now and your purported abilities would make you quite an asset."

I had written this far, plus a few of the later scenes (I tend to write in patchwork quilt fashion), but couldn't seem to get any further. The fic was stalled. I mean, here I had the hero and heroine together, and had set up a way for them to be in each other's proximity long enough to catch the villain and fall in love... so now what? I needed some more complications to keep it moving. After many attempts, I put this fic on the back burner for over a year. When I took it back out, I had a new fandom in my life, and it occurred to me that it would be just the shot in the arm this fic needed. Read on, my friends....

My reputation. Right. My red hair, more like. But she nodded casually. "All right. I suggest we proceed by checking this woman's ID, since the previous victim had a fake one, and see if there are any correlations."

He looked at her, a bit taken aback. It was a look she had seen on the faces of more than one male colleague, and she hid her satisfied amusement.

"A good idea," he said at length, "but first I think we should—"

His suggestion was cut off by one of the suits just outside the door raising his voice above the muted commotion that had been going on all along. "Sir, if you'll just wait one moment, I'll speak to the investigating officer—"

"I am the investigating officer now." The deep voice was heavy with authority and, to Diana's surprise, accented. German, she decided at once.

Every reader who knows me is now smirking at the very word "German" and chortling, "Ohh, I know who that is!"

"What is this, a freeway?" Diana muttered.

I like to say this when too many people come and go in the room I'm in.

She and Galt turned to the door just as the German entered the hallway, which was getting crowded with curious neighbors, policemen, Fibbies, and now a few cowed-looking operatives who stood aside to make way for their superior. He was over six feet tall with shoulder-length dark brown hair, a jaw that was clamped tightly enough to snap a steel rod, and the most boring suit Diana had ever seen in her entire life. He marched into the room with the air of one who has just broken down a door. Diana felt her hackles rise.

The tall man gave both of them a dismissive glance from jade green eyes. "You may go," he barked. "This is a NATO investigation now."

"This is an FBI investigation," Zabdiel retorted. His posture was tense; Diana could tell that he was dreading the argument to come.

"Stop right there!" the German snapped. "It is imperative that NATO take this murderer into custody. He is wanted in eight nations."

Diana folded her arms, forcing her expression to remain calm, annoyed though she was at having to fight a second turf battle so soon. "He happens to be on American soil at the moment," she said civilly. Zabdiel stood slightly behind her, his eyes flickering between her and the German. "Though, since you seem to know so much about him, we'd be happy to hear your input."

Those jade eyes skewered her. He was intimidating, she had to give him that. But goodlooking young women didn't get to be respected police officers by knuckling under to dirty looks. She met his glare squarely.

"And you are?" the German demanded rudely.

Diana had been raised to be a lady. One of the cardinal rules was to meet rudeness with courtesy. It was a good way to put boors in their place, and had unexpected applications in her chosen field. She smiled pleasantly. "I don't believe I caught your name," she said. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Zabdiel looking at her with surprised respect.

The German glared at her for a minute before retorting gruffly, "Major Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach of NATO."

Von dem? That probably meant he was an aristocrat of some sort along with being an army officer. No wonder the man was insufferable. Diana would have bet her pension he was the oldest son to boot. "Detective Diana Bennett, NYPD." She glanced at Zabdiel, waiting for him to introduce himself.

Instead, Zabdiel stared at Eberbach, his expression slightly stunned. The next moment he was lying unconscious on the floor. Diana blinked down at him, startled.

Swoon #1! Ohh, I just love it when Ichabod faints....

Eberbach looked mildly surprised too, though more than that, he looked scornful. "My name has never gotten quite that strong a reaction before," he remarked, pleased, as he surveyed the unconscious agent.

When writing crossovers, it is not necessary that all of your darlings like each other. In many cases, they probably wouldn't.

Diana shot him a glare as she bent down to try to revive Zabdiel. She had been prepared to dislike the FBI agent, but after all, he was the home team.

Note the American use of sports metaphors. We all do that, even those of us who aren't into sports.

One of the Fibbies elbowed his way in, looking embarrassed. "He'll be all right," the man muttered. "He has this condition... happens all the time...." The man squatted beside Zabdiel and held an open bottle under his nose. Zabdiel jerked away and looked around frantically, his gaze fixing on the German.

I was tempted to make this Fibbie a slightly eccentric, up-and-coming young agent named Fox Mulder, but I restrained myself. There just wasn't room to handle it properly.

"Are those smelling salts?" Diana incredulously asked the Fibbie, who nodded. Zabdiel reddened.

"Perhaps you two could help him find someplace quiet to lie down while I get on with the investigation," Eberbach snapped.

Zabdiel gathered himself, standing and brushing off his clothes with a studied casual air, trying to regain his dignity and actually not doing a bad job of it. "Sorry, Major. This is a Bureau matter."

That's our Ichabod, not allowing himself to be fazed by those embarrassing lapses.

"Who are you?" the Major demanded again.

"Agent Zabdiel Galt, FBI. Your reputation precedes you, Major."

The Major's lips thinned. "As does yours." From the way Zabdiel's spine stiffened, Diana gathered that reputation was not altogether a favorable one.

Zabdiel looked at the German evenly for a moment. Then turned to one of the uniforms. "Has the bedroom been dusted for prints yet?"

"Yeah."

Zabdiel nodded curtly and strode into the other room, leaving Diana to argue with the Major. Great backup in a turf war, she thought sourly. Some Fibbie, leaving her to deal with NATO alone.

"The FBI is not willing to give this up. The NYPD is not willing to give this up," she said after much useless growling on both sides, trying to reason with the German. "Evidently, NATO is not willing to give this up. We're going to end up having to appeal to higher authorities, and various judges and senators and ambassadors and whatnot will be called in to settle the dispute, by which time our wandering executioner will be beheading people in Zimbabwe. Or we can play together like nice kids. And this is our turf, Major."

"The entire planet is NATO's 'turf', Fraulein," the Major informed her.

"That's Detective, Mister. Now, I'm hardly an expert on NATO, but I'm pretty sure there's something about cooperating with allied nations. Last time I checked, our countries were pals."

He winced. "Just because you Yanks—"

Zabdiel appeared in the doorway. "Major." Everyone turned to him, surprised at the firmness of his voice. "There is someone on the phone who wishes to speak to you. A Chief Twitterswell."

BT named Klaus's Chief "Titterswell" in a fic way back, and it caught on, I guess just because we never find out the Chief's real name. Somehow it got adjusted to "Twitterswell". This is the only time I've used the fanon name for the Chief, because since he's strictly offstage, it was necessary to bolster the fact that this guy exists in canon.

Diana noticed that the Germans peering through the door turned pale. The Major's eyes narrowed. "Went over my head, did you?"

Zabdiel seemed to be smothering a smile. "The phone's in there," he said, indicating the bedroom with an inclination of his head.

The Major stalked into the bedroom. Diana stared at Zabdiel. "You called his superior?"

Zabdiel said, "I had to get him to cooperate somehow."

"He isn't going to like you after that."

Zabdiel shrugged. "He doesn't like anybody."

For the next two minutes, rapid German of increasing volume and ire emerged into the outer room. At last they heard, "Jawohl." The sound was one of grudging agreement. A brief pause, and then another sentence of shouted German and the phone being slammed back into its cradle.

"What on earth...?" Zabdiel muttered.

"What?" Diana asked him.

"He just said, 'G fell in love with an American and quit.' What does that have to do with—"

Before he could continue, the Major stormed into the room and skewered Zabdiel with another glare. "NATO's interests have no conflict with those of the FBI and the NYPD in this matter. You have our full cooperation," he snarled.

"Glad to have you aboard, Major," Diana replied before she could stop herself. His lips thinned before he spoke again.

"I shall have one of my operatives give you the file on our man, assuming you will do the same for us. How much do you have on him?"

The corners of Zabdiel's mouth twitched just slightly. "More than I'm supposed to."

To Diana's surprise, the German's glare relaxed fractionally. "I look forward to seeing it. When did this happen?"

"We'll have to wait for the lab for confirmation, but it looks like around midnight last night," Diana spoke up. She wasn't going to let the Major disregard her.

"Suspects? Have you people found anything?"

"There was a similar murder in the city a few days ago, and there is no readily apparent connection between the victims. Does NATO have a suspect?"

"We have two aliases, neither of which has been used in years. Nothing more."

"What countries has he killed in?" Zabdiel asked.

"Germany, France, and Belgium, to begin with. He seems to be fond of France."

Zabdiel nodded. "That matches my own data."

The Major looked over at the body. His eyes narrowed, and he strode toward it.

"Major! Don't touch anything!" Zabdiel's voice rang with authority. The Major's stride actually faltered a bit; probably the commanding tone had triggered associations burned into that military brain. The NATO operatives and the police all looked surprised, but the FBI agents smiled knowingly. Diana noted the smiles and filed them away for future consideration. It seemed Agent Galt had hidden strengths.

"I know better than to disturb evidence, Agent Galt," the Major conceded, sounding a bit less brusque than before. He knelt to regard the severed head. For one second, to Diana's surprise, something that resembled compassion moved across his face.

I knew lots of people who weren't Eroicafen were going to read this, so I had to demonstrate that yes, our dear psychotic Major is a good guy, underneath all the growls.

As if aware that he had appeared to be a human being for a moment, he straightened and scowled at everyone. "If you people are going to gather the physical evidence, then I suppose my work here is finished, once we've interrogated the neighbors. Provided that you will both meet with me this afternoon to exchange information."

That was far easier than Diana had expected. Either the German was a more reasonable man than he liked to appear, or else the stars were in some favorable alignment. She decided not to point out that the neighbors were already being interrogated by police and the FBI. "One o'clock?" she suggested.

The Major nodded. "Very well." He gave the address of NATO's local headquarters and instructions to give his name at the reception desk. Then he departed, his subordinates hurrying after him like frightened puppies.

When the German stomped out, the sudden relaxation in the room was palpable. Diana felt the tension ebb swiftly from her shoulders. She shook her head and exhaled noisily. "Good God."

"Yes," Zabdiel agreed.

"You say his reputation precedes him?"

Zabdiel nodded. "The KGB is terrified of him. In the intelligence community, he's known as Iron Klaus."

Diana gave a short laugh. "I can see why. What a piece of work. You know anything else about him?"

"German aristocracy, the only son of a World War II tank commander who held the rank of Colonel when he left the army. They say he can shoot a Magnum one-handed." Diana, who had used a Magnum on occasion herself, raised a respectful eyebrow. "He has the social skills of a porcupine, but he is the best at what he does. Smart, tough, and fearless."

"And driven."

"Yes." Zabdiel seemed to consider before adding, "He is... unmarried."

Nudge nudge wink wink.

Diana thought that was an odd thing to mention. "Well, I'm not applying for the job. What do you know about these murders? How many cities has this maniac terrorized?"

Zabdiel glanced around nervously, lowering his voice. "A great deal of my information about them was acquired by highly unorthodox means, if you understand me."

Diana grinned at him, and was pleased to receive a hesitant smile in return. "Right. Well, we've got some orthodox work to do now." She knelt beside the body, her pocket tape recorder poised in her hands, and emptied her mind as she regarded the scene.

"A few bits of fluff from the carpet in the neck wound," she recited into the recorder. "Wound clean and singular — a powerful singular thrust."

"Powerful singular thrust". Ichabod said that in the movie, remember?

"Two small chest wounds, neither apparently fatal." She tilted her head, considering, and switched off the recorder. "Look at the sword she's holding. The other victim had a sword as well. This could be our lead — we'll investigate swordplay instructors, find out where people buy swords in this day and age—"

She glanced up at Zabdiel, energized, and stopped abruptly. His eyes were fixed intently on the bloody mess of the dead woman's neck, his lips slightly parted, and he was even paler than he had been before. He looked as if he were about to faint again.

Yes, our dear Ichabod is still squeamish and given to vapors. And still fighting it every step of the way.

"Agent Galt!"

He jumped slightly, his eyes focusing on her.

"Would you mind standing back so the photographer can do his work?" she asked evenly.

He swallowed, nodded, and sidled away. Diana motioned to the police photographer, hoping her expression hid her contempt. An FBI agent, and he was turning green over a corpse like a rookie. It had been years since such sights had affected her that way. Long ago she had learned to relegate compassion to her time off. On the job, she regarded blood and gory wounds and dead bodies as evidence, just like fingerprints and tire tracks. It was the only way to do the job. But apparently Agent Galt hadn't learned it yet.

And yet he had apparently acquired fairly high status in the Bureau. Resentment flared briefly in Diana's mind. If she had allowed herself to remain so squeamish, she would never have advanced as she had. A woman in law enforcement couldn't afford any weaknesses.

But she had gone over all of this many times before, and the uneven playing ground had become familiar to her. Life was unfair, and she had accepted it as such. That was all there was to it.

***

Once she was finished at the crime scene, Diana went back to her apartment for a real breakfast and a shower, and to water Catherine's rosebush. She also took a very short nap before Zabdiel picked her up to take her to NATO. This time she was better prepared; she decked herself out in a formal black suit not unlike Zabdiel's, with a burgundy shirt. And slacks, not a skirt. No makeup, either — she rarely bothered with it. Really, all in all it was surprising that so many men found her attractive.

But it never lasted long. Not once they found out how driven she was. Not when they learned that they would always be second to her job.

When Zabdiel buzzed, she took the elevator down. He was waiting in front of the building. Diana felt vaguely surprised that he was just as goodlooking in full daylight as he had been in the bleak predawn hours. She had half expected that a second look would be disappointing. It wasn't.

He looked tense, but then, he was an FBI agent. He probably always looked tense. Even when he wasn't about to go head-to-head with a German control freak.

She didn't feel too great about it herself as she approached him. She felt just a swift flash of queasiness. Well, she hadn't gotten enough sleep. That always threw the metabolism out of whack for the day.

"I called your Captain and had you assigned to assist me for the duration of the investigation," Zabdiel said by way of greeting.

Diana masked her annoyance behind a frosty lift of her eyebrows. She could hardly complain about being assigned to a case she had fought to keep, after all. "I would have preferred to be consulted first," she said, but without any particular rancor. Zabdiel nodded his acknowledgement.

His car was an unremarkable black sedan. He drove the way he apparently did everything: nervously. Watching his knuckles whiten around the wheel every time a horn sounded, Diana resolved that in the future, she would drive. She tried to talk about the case, but Zabdiel couldn't seem to talk and drive at the same time, so she shut up until they reached a parking lot about a block from the NATO building. He parked with a sigh of relief from both of them and they got out to walk the short distance to their meeting.

If he couldn't handle horses, he probably wouldn't be too keen on cars either.

As they walked, Zabdiel suddenly turned his head sharply. Diana looked, but saw nothing and no one deserving of such attention. He was always so jumpy.

"If we are going to be working together, I should warn you," Zabdiel said in a low tone. "I recently incurred the wrath of a criminal organization. I sent several of their most powerful members to prison, and ended several of their operations. They have sent people after me."

Setting up later plot points.

"Are you saying there's a price on your head?"

"Oh, yes. So my vicinity is probably not the safest place to be. You may wish to—"

She cut him off. "I'm a cop, Zabdiel."

He nodded silently.

There was a little trouble at the reception desk; Zabdiel set off the metal detectors and refused to surrender his weapons, so his identification had to be double-checked and his superiors phoned. Even then, he might not have been admitted had the receptionist's in-house phone not rung. It was the Major, demanding to know where the "Yank investigators" were. A security guard took the phone and explained, then listened. Judging from his expression, the Major's reply was forcefully expressed. With a just-doing-my-job shrug, he waved them through.

"Why didn't you just check your weapons? This place is as safe as any," Diana asked in the elevator.

"Exactly," was all Zabdiel would say in reply.

He's an Immortal. He isn't going anywhere without his sword.

They reached the proper floor and walked down the hall to the room number they had been given without further discussion. If Zabdiel wanted to be mysterious, she wasn't going to chatter at him. They reached the appropriate door and knocked. A blond German a few inches shorter than them opened the door, verified their IDs, and let them in.

The moment she and Zabdiel entered, it was obvious something had happened. The operatives all looked up sharply at the Americans' entrance, and visibly relaxed when they recognized them. Which led Diana to wonder who they had been expecting.

She looked around warily. The blond man who'd let them in introduced himself as Agent A; it seemed the Major's subordinates used letters to designate themselves. The Major wasn't anywhere in sight, but all the alphabetical operatives were glancing around furtively as if they expected an explosion at any instant. This new tension was far thicker than that she had witnessed that morning.

Zabdiel paused inside the doorway as well, surveying the roomful of agents silently for a moment. He glanced around furtively, ascertained that the Major was not in earshot, and asked in a low voice, "Eroica?"

The agents cringed at the word. A, looking queasy, nodded.

"What?" asked Diana, but the alphabets shook their heads violently and Zabdiel muttered, "I'll explain later."

"Please sit down," one of the Germans invited, the only woman in the room. "Agent G," she introduced herself.

Agent G. The only *cough* woman in the room. Of course, later on Diana finds out the truth about G.

Diana smiled approvingly to learn that the woman, a petite blonde, was an operative and not a secretary or something. "I thought you fell in love with an American and quit."

G looked startled, then rolled her eyes heavenward. "I suppose the Major said that? On the phone to the Chief, am I right?" At Diana's nod, G replied, "The Chief always asks about me to tease the Major. Once the Major got so mad over it he told him I was dead."

"Why does being asked about you bother him?"

"He doesn't approve of the Chief's interest in me. Conflict of interests and so on." G shrugged dismissively. "As if I would bother with that old...."

"Old superior officer," Agent A put in. G smiled demurely and said nothing more.

Diana and Zabdiel claimed seats and started pulling files out of their respective briefcases. The silence in the room was almost unbearable. How could the alphabets stand it every day?

"Miss — er — Detective Bennett," one of the alphabets asked timidly. Diana raised her head to look at him. He was curly-haired and pudgy and his accent very thick. "I am Agent B. I just wondered... since you are American... haff you effer been to Alaska?" he asked in a hushed voice.

As B is something of a dunderhead, I figured his English wouldn't be quite fluent, or that at least he wouldn't be able to speak it without a strong accent.

"Once," she said, bewildered. "On a ski trip, when I was in college."

"What was it like?" He looked at her as if a great deal hung on her answer. His w's just barely escaped being v's.

"It's a beautiful state," Diana answered truthfully, still confused. "Cold, but beautiful. And the people are pretty nice."

"Truly?" he asked, as if begging for reassurance.

"Truly," she repeated. Glancing around, she saw that all of the alphabets were hanging on to her words. "Are you all going to Alaska soon?"

"Not if we are lucky," Agent A muttered, not looking optimistic. Before Diana could ask for elucidation, heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway, and the alphabets all snapped to attention. Feeling foolish, Diana rose, and Zabdiel followed suit.

The Major threw the door open and glared around the room as if looking for something. Not finding it, he barked at the Americans, "Right. Let's get on with it."

Agent A had the files ready to put into the Major's hand the moment he demanded them. The Major spent the next hour reviewing them with Diana and Zabdiel, until each of them had shared the bulk of their knowledge.

Which, when you boiled it down, was that the killer committed his crimes all over the world and had been for several years. There were a few vague descriptions, but nothing likely to be of real help. There was no discernible pattern between the victims, though Diana noticed that quite a few of them had been using assumed identities. When she suggested organized crime or espionage, the two men seemed unimpressed. "We have gone that route," the Major growled. Zabdiel nodded in agreement.

Unsatisfied, Diana was only able to repeat her idea of investigating swords and swordplay. The pursuit was unusual enough in this day and age that it should bear fruit.

The others were conceding that it was a good idea when the door swung open. Diana saw the collective cringe of the alphabets before she turned to see who had entered.

And the plot thickens!

Posing in the doorway as if it were a frame designed especially for him was a man every bit as absurdly goodlooking as Zabdiel. He was quite tall, and his curling golden hair fell well past his shoulders. His skin was as clear as Zabdiel's, but had a healthy flush from the cold outside rather than Zabdiel's almost ghostly pallor. His cheekbones were high, his chin almost sharp, not cleft as Zabdiel's was, and the planes of his face sculpted.

Zabdiel seemed almost unaware of his own beauty and dressed as simply as a monk, the shield ring on his right forefinger his sole ornament, but this man played up his natural looks with an outfit that had Diana momentarily wondering if he was a singing telegram. The ankle-length white mink was amazing enough. The hat that went with it, too. But the mink fell open to reveal what looked like a really first-rate pasha costume. The high-buttoned shirt of narrow apple-green and yellow stripes was tucked into a wide sash of purple silk embroidered with gold thread. Diana suspected that people had gone blind doing the stitching on the man's pale green vest. Gold hoops swung from his ears, gold bangles adorned his wrists, rings with large stones weighted down his slender fingers, and a rope of emeralds circled his neck. The pasha effect was somehow not diminished by the mink, but it was by the pants; Diana was sure that pashas did not paint their trousers on. But then, if pashas had legs like those, they probably would.

The atmosphere in the room had changed palpably. Everyone seemed to be waiting for an explosion. The newcomer looked around, almost preening, clearly enjoying being the center of attention. He ignored the three sitting at the table so completely that it had to be deliberate. Instead he turned a dazzling smile on the cowering alphabets.

"Z!" he said to an earnest-looking young man with a mane of shaggy yellow hair. "I can recommend an excellent hairdresser here in New York. He's handsome, too. You really do need a trim." The accent was English and aristocratic and drawling. Removing his fur with careless elegance, he draped it over the pudgy operative. "B. You look as if you've lost a few pounds."

"D-danke, Lord Gloria," B stammered.

All the agents cringed as Lord Gloria's blue-eyed gaze danced over them. Diana glanced at the Major, wondering why he hadn't put a stop to the display.

The Major's jade eyes were blazing, fixed on the Englishman with frightening intensity. His cigarette was clutched forgotten in one white-knuckled hand. His jaw was clamped like a steel trap.

Our dear Major is so subtle.

Zabdiel was not looking at the Major. Like the alphabets, he looked as if he wished he were on some other, more peaceful continent.

Diana turned her attention back to the Englishman who had only to stroll into a room and utter pleasantries to petrify a room full of strong men who lived for danger. He was leaning over the elfin G now. "G. Darling. You were born to wear Louis Feraud suits." G giggled flirtatiously. Abruptly, the Englishman turned to Diana and let her have it with the 100-watt smile. "And who might you be, my good woman?"

It took Diana a moment to reply. "Detective Diana Bennett. NYPD."

He tossed his hair like he was in a shampoo commercial. "A lady gumshoe. How thrilling. And that color is fabulous — more redheads should wear burgundy."

Diana grinned. Sometimes she thought that gay men were the only ones women could really get along with — their intentions were guaranteed to be honorable, and they always complimented your clothes. "And you are?"

"Dorian Red, Earl of Gloria."

"Mr. Red," she acknowledged, shaking his hand. He looked as if it were the funniest thing he had heard in years. Well, maybe you weren't supposed to call Earls "Mister", but she was an American, after all.

The Major spoke up at last. "Women adore you, Eroica. Why don't you marry one of them?" As he spoke, his eyes roved up and down the Englishman's form.

The Earl looked at the Major for the first time. He actually fluttered his lashes. "Why don't you, darling?"

It seemed that the Major did not have an answer for this. He settled for fuming in silence.

Lord Gloria next turned his attention to Zabdiel. His appreciative and unmistakable survey of the FBI agent had Diana revising her theory about getting along with gay men. And the Major's eyes went from blazing to volcanic.

That's it, Dorian, make all the other major characters jealous. As I had hoped, the Eroica crew made the story far more interesting.

After looking Zabdiel up and down with undisguised approval, Lord Gloria murmured, "And who might you be?"

Zabdiel looked as if he were about to faint again. He gulped some of the now-tepid instant coffee one of the alphabets had set in front of him half an hour ago. "Er. Um. Agent Zabdiel Galt. FBI."

"Good heavens." Lord Gloria started twining one of his long curls around a finger and smiled coyly at a mortified Zabdiel. "I just might have to take my skills away from NATO and start contracting for the FBI instead."

The Major's face was very red now. "At least leave the bloody colonials out of your perversions!" he yelled, his accent getting stronger with every word. "We have not contracted your services, Eroica! If we have any use for you, A will contact you." A looked distinctly unhappy to hear it.

"Of course," the Earl agreed, composed. "Why don't you let me take you to dinner tonight, Major? I know a lovely—"

"IDIOT!" Even Diana couldn't help jumping at the Major's yell. Only the Earl remained apparently calm. "I have important work to do, Eroica! Now get out of here and let me do it!"

"Of course, darling. You know where to find me if you... need me." He winked as he sauntered back to B. Diana didn't think she would have had the nerve to do it. The Earl waited for B to help him on with his coat, and B, red-faced, did so. The Major's eyes remained fastened on the Englishman until the door was closed behind him.

The Earl departed, and so did the oppressive tension in the room. Diana and Zabdiel spent another hour going over the scant information about their quarry with a sulking Major. Diana was relieved to escape into the biting wind of the New York streets.

"So," she said as she slid behind the wheel of Zabdiel's car, having easily coaxed him to surrender the keys, "who does The Man In The Iron Closet think he's kidding?"

I was quite proud of this phrase -- The Man In The Iron Closet. When I first sprung (sprang? ... never mind) it on someone, she mused, "That sounds like you're writing Three Musketeers slash." I went, "Hm, I wonder what the pairings would -- oh. Silly me. 'All for one and one for all.'"

"You want to say that to his face?"

"No," she admitted. "Too bad. He's depriving himself and it isn't even doing any good — everyone can tell anyway. But I guess if he's in NATO, he'd get kicked out if he—"

"Never. With his ability and reputation, no number of indiscretions could oust him. But perhaps he doesn't realize that. And everyone's afraid to tell him that, too."

"So who is this Earl guy?"

"Mr. Red," Zabdiel repeated, his lips quirking. "I cannot believe you called him that."

"I don't think I could call anybody Lord Anything with a straight face. What was all that about contracting?"

"He is a professional thief. NATO contracts him to steal microfilm and whatnot for them."

Diana glanced away from the traffic for a second to stare at Zabdiel. "Wait a minute. 'Eroica' — he's the Eroica? The art thief? Wanted in twenty countries?"

"Yes."

"And we didn't arrest him because?" Diana demanded.

Zabdiel snorted. "You arrest Iron Klaus's one true love. I like my teeth where they are."

She slowly shook her head in wonder. "Is that why he's still at large? Because everyone's too afraid of Major Eberbach?"

"It's one of the reasons. His work for NATO also grants him a certain immunity, and so does his title." Zabdiel hesitated. "Why don't we spend the evening forming a strategy? Have dinner and then get to work?"

Well, she had received more transparent invitations over the years. "Sure. What kind of food do you like?"

"The kind that I do not have to cook."

"There's a Chinese takeout joint on the way. We'll stop there."

A couple of co-eds got behind them in line at the Chinese restaurant, both giggling over anything and everything. When Diana opened her wallet to pay, the girls caught a glimpse of her badge.

"I smell bacon!" the prettier one, a strawberry blonde, announced in a stage whisper.

"Audrey Anne!" the other chided, embarrassed.

Diana ignored them save for a disdainful twitch of the mouth. Zabdiel smiled, amused. "Cute girl," he remarked as they walked back to the car.

They took the food to his place, a furnished corporate apartment, the kind of place that late twentieth century nomads tended to live in. The only personal touch was the books, which were piled everywhere.

Diana and Zabdiel had scarcely opened their little cartons before they were absorbed in discussing the minutiae of the case. The kind of tiny details that most people, even many detectives, found boring. Other detectives might attend them, but only as a matter of duty; Diana found them fascinating in themselves. She had found very few others who did, who could talk about them for hours on end. Zabdiel could.

The minute I thought of doing a crossover between these two fandoms, I saw that Ichabod and Diana would be perfect for each other. Two brilliant workaholic detectives. A perfect fit.

A short time after they had finished their meal, they were still deep in conversation. Zabdiel absently produced a cardboard disk from one of his pockets and began to spin it. On one side was painted a bird, on the other a cage, and when it was spun it gave the illusion that the bird was inside the cage.

"I had one of those when I was a kid," Diana remarked.

He looked at her blankly for a minute, then looked at the spinning disk toy as if he were surprised to find it in his hands. "A thaumatrope? My mother — stepmother, actually, but the only mother I ever knew — gave me one when I was small. After she died, I held on to it until it fell apart."

"And bought a new one."

Zabdiel shrugged. "It has long been a habit of mine. Spinning these helps me to think." He handed it to her in a show of mild playfulness that she found a bit surprising. "Try it."

This is Ichabod's idea of flirting.

She smiled, took the strings and gave it a spin.

It was midnight the next time she looked at the clock.

Zabdiel broke off midsentence. "Pardon. I had no idea it was so late. It was too much of a pleasure to speak to... a like mind."

Diana found herself smiling. "It was. But we'd better get some sleep."

He hesitated. "It's late. Would you prefer to stay here? That is, I will sleep on the couch, and you—"

She shook her head. "Thanks, but I'd better go home. What time shall we meet tomorrow?"

"We both need to catch up on some sleep. Ten?" She nodded agreement. "Please, be very careful on your way home, Detective."

She laughed a bit. "Agent Galt, I've lived in New York City all of my life. And remember, I'm a cop."

He was frowning at her, not irritated, but troubled. "I have not forgotten. It is only... this man we are seeking is tremendously dangerous. In time, he will come after you."

You know more than you're telling me, Diana thought, but now did not seem to be the best time to press him.

Besides, she had someone to meet.

***

Vincent's greeting embrace was, as always, comforting... and entirely brotherly. She let her head rest on his shoulder for a long minute before they went in to see Jacob. The child was sleeping soundly, trusting and safe in a universe populated solely with people who loved him. Realizing abruptly how close he had come to an entirely different sort of life, Diana shivered and moved unconsciously closer to Vincent.

Vincent put a powerful, comforting arm around her shoulders, turning his attention to her. He did not ask any questions, just waited with what seemed to be infinite patience until she was ready to speak, or not to speak.

She studied him, contemplating his reassuring presence, his serenity. He offered this to everyone, not only to her and Jacob. She admired his endless patience with the child, and the deep, unconditional love for him. She could not imagine giving her life so completely to a child... which was why she had never had one.

Nor had she ever been able to give enough of herself to anyone to marry. A few years ago, she had begun to wonder if she was simply cold, if she was incapable of feeling deeply for any man.

That was, until Vincent. There had been no denying how deeply he had affected her. Had it been the sheer uniqueness of the man? Or a result of her wistful envy of Catherine, Catherine who had everything? Beauty, wealth, a successful career, the perfect man…. But Fate, always so jealous of its gifts, had not let her enjoy it for long.

Whatever the case, Vincent had gotten to Diana. And for a time, she had hoped… but she had to realize, in time, that after Catherine there simply was no room for another woman in his heart. He had loved Catherine too completely, too deeply. As she had come to see the stunning purity and even sanctity of his love for Catherine, she had actually felt guilty for having wanted to steal it for herself.

And in time her infatuation, of necessity, had faded, leaving only two things: a deep and abiding friendship for this extraordinary man which she knew would last for always, and a slender thread of sadness for her own aloneness.

Here I make my take on their relationship clear. Vincent/Diana is just not possible, not after Catherine. Just not.

She inclined her head to the doorway, and they walked out quietly, careful not to disturb the sleeping child. They went together to Vincent's chamber, a humble place that yet managed to seem like a retreat for a fairy-tale prince, or perhaps an alchemist.

They sat, and Diana told him all about the new murder, Agent Galt, Major Eberbach, and Eroica. He listened in his usual utterly attentive way, as if the entire universe temporarily consisted entirely of what was being said.

"Do you think these men can find the killer?" he asked at last.

Diana considered. "They are all very good at what they do. And I'm sure that Agent Galt knows more than he lets on — he may have an ace up his sleeve."

"How can you be certain?"

"I can't. But — well, sometimes he suddenly gets evasive. When he's quiet, he looks like he wants to say more. It's a dead giveaway. But what he knows might not be enough to catch the murderer."

"If I could come forward—" Vincent broke off, spreading his hands helplessly, glancing down at himself. Diana understood. If the authorities knew that Vincent existed, there was no telling what they might decide needed to be done about him.

"That's why I'm here. I have an idea. Do you still have the sword?" When Vincent nodded, she said, "Leave it in a place where it won't be easily found. Then, we'll have someone call in an anonymous tip. He can tell the police what you witnessed and where to find the sword. That way I can share your knowledge with my colleagues."

"Why don't I make the call myself?" Vincent suggested.

"No. Your voice is too distinctive. Let's get another of the tunnel dwellers to do it."

Eventually they chose Paul, a seventeen-year-old boy, Tunnel-raised, who thought the idea of giving information to the police an exciting one. The three of them set out for a pay phone not too close to any Tunnel entrances, making a detour to stash the sword in a vacant building, and Vincent kept watch while Diana dialed the number and handed Paul the phone.

Paul did a stellar job of it. He sounded convincingly terrified as he refused to give his name or location, stammered out the version Vincent had given him of the description of the attempted murder, and finished with the new location of the sword. He grinned at them as he hung up. "How was that?" he demanded.

"Excellent," Diana said, quite honestly. "Thank you." She turned to Vincent with a smile. "I'd better get home. I want to be there when they call me about the anonymous tip."

"Will they just believe me?" Paul asked doubtfully.

"No. But they're required to check it out, and when the sword really is where you said it would be, they'll take your information a bit more seriously. It won't be admissible in court, but it could help us find a suspect." She clapped him on the shoulder. "Good job."

"Come back with me through the Tunnels to the entrance closest to your home," Vincent urged.

"It isn't necessary—" Diana began.

"Please," Vincent added gently, and Diana capitulated. Maybe if she had ever been so obliging to any of her boyfriends, they might have lasted longer. Perhaps the only reason she could be so with Vincent was that she knew he would never be more than a brother to her.

They returned to the Tunnels, and Paul left them in order to brag to his friends about his recent adventure. Diana and Vincent began the leisurely walk to her home.

"Tell me about this Agent Galt," Vincent prompted.

Diana considered. "He's… something of a puzzle."

"Why is that?"

"He's… well, frankly, he's a wimp. Afraid of his own shadow. He actually fainted at a crime scene! And he's squeamish. And not even good at hiding either."

"What else?"

"He's brilliant. You just know that in school he was one of those geeks who made straight A's and got their lunch money stolen. He seems to be as much of a workaholic as I am." She lapsed into silence.

"And what else?"

She shrugged. "He's goodlooking," she admitted, and playfully punched Vincent's arm when she saw his eyes crinkle.

"I discovered something in my books last night," Vincent confided.

"Tell me." Diana had not especially cared for poetry in the past, with a few exceptions, but the warm gravel of Vincent's voice was a joy in itself. And he had acquired an almost unerring instinct for poems that spoke to her.

"The title is 'Hero-Worship'. The author is Amy Lowell," Vincent explained before beginning to recite from memory.

She drew a deep breath. She did not have to say anything; he knew what the words had meant to her. They walked in silence for a time.

After a bit, she said, "You were very insistent about seeing me home."

Vincent nodded. A subtle change in his leonine face displayed concern. "Zabdiel Galt is right, Diana; you are in danger."

"You sense that?"

Vincent nodded slowly. "I have been staying close to you, Diana. I cannot explain it, but something very powerful is at work here. The time ahead will be a quest and a journey for you."

Diana nodded silently. When they neared the exit, she stopped and clasped his coarse-haired hand. "Thank you, Vincent."

***

The "anonymous tip" paid off. The sword was found, and not only were there fingerprints matching those found at various crime scenes in both America and Europe, but the sword itself was quite interesting. It turned out to be an antique, a relic of eighteenth-century France, apparently the property of an aristocrat. There was no record of such a sword having been bought or stolen from any museum or private collection, but Diana supposed that Europe was full of uncatalogued antiques of the sort America was too young to have accumulated.

To her disappointment, the anonymous description of the murderer meant nothing to either the FBI or NATO. Though she did note that Zabdiel did not seem impressed with it, even as he meticulously noted it down.

As if he had already known what the man looked and sounded like.

"Would you care to continue working this evening?" Zabdiel asked as the afternoon waned. They were driving back from the look Zabdiel had insisted on taking at the site where the "anonymous" sword had been left. Diana had smoothly suggested taking her car, and Zabdiel had not protested. Scott and another uniformed officer had accompanied them in a black-and-white.

Diana did not take her eyes from the road. "I don't know." She wanted to, but there was never any telling what a man would take as encouragement.

"Perhaps you should get some rest," he conceded.

"We still haven't found any connection between the victims," she said abruptly. "Except that a few of them had fake ID."

Zabdiel nodded. "I called Eroica, behind the Major's back, and asked if any of the victims had connections to criminal organizations."

"Eroica would know?"

"He has links to every criminal organization on the planet. There's a story that a Roman mafia don is in love with him and got him out of prison once, but I don't know if that's true."

Yes, it's true. Good old Volovolonte. I've always wanted to use him, but have never found a chance to.

"So yes, he probably would know; his information in that sphere is more complete than ours. But he said he had never heard of any of them."

Diana glanced in the rearview mirror. Scott's patrol car was now a block behind them; New York drivers were no respecters of persons. "Do you believe him?"

"Yes." His voice was flat and undoubting.

Diana gave him an arch look. "Are you always so sure of everything?"

Updated version of Katrina's "Are you so certain of everything?"

The words seemed to strike a chord. He stared at her, speechless.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you, you just…."

"It wasn't that. It was only… someone else said that to me once."

"So you think Eroica's word on this can be trusted."

Zabdiel considered. "The Earl is completely self-serving — well, he is a thief, after all — but I doubt he would help to conceal a murderer. From everything I have heard about him, he has no malice in him. He frequently knocks out the guards in the museums he robs with a soporific gas we've been trying to duplicate for years, so that he won't have to risk hurting them in self-defense."

Diana snorted. "Nice guy."

"As criminals go, yes."

"Well, maybe the Major will reform him one of these days. So, what connects the victims? Something has to."

Zabdiel's inky brows drew together as he opened his battered notebook and scanned the latest pages, even though he had to know their contents by heart. Diana had noticed that he had beautiful handwriting, old-fashioned and elegant. "In my office there are reams of charts diagramming every available fact about the victims. No patterns have emerged."

Diana shook her head. "There has to be something."

"Why are you so certain? There are madmen who choose their victims at random."

"If all you're willing to see is what you've seen before, you're gonna miss half of what's going on," Diana argued. "If we haven't found a pattern, we just haven't looked at it right yet."

She said this in canon.

Zabdiel nodded slowly, reflectively.

The heat was on, and the car was growing warm. At a stoplight, Diana unbuttoned her coat and pulled it open a bit. Beneath it was a St. Louis Cardinals sweatshirt — she hadn't dressed up today. Zabdiel glanced at her, then looked at the red bird on the shirt for a minute.

"Are you a baseball fan, or did you just like the shirt?" he asked.

Diana grinned as she turned onto a sleepy one-way street. "Oh, I'm all about the Cards. The Cardinals are my favorite team. You?"

He smiled slightly. "I have never followed sports. But I have always liked cardinals — the birds, I mean."

Cardinals. Important in the movie, remember? And this will be a minor plot point later.

Diana was about to say something else when a huge black Cadillac with tinted windows entered the street, heading the wrong way, and lumbered straight at them. Diana slammed on the brakes. The Cadillac rolled slowly closer, ominous and silent as a shark.

Diana swiftly drew her Beretta and checked it. "Friends of yours?"

Zabdiel had also produced a gun. "Indeed. Get down where they cannot see you. If you do not witness my execution, you will not qualify as a witness and they may allow you to live." With that, he opened the door and stepped right out of the car.

"Zabdiel!" she yelled in disbelief. She quickly rolled the car a few feet forward, angling it to shield him. Then she put it in park and crouched down in the shelter of the car's door, peering warily at the other car. Then she glanced over at Zabdiel.

His eyes were wide with fear and his jaw was set in determination. She could see the movement of his throat as he swallowed, bracing himself. His gun seemed to offer him no reassurance, but he held it ready as he waited.

"Stay down!" he ordered. "They are here for me."

You could have hidden behind the car, she thought. You could have made a run for it.

The door of the Cadillac opened. Diana held her breath.

The sound of a car behind her forced her to dart a glance over her shoulder.

God, blue lights were a beautiful sight.

It was Scott in his patrol car, following her back to the station, walking in on what could have been a very ugly situation.

The door to the Cadillac closed. The car swiftly backed out of the side street and roared off.

"Follow them!" Zabdiel cried, throwing himself back into the passenger seat. Diana complied. As soon as they were on the road she let Scott pass her, blue lights flashing and siren howling in hot pursuit.

Which swiftly, as she learned from the police band radio she switched on, turned to lukewarm pursuit. Their quarry had eluded them.

Just a little gratuitous heroism, also supporting the organized crime threat to Ichabod's life as it will be important later.

"We lost 'em," she told Zabdiel with resignation. He nodded.

"You okay? You need a drink?"

"I do not drink." He looked down at his hands. Which were trembling.

"Relax. We'll be back at the station in a few minutes. You'll be safe there, unless Eroica decides he likes black eyes better than green."

Zabdiel managed a short, shaky laugh. "I am not worried. I am sure he was only trying to get a rise out of Major Eberbach."

She nodded. "It worked."

"Getting a rise out of Major Eberbach is not difficult," Zabdiel pointed out, his voice still strained.

"No." She drove in silence for a few minutes before saying, "Look, the people who are after you know where you are now. Maybe you should leave New York."

"I will go when I have done what I came to do," Zabdiel retorted. "Would you run away from your work because of danger?"

"Of course not. I'm a cop."

"So am I. Well, in a manner of speaking."

But you're a coward, she thought but did not say aloud.

A coward who was staying right there and doing his job. And putting himself in the bad books of murderers left and right.

"Do you wish to continue working this evening?" he asked abruptly.

"Don't you need some rest after that?"

"After what?"

"After the attempt on your life."

He shrugged, though he seemed no less nervous. "There are always attempts on my life."

She considered for a minute. "I have to stop by home for a bit, but after that, certainly."

Now what have you gotten yourself into, Bennett?

***

Zabdiel was bent over his desk in his apartment, going over sheaves of flight lists, when he felt it. Swiftly he rose, seized his weapon, and advanced toward the door cautiously. He peered through the window before opening the door with relief.

"Methos. What are you doing here?"

Entering, Methos sauntered to the icebox and opened it as if he owned it. "Don't you have any beer?"

I figured that it wasn't right to use the Highlander mythos without using any Highlander characters. At first I thought about using DMOTCM, but that would have crammed too many heroes into one fic. Then I discovered that Methos was pretty amusing. A lot of his lines are taken from canon.

"Methos," Zabdiel said with elaborate patience, "How many years have you known me? And in that time, how often have I had beer?"

"I keep hoping you'll learn, Ichabod," he replied as he closed the door.

"Zabdiel," the younger man corrected. "It's Zabdiel Galt right now. Remember that. Shouldn't you be heading for the hills about now? You must know there's a headhunter in the city."

"I'm leaving tomorrow, Zabdiel. And remember that right now I'm Adam, not Methos. I just thought I'd drop by and see if I could prevail on you to leave with me."

"You know I won't. Besides, I have… another reason for staying."

Methos' attention was promptly riveted. "Yes?"

Zabdiel hesitated. "One of the detectives investigating the murders…."

"Oh, Gods. Did you really have to bring a cop into this?"

Zabdiel's reply was carefully patient. "Need I remind you that I am a cop?"

"It's different and you know it. Why are you letting him in?"

"You'll understand when you meet her."

"Her? Don't tell me you suddenly remembered why there are two sexes."

Before Zabdiel could reply, both men froze and looked alertly to the door. A moment later, a knock sounded.

Zabdiel peered through the peephole first before opening it to admit Diana. When she entered, shaking the snow off her copper hair, he said, "Diana, meet Adam Pierson. Adam, Detective Diana Bennett."

Adam's eyes were wide as he looked her over. "I see," he said. Giving Zabdiel a small, sly smile, he said, "A cop, and a redhead, and—-"

"Adam," Zabdiel said warningly. His face was now as red as Diana's hair.

The other man's eyebrows lifted a notch, but he continued playfully. "Looks like you've hit the jackpot. Do you enjoy a challenge, Detective Bennett? See if you can make Zabdiel forget his vow of chastity."

During this recital, Diana concentrated on hanging up her coat and wiping her boots on the mat with an air of disregard. Why, she wondered, was she meeting so many odd people these days?

Because, my dear, you are caught in Crossover World.

Zabdiel looked as if he wished the floor would swallow him up. "Don't you have a plane to catch, Adam? I hear Paris is lovely this time of year."

"Paris is always lovely. But MacLeod's there right now, and he's an even worse trouble magnet than you are. Nah, I'm going someplace tropical."

"Do you know something about these murders?" Diana asked.

"No more than Zab does."

"Can you help us?"

"Nah. Bad guys are Zab's department. He's the hero. I'm just a guy."

Zabdiel spoke up in a strained voice. "Adam… I heard a rumor that beer is now sold in stores. Go investigate."

With a lazily lopsided grin, the other man sauntered to the door. Zabdiel said to his departing back, "You driving?"

"Mm." The man gave a single nod.

"Then don't forget to put on a hat, and turn on your blinkers."

"No age jokes," he replied laconically as he went through the door.

Diana watched him go, then looked to Zabdiel quizzically. "Friend of yours?"

"We've been through a lot together," Zabdiel said irritably. "His hobby is driving his friends up the wall."

"He seems good at it."

"He has had a great deal of practice."

"So… what did he mean by a vow of chastity?"

Zabdiel kept his eyes on his notebook. "Just that there have not been many women in my life," he said. "Which he finds strange, because he has been married dozens of times. But then, he does not have anything better to do."

Dozens. Literally.

Diana sat down. "Do you mind if I ask why?" When Zabdiel did not reply right away, she added, "If I'm prying, say so and I'll drop it."

He glanced at her quickly, then away. "I suppose it is because I have always been… a workaholic."

Diana lifted an eyebrow. "Almost every boyfriend I've ever had has dumped me for being a workaholic." She tried to stop the smile that twitched the corners of her mouth, but couldn't. "So have your exceptions really been redheads?"

Zabdiel was turning new shades of pink now. "He was only teasing you. Though one of the three was."

"Three! Is that all?"

He looked exasperated. "Is it really so difficult to understand that I have not spent my life chasing everything in a skirt that walked by?"

"Sorry." Trying to lighten the mood, she changed the subject. "So who's MacLeod?"

"Mutual friend. You will meet him sometime. You will like him better than Adam. Well, I do, at least."

"What did Adam mean about him being a trouble magnet?"

"Well, there is some truth to it. MacLeod has… a certain notoriety in certain quarters, and this does attract all sorts of… characters."

After a long minute, Diana asked, "Do you always speak in riddles?"

He met her eyes unwillingly. She held his gaze steadily. There was far too much disquiet in that look.

Maybe if she told him about what Vincent had seen…. Some chances were worth taking.

She drew a deep breath.

"Agent Galt. Has anything ever happened to you that was so different, so unusual, that it just changed everything? I mean everything! The way people's faces look when you pass by on the street, the way you feel when you wake up in the morning, the things you dream at night."

She said this in canon to her sister shortly after meeting Vincent. I thought it was applicable to Ichabod as well, what with the Horseman thing, and of course she's about to have another such experience, learning about Immortals.

He looked stricken, as if her words held special significance for him. "Yes," he said after a moment. "More than you can realize." His brows knit at last, and he drew a deep breath. "Diana, there is a great deal I have to tell you—"

He broke off abruptly, his eyes widening with horror. Following his gaze, Diana saw… a spider. A fairly big one, but just a writing spider, not poisonous at all.

Agent Galt seemed rooted to the spot. Trying to conceal her impatience, Diana slowly got up, walked over to the critter, and coaxed it onto one of the manila folders lying on the desk. She took the folder outside and shook the spider off, letting it scurry off in search of a new home.

Spider scene. Always have a spider scene.

Well, that German Major probably would have shot the poor thing.

But the arachnid incident broke the tenuous rapport they had built that evening. Neither of them was able to proceed with outrageous confidences. Diana left a short time later, no more knowledgeable than she had been when she arrived.

***

Diana groaned when the phone rang. She forced her eyes open and squinted at the clock. 6:03 am. Was she ever going to get a decent night's sleep again?

Sure. When you retire, she reminded herself as she reached for the phone. "Bennett here." Her voice was scratchy, but clear enough, she was pleased to find.

"Detective Bennett, this is Agent G. Of NATO. I apologize for disturbing you so early, but could you possibly come to the police station?" G's accent was stronger than it had been before, and her sentences more halting. Well, Diana couldn't blame her; it was way too early in the morning to be speaking a foreign language.

"What's going on?" she asked, sitting up.

"The sword has been stolen."

"Stolen? From the police station? How could anyone—" She stopped, trying to imagine who on the force could have done such a thing, and why.

"Eroica can steal anything," G replied, with an unmistakable note of admiration in her voice.

"What makes you think it was Eroica?" Diana asked dubiously. She suspected that certain NATO Majors blamed Eroica for virtually everything.

"He left his calling card."

Literally. He does that in canon. Show-off.

"And my boyfriends say I have a dull life. I'll be right over."

She hung up and took the time to dress properly before leaving her apartment. She usually showered last thing at night, in anticipation of just such mornings as these. Outside, she discovered that this day was shaping up true to form — it had started to snow. Soon the streets would be covered with slippery, filthy, slushy New York snow. Goody.

A harried Agent A greeted her at the entrance for a short conference in the outer room. "Thank you for coming, Detective. Let me warn you — the Major is livid, even for him."

Diana laughed. "If need be, we'll get out the fire hoses and turn them on him." A looked so appalled at this that she quickly changed the subject. "G said that Eroica left his calling card?"

"Yes. The cards are lavender; they have a rose on one side and the words 'From Eroica With Love' on the other. It is his vanity to leave them at the scenes of his crimes, sometimes. It is a game to him — at times he notifies museums that he is going to rob them on a certain night, just to see them try to prepare, and then he finds some way around all their precautions."

"And he succeeds?"

"In his entire career, he has only been arrested once. In Rome. And that was, quite frankly, our fault." He paled suddenly. "But do not tell the Major I said that."

"Of course not. Now, G called me, but she didn't say if you've—"

"Who didn't?"

"Agent G. I didn't ask her—"

A looked embarrassed. "Agent G is a man."

Diana stared. "You yankin' my crank?"

"I beg your pardon?" He looked shocked. Diana decided not to speculate on what he thought the expression meant.

"Are you joking?"

"Germans do not joke," he said wryly. "Just ask the Major. And yes, Agent G really is a man."

"NATO allows...." Diana tried to find something tactful to say.

"Agent G is a capable operative," A informed her defensively. "And there are times when his ability to pass for a woman is quite useful. But what were you going to ask?"

Diana blinked, trying to recover the thread of the conversation. "Um. If you had checked the Earl's hotel for him — well, I'm sure you did, so was there any clue to his whereabouts?"

"Of course we checked, and no, there was no indication. But he will show up before long."

"How do you know?"

A winced. "He will offer to return the sword to the Major, but he will be difficult about it. As I said, it is a game."

Diana sighed. "We don't really need the sword anymore. We've learned what we could from it."

"Tell the Major that," A suggested. "Shall we go in now?"

"We shall."

When they were a few feet from the evidence vault, a now-familiar baritone roared, "ANYONE WHO OBJECTS WILL BE SENT TO ALASKA!"

So that's why the alphabets had asked.

It was just as bad as A had warned. The Major was having an utter tantrum. He was berating the security guards and the Captain for letting a thief get into police evidence, a puffy-eyed Zabdiel for being a citizen of a sloppy and arrogant nation, and his alphabets for no reason that she was able to discern. The normal flow of work had been demolished, and the usual security procedures for entry derailed, as those responsible for implementing them were busy being castigated. A KGB agent could have strolled in and helped himself to coffee.

The Major had an impressive command of English profanity, Diana noted, but frequently found no English vilification sufficient for his purposes and fell back on German. German was a good language to swear in, she decided, with all those satisfyingly hard consonants and bitten-off syllables. She covertly examined G and could find no visible signs of her — his maleness. It was really quite remarkable.

"Detective Bennett!" the Major exclaimed, catching sight of her. "How can you work with these people? These incompetent idiots? These—" He continued in that vein, having evidently designated her as the sole individual capable of comprehending the extent of his difficulties. Diana was unclear as to why she had been cast in that role, but she listened obligingly, not bothering to try to argue with him.

The Captain wasn't quite so prudent, nor was Zabdiel. Every few sentences they would break in and try to reason with the Major. Attempts at reason soon gave way to threats to report him to NATO or to the German Embassy.

And my sister wonders why I don't want children, Diana thought as she listened to the escalating bickering in silence.

Scott averted an international incident by walking in silently and handing a folded newspaper to Diana. She looked at the article he pointed at, patted his shoulder in wordless thanks, and walked up to the Major. She held the newspaper six inches in front of his face.

"What the hell are you—" He shut up, stared for a second, snatched the paper away and read it. Then he looked up at the captain, furious again. "You bloody idiot Yanks! You let the papers hear about this?"

Zabdiel and the Captain each made a grab for the paper. The Captain got it, and Zabdiel craned his neck to read it. The Major paced back and forth in seething silence; apparently this new wrinkle was so dire that words were insufficient to condemn it.

The article was about the antique French sword which had been stolen right out of police headquarters by the notorious art thief Eroica.

"None of our people would have leaked this," the Captain said with emphasis. "For one thing, I didn't give authorization. For another, the papers go out at five in the morning, and the theft was discovered at five thirty. There was no way this... could have gotten into the paper." The Captain's voice dropped its defensiveness for puzzlement.

"Damned idiot Yanks!" the Major repeated. He was going to say more, but another voice interrupted him.

"Actually, the information was relayed by a damned idiot Limey."

All heads turned. Perched cheerfully atop one of the tall metal cabinets was Eroica. Wearing a skintight black catsuit that made Diana look twice and a third time even if the man was gay — he was all long legs and firm, toned muscles. His wild golden curls tumbled loose.

Eroica gave Diana a cheerful smile, swinging his legs. "Good morning, Detective. Hunter's green suits you. But you ought to do something about the north door to this dreary room; it really wasn't very difficult to break into." He patted the side of the cabinet. "I took the liberty of making myself comfortable in here for the last hour or so. Don't worry, it was empty to begin with. I didn't tamper with anything but the sword. Didn't want to put the brave lads in blue to too much trouble."

Everyone stared at him in stunned silence. Diana had to hand it to him; for a known felon to present himself in the middle of a police station took moxie.

No wonder he got under the Major's skin.

"Get down here," the Major ordered, his voice low and dangerous. Eroica hopped down at once, light as a ballet dancer. He looked the Major over and gave a theatrical little wince.

"Officer," he appealed to her, "isn't there some sort of ordinance against ties like that?" He indicated the Major's tie, pea-green with infrequent yellow-edged red stripes. "Can't you arrest him, or at least confiscate it and fine him?"

For some reason, it's fannish tradition to ridicule Klaus's ties. I don't really know why; I actually think they're fine. But it's fun to do.

"Not in this district," Diana said gravely. "But there are those of us who are working towards it." The Captain's reproving glance forced her to swallow her smile.

Zabdiel stepped forward, with an air of steeling himself. "Lord Gloria. Where is the sword?"

Eroica fluttered his lashes at Zabdiel. The sight irritated Diana, though not as much as it did the Major. "In a safe place."

The Major seized Eroica's arm. "Verdammt! How many times do I have to tell you not to interfere with my missions, you perverted thief?"

No doubt envisioning a hellishly convoluted suit over police brutality, the Captain looked at Scott and jerked his head at the Earl. "Book him."

"Yes, sir." But when Scott moved towards Eroica, the Major put himself between them and glared at Scott fiercely.

"Eroica is a NATO contractor. He enjoys our protection when he is working for us."

"You just said he wasn't working for you, Major," the Captain retorted. Scott wisely kept still.

"The Earl also has a seat in the House of Lords. He is a Peer of the Realm. Harassing him could result in an international incident," the Major warned ominously. Eroica was watching him with unconcealed delight.

"Harassing him? I don't care if he's the Lord of the effing Rings, he—"

"Captain," Diana interrupted desperately, "perhaps we could discuss this in one of the interrogation rooms. You, me, the Earl, the Major, and Agent Galt."

The Captain could see that Diana had something important to convey. He cooperated with her suggestion, only griping a little for form's sake. Uniforms were assigned to secure the evidence room, especially the north door, alphabets and FBI underlings were told to run along and get underfoot someplace else, and the five remaining players shut themselves up in a barren room containing only a long, narrow table and a lot of uncomfortable chairs. The Major gripped the Earl's arm while they were in the hall on the way to the room and kept himself in between the Earl and the rest of them, though he compensated by looking daggers at said Earl.

"No one can be mean to him except me."

Before anyone else could speak, the Earl threw himself into one of the chairs with a martyred sigh. "The thanks I get for trying to help NATO."

"Help?!? By stealing evidence and making the police force a laughingstock by reporting it in the stinking newspaper? How in God's name is that—" The Major broke off. The Earl was examining the ceiling, looking elaborately bored, lightly drumming the fingers of one elegant hand. The Major seized his arm again, ignoring the wince which was probably at least half staged, and raised a menacing fist. "Answer me, you damned—"

"Major Eberbach!"

The commanding tone came, once more, from Zabdiel. And once more, all were too taken aback to do more than gape. Even the Captain, who had been opening his mouth to lodge his own protest.

White-faced but determined, Zabdiel announced, "The accused have rights in America, Major. We solve crimes with our brains here."

Jade eyes blazed at him. Diana winced mentally. A dig at Eberbach's nation was unwise. Why did men think that the way to put out a fire was to pour gasoline on it? Still, she had ammunition of her own.

"Any unnecessary violence, Major, and I will have to file charges on you," she said quietly. "Do you want to have to explain that to your superiors?"

This time she got the benefit of that green glare before the Major furiously relented. "Decadent Yanks," he muttered, dropping into one of the chairs with the air of one who has done all he can.

"My hero," Eroica said, giving Zabdiel a glowing smile. Zabdiel turned pink. Eberbach turned red. Diana wondered if she had ibuprofen in her locker.

"Mr. Red," she said in a strained voice. Eroica chuckled throatily. "What did you mean about helping NATO?"

"Don't you think that man will want his sword back?" Eroica inquired innocently. "Do you have any idea what eighteenth century pre-Revolutionary French swords are worth? And it's in perfect condition. Working condition — well, obviously, he's been using it to kill people. It probably has sentimental value for him."

"And?" Diana prompted.

"Everyone knows that I ransom most of what I steal," the Earl explained patiently. "That is, everyone with any... connections. And a successful international murderer must have such connections. If he wants his sword back, surely he'll contact me and make me an offer."

"And probably cut off your curly head with it, you idiot," the Major growled.

The Earl let him have it with another 100-watt smile. "I trust you to protect me, darling."

The Major's eyes widened, then he turned his back on the thief, frowning in thought. "He's right," he told the rest of them. "It's a perfect trap. Between us," he addressed Zabdiel, "we have more than enough operatives to lay an ambush."

As the Major spoke, Eroica watched him, and for one moment his expression was unguarded. Gone was the arch flirtation and the cool self-possession. In their place was genuine love. Genuine yearning. And genuine hurt.

Another touch put in chiefly for the non-Eroicafen reading this: I wanted it understood that Dorian does actually love the Major, his pursuit isn't just a game.

Poor devil, Diana thought sympathetically.

Then Eroica visibly pulled himself together and schooled his features again. Not a moment too soon, because the Major whirled on him abruptly. "How the hell did you know about the sword in the first place? Or any of this?"

"I broke into your hotel room and read all of your files," the Earl replied casually.

The Major promptly started working up to breaking a blood vessel again. "Don't you ever break into my room while I am not there!" he shouted.

"Would you prefer that I break into it while you are there, darling?"

Diana put her head in her hands.

The Captain cut into the Major's sputters. "Major Eberbach, this trap is all very clever and everything, but this Earl guy broke into police headquarters. We can't just—"

The arguments that followed took several hours, but in the end Eroica was not arrested, and NATO and the FBI agreed to conduct the stakeout with only Detective Diana Bennett to represent the NYPD. Though what could be done with this killer once he was caught, Diana still had to figure out.

"If I were one of the alphabets, I'd be happy to move to Alaska," she told Zabdiel when the Major finally tromped out of the station. Eroica had left an hour earlier, he said to ask his accomplices if anyone had contacted him about the sword.

"Alaska?" the Chief asked.

"It seems to be the Major's equivalent of Siberia," Zabdiel explained. "He stations his subordinates there as punishment. Still, in spite of his… difficult disposition, he does command tremendous loyalty. Once they promoted him and put him in command of a tank division, and everyone hated his successor. I heard that the alphabets wept for joy when he got demoted again and showed up at NATO yelling at them all."

"Then he's right, they are idiots," Diana said, folding her arms on the table and resting her head on them.

"Europeans," the Chief said, as if that explained something, and walked out muttering to himself, leaving Diana and Zabdiel alone.

Diana opened one eye and found Zabdiel studying her. They regarded each other for a moment, then both started laughing. "A policeman's lot is not a happy one," she giggled.

He laughed again. "I remember the first time I heard that. I agreed quite uncomfortably."

He first heard it when it premiered.

She straightened, rolling her shoulders to ease their tension. "You were a cop?"

He hesitated, then nodded.

"Where?"

He looked away. "The usual places."

"Try 'I could tell you, but I'd have to kill you,'" she suggested. When he did not smile, she shrugged. "I can take a hint." She added, "That took guts, putting a stop to Herr NATO's bullying."

Zabdiel's face abruptly became that of an avenging angel, stern, merciless and beautiful. Diana blinked. "That is the purpose of my life," he said, with unusual assurance.

She gazed at him. Zabdiel was an utter coward, and the bravest man she had ever met. Beautiful as a fallen angel, yet cloistering himself in a hermitage of dark deeds and ways to bring those deeds to light. A dazzling mind, and at the same time full of riddles and demons.

He was the most challenging mystery she had ever encountered.

Indulging herself, Diana allowed herself to analyze what compelled her about this man. She loved to look at his handsome face, and at the same time she understood exactly how much of a handicap that kind of appearance could be in a serious profession. He must understand what she had had to contend with because of her own looks. His mind — God, how long had she wished to find just one man whose mind could equal her own? The few men whose intellects she had respected had generally used them in endeavors far different from her own. Vincent, for instance, who bent his fine mind to literature. Zabdiel's occasional but blatant disregard for proper procedure — now that was a puzzle. He was so uptight, so maniacal about the rights of those suspected or accused, and yet he was willing to let it pass when she could not explain why she wanted to know something, or how she had obtained some piece of information. And there were odd gaps in his own investigations, times when he nonchalantly dismissed some anomaly as unimportant or blandly declined to explain how he had learned some detail.

Even his cowardice had begun to charm her. For so long, Diana had been forced to keep up a front of stoicism, even when she was terrified, even when she was disgusted and appalled. For a policewoman to show the slightest tremor — that would disqualify her forever in the eyes of her male colleagues, no matter what she did before or after. Doing her job, even when it was horrifying or dangerous, that wasn't a problem, but seeming calm about it sometimes was. And here was Zabdiel, a respected and accomplished federal agent, no less, who couldn't even deal with a spider like a grown man. Diana wondered if she was simply relieved that at least one hero out there couldn't even appear to fit the unflappable ideal. Or did she enjoy having a chance to be the tough one? So often she'd been expected to sit back and cheer while the boys did the dirty work; it was refreshing to see Zabdiel allow her to take charge with an air of relief. She even found herself feeling an odd sort of chivalry: someone as delicate and brilliant as Zabdiel shouldn't have to put himself in harm's way. She would protect him, she would take care of everything….

She shook her head, pushing a few copper strands back from her face. You've got it bad, Bennett.

"What is it?"

Jolted from her reverie by Zabdiel's query, she shook her head again. "I'm… worn out, that's all."

"Do you play chess?"

"Of course," she answered, taken aback.

"We both need to relax. May I interest you in an evening of sandwiches and chess?"

Diana grinned, thinking of what Mark or Stephen or any of their predecessors would have said if she had told them that chess was a way to relax. "That sounds wonderful," she agreed cheerfully, ignoring the sensible cautions in her head. "You have your car here, right? Let's meet at your place."

Instincts were not admissible testimony, Diana reminded herself during the drive. They were not grounds for a warrant. They were not even anything you could mention to most people. But when you kept doing this for a while, you developed them, and all of her instincts were telling her, shouting at her, that Zabdiel Galt was hiding something from her.

If she wanted to, she could point things out. Little discrepancies in the things he said. The way he always knew everything she was talking about — no one else had ever heard of any of her heroes. The way he so often seemed to stop himself before saying more. Sure, Fibbies were apt to be cagey, but not that cagey.

It could even have been unease at her own feelings towards him, which kept gaining strength no matter how she tried to stifle them.

But then, that led to something else again. Because she knew — she knew — that her feelings were returned. Too many times now she'd caught that look on his face. On the few occasions that they had come into close proximity, he was far too uneasy, as if she had a contagious disease. Oh, there was no mistaking what he was thinking. But in that case, why on earth hadn't he done anything about it? God knew he'd had enough opportunities. Any other man she'd worked with would have made his move long ago. But he could not have been more decorous if they had had a Victorian chaperone watching their every move.

Inside his apartment, while she was taking off her coat he listened to the messages on his answering machine. "It's me," said a female voice with a faint French accent. "If you can meet me, the same place we met last time, I have something to tell you."

Zabdiel looked at Diana, and blushed at her raised eyebrows. "Amanda is an informant," he said, and it was not lost on Diana that he considered an explanation her due. "Would you mind waiting? It shouldn't take more than an hour — the place is close by."

Diana shrugged. "On a night like this, there is no way I'm going to miss a good therapeutic chess game."

He nodded curtly, beginning to rebutton his coat, but stopped. "Before I forget." He went to his desk and fetched a large padded envelope, which he proffered to her rather shyly. "I am not certain if this was the thing to get, but I happened to come across it, and—"

She cut him off by hugging him. "Thank you," she said.

"You don't even know what it is," he protested, pleased and embarrassed.

"Doesn't matter." She released him and took the envelope. She opened it carefully, and then grinned.

It was a 1978 World Series St. Louis Cardinals pennant, autographed by none other than Jim Hart. Shaking her head, she embraced him again. "It's wonderful!"

There's a joke behind this. In all of my Ichabod/Katrina fics, Ichabod gives Katrina a necklace with a cardinal pendant. (This was originally suggested to me by another fan in the early days of the SH fandom, but I can't remember her name.) Then when I wrote the Brom/Ichabod fic Nor Check My Courage, as an inside joke I named the priest character Cardinal Pendaglio, "pendaglio" being Italian for "pendant"; I couldn't quite see either of the guys giving the other a necklace. This contemporary fic gave me another way to work it in: not a cardinal pendant, but a Cardinal pennant.

"Thank goodness." Looking more embarrassed than ever, he fastened his coat. "Please make yourself at home. Go ahead and help yourself to sandwiches or whatever else is in the icebox, and anything else you need." With that, he was gone, and Diana was left alone in his apartment.

If Zabdiel Galt's books were personal, she reasoned, he wouldn't have left them out on the shelf in the living room. And in this furnished corporate apartment, there was so little about the place that was personal. Though she suspected the landscape on the far wall was his. It was not one of the tediously cheerful sunsets or hunting prints that would likely have been provided by a decorator striving for innocuousness. It was a bleak seascape with a cloudy sky and a sheer rocky cliff, all greys and silvers and blacks. It had a cold beauty which suited Zabdiel. She wondered what Eroica would have thought of it.

As she would have expected, there were several books about the latest crime-solving techniques, and about the criminal mind. It was the recreational reading that caught her attention.

Norse mythology. Somehow, that didn't surprise her. The bleak heroism in the face of hopeless odds would appeal to him. He even had a well-thumbed copy of The Elder Edda. She took it down and let it fall open. The spine had broken on a page with a passage underlined: "Brave men can live well anywhere; a coward dreads all things."

There were several volumes of 19th-century poetry. It seemed like him, to have those side by side with Forensic Uses of DNA. She had already noticed considerable evidence of his hidden streak of romanticism. It was further confirmed by a couple of dogeared Ayn Rand novels — of course Zabdiel would admire a thinker who combined the strictest logic with the most flagrant romanticism.

There were the three latest biographies of Ichabod Crane. She smiled. They shared some of the same heroes.

What really caught her attention was The Wizard of Oz. Remembering that Vincent had recently read to her from it, she took it down and again let it fall open to where the spine had broken. It was an old volume; in fact, it looked like a first edition. A couple of very faint pencil lines marked a passage near the end:

Is that Ichabod or what?

Diana suddenly felt a wave of dizziness. I must be hungry, she thought. Putting the book back in its place, she moved to the kitchen to put a sandwich together. Before she had the refrigerator open, she heard a knock. Answering it, she found Adam Pierson on the doorstep.

"Candygram," he said.

"I thought you were catching a plane," she said.

"Snowed in," he explained with disgust. "They don't expect any flights to go out at least till tomorrow."

"Zabdiel's out, but he should be back soon. Come on in," she said.

He did so with an ironic look, like a vampire who'd just been invited over the threshold.

I was very proud of that simile.

"Thanks." He set the paper grocery bag he was carrying on the counter. "Want a beer?"

"Sure. I was about to fix a sandwich; how does cold roast beef grab you?"

"Great."

While Diana made the sandwiches, Adam leaned against the counter, sipping his beer and watching her speculatively. The look irritated her a bit, but also intrigued her; it was not the way most men looked at her. It was not a look of desire.

She held out a plate with a sandwich out to him and looked him directly in the eye. "There's something the two of you aren't telling me."

He took the plate and set it on the counter beside him. "Try that on Zab. He's the one who can't say no to a pushy broad."

Conceding defeat for the moment, Diana switched to another line of inquiry. "Then why am I having so much trouble with him?"

"Trouble?" he asked around a mouthful of roast beef.

"Adam, how long have you known Zabdiel?"

"Years," Adam replied in an offhand tone.

"Then maybe you can tell me what I'm doing wrong. I know he's interested, but he won't do anything about it. What gives?"

He shook his head. "I keep telling MacLeod to give him some lessons." Adam studied her reflectively for a minute. "Along with everything else, Zab is petrified of women. The only ones who've managed to get anywhere with him are the ones who've thrown themselves at him so hard they knocked him over. You've heard the joke about the woman who could trip a man and be under him before he hits the ground? If you want him, you're going to have to take matters into your own hands and sweep him off his feet." When Diana frowned, he said, "What, aren't you up to it?"

"Oh, I can do it. But I've found that men generally don't like for women to take the initiative, whatever they might say."

"Zab'll pass out from sheer relief. Er, not literally. Well, maybe."

Diana was about to ask another question when another wave of dizziness swept over her. She quickly sat down and took a bite of her sandwich. "My blood sugar's been going crazy lately," she said fretfully. Adam, who'd been looking at the door, raised an eyebrow at her silently. A moment later, the key turned in the lock, and Zabdiel walked in, looking more apprehensive than usual. He stopped when he saw Adam.

"Delayed on account of weather," Adam said before Zabdiel could ask.

Zabdiel nodded. "You're welcome to stay with me if you don't mind being around a — what did you call me last time?"

"A human lightning rod."

"That and the lack of beer."

"I brought my own," he replied, holding his bottle aloft. "But no, I'm already checked in at the Nordland."

"Not willing to stoop to one of my cold-water flats, eh?"

"I'm just hoping civilization doesn't collapse, because I have no desire to go without running water or central heating ever again." He offered a beer to Zabdiel, who refused with a slight smile.

"What are you doing here, then?"

"Giving free advice before going back to hide in my hotel." He smiled at Diana. "Mind if I take your colleague into the other room for a minute?"

"Just don't get him dirty," Diana said.

"Pardon us," Zabdiel said, looking embarrassed as usual.

The men went into the inner room and closed the door. Diana gazed pensively out the window. Almost as soon as the door closed, the men began talking, and Diana found that she could hear their words clearly. The struggle with her conscience over eavesdropping ended when she realized that they were talking about her.

"I know she probably won't do it," Zabdiel said before Adam could speak. "I'll do my best to talk her out of it, in fact."

"Talk her out of it? Don't you want her to—"

"Of course I do, but it might not be the best thing for her."

"Chivalry. You're worse than MacLeod."

"Thank you."

There was a pause. "So you haven't told her." It was not a question.

"Not yet. I don't think she knows me well enough not to think I'm insane."

"Zab… you have to tell her. She let me right in just now."

"I will."

"She could just walk away from it, you know."

"I know."

"Don't get your hopes up." Zabdiel did not answer, and a minute later Adam added, "Too late, I see."

"Yes."

"Live, Zabdiel. Grow stronger. Fight another day."

"You make cowardice sound like common sense."

"It is. And you're a very sensible man."

"Ah, how I have missed your left-handed compliments."

She heard footsteps, and busied herself with her sandwich. The men exchanged a few more words before Adam took his leave.

Diana's mind raced as she absently responded to Adam's farewell. Zabdiel had something to tell her, something that he worried that she wouldn't be able to believe. She doubted it was even half so unbelievable as what she had to tell him. If she introduced him to Vincent, and told him what Vincent had seen, he would be ready to tell her anything.

If he didn't think she was insane.

Zabdiel's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Something on your mind?" he asked gently.

She turned and looked at him. He was standing beside the kitchen table, hands at his side, frowning at her in slight concern. He was absolutely beautiful.

And he had his hopes up about her.

There were times when Diana lost all patience with worries and qualms and threw caution to the wind. She stood up and walked right toward Zabdiel. Tomorrow they could play "my secret is more unbelievable than your secret". Right now — she wasn't going to miss one more m