All Souls Night.

Disclaimers in Chapter One.

If ever asked, Simon Elias Ferreau would maintain he was sufficiently well-rounded enough that nothing short of Armageddon would faze him and even then, only if done in grand Cecil B. DeMile fashion: cast of thousands, extravagant scenery, biblical overtones, et cetera. He had good reason to hold such an opinion of himself, though truth be told it had nothing to do with his claims of being fifty-two and four times married.

Right then, at 2:42 am, on November second, Simon Elias Ferreau learned one cannot be prepared for everything. . .

Certainly not an old acquaintance holding the tip of very large sword to his throat in the dead of night.

Bad enough she practically kicked him through a wall upon arriving, but then she added indignity to embarrassment by saying "Remember me, Malachai?" She drawled his old name, as though it were a caress and still managed to make it an insult.

"My name," he managed archly, "is Simon. . ."

"Spare me," the dark-tressed woman spat. "Your name is Malachai, fourth and youngest son of Ephron the sheep-herder and his third wife Mary and were born in the valley of Galilee on the day David slew the giant Goliath." The sword, which appeared literally out of nowhere, drifted ever closer to his throat. "And I don't have time for your contrived innocence."

Simon. . .Malachai. . .looked into eyes older than his own. "You never had time for anything important, did you?" He drew the name out, a veiled sneer of irony. "Hope?"

Those eyes narrowed tightly, almost to fine slits of nameless color. It took Morgan. . .Hope. . .long seconds to remember why it was so important she keep this fool alive just then. The tip of Caliburn, her sword and only reliable companion for longer than she cared to remember, came close to leaping forward of its own accord. Hope wondered if the old creature before her realized how close he came to his final death.

Instead, she reigned in her anger and lowered Caliburn, though its tip now hovered at his heart rather than throat. The gesture, and its meaning, were not lost on the man. He relaxed as best he could, propping himself up on elbows and managing to get into a more comfortable position.

"Now, what brings you to my neighborhood?" Despite a tone of disinterest, both knew his full attention was her's.

Caliburn didn't waver from its post. "I need to know why a couple pieces of meat have been watching Gabrielle Artemes and her companion for the past month. An ex-Olympiad and a flapper. I spoke to the Olympiad before coming here." Hope paused to let him digest this. "Not a complete cell of brain in his entire body," she added with scorn.

"Ah," Malachai drawled. "That would be Dante, better known as 'The Moron'."

Hope merely grunted in acknowledgment. "So he claimed. Except for 'The Moron' bit."

Malachai continued. "He's one of the Circle's less...talented... creatures."

"You mean 'was'."

"Indeed." Malachai nodded, then caught himself. "You didn't ?" Those eyes again. "You did."

"I'm sure a three-story dive into the sidewalk will keep him out of trouble for the time being."

Malachai groaned as though in agony. "You did."

"As I said, not a complete brain. Which means he didn't know as much as I need to know right now." Hope settled down on her haunches, Caliburn's point staying stationary and emphasizing her fast-expiring patience. "Since his partner isn't available, I come here to see what my old friend can tell me about these goings-on." There was nothing friendly about her smile, or her tone, and certainly nothing at all endearing about the way she waved her sword about.

The silence stretched between them for perhaps a full minute.

"Need I remind you of the debts between us, old man? I need to know what the hell is going on here." She paused for effect, letting her words and his memory dredge up all the business yet unfinished between the two of them. It was several centuries' worth. "So. . .enlighten me." A nearly infinitesimal jab with sword point emphasized the request.

Malachai had no doubts as to her sincerity, nor to her obvious determination to see this through. He'd survived this long thanks in no small measure to being able to immediately divine such details from those he'd come into contact with, not unlike a dousing rod finding water.

Insanely, he found himself debating for some seconds on how badly he wanted to live another three thousand years. Hardy as he might be, this bitch could certainly kill him, potentially through sheer terror. He'd had a decent enough time, both before and after tasting of the Dark Wine, and could pass on with few regrets.

The again, how badly did he want to explore the world beyond?

"The elders must have decided that they have had enough of her, so they've planned to kill her. That can be the only reason I can think they'd assign the likes of Dante to watch her and her's." Best start with the obvious, Malachai concluded. Give him time to tease what he could from his. . .old friend.

"This is news?" Hope's voice was sarcasm incarnate. "They've been trying to do that since the fourth Crusade." She was engaged in her own silent debate as to how much it was worth restraining herself much longer.

"True," he granted, recognizing his danger. Time for some wild guesses. "But how often do they try with a plan already laid out?" Daring greatly, he locked eyes with her's, and only by sheer willpower kept this contact. It was like staring into the sun. Two suns, in fact, neither of which blinked for an eternity of heartbeats.

"And what makes you think the Circle actually has a plan? The only 'plans' those monsters ever manage to concoct are ways to backstab and murder one another!" The disbelief in Hope's voice was sharp, almost accusatory. It sounded strange to Malachai's ears, such things coming from one who had seen so much more of the world, and beyond, than he.

The swordpoint wavered slightly. Malachai took this as a cue to wrestle himself into a position which didn't involve such contortions of his spine. Finding one that afforded at least a bit more comfort than simply being laid out prone, the old Bacchae regarded his interrogator more closely. There was something almost desperate (not a word or state of mind he'd ever before seen in this one) to her manner. Beyond her seeming disbelief of what should have been blatantly obvious, this sudden propensity for direct, even violent confrontation (the damage to the wall was going to be a joy to try explaining) flew in the face of past encounters. Hope had mastered the art of winning through threat, of conquering by sheer presence, and getting what she wanted simply by raising one eyebrow. Gods knew he'd rather face the Circle's collective wrath than risk her ire, never mind having her in his face like this.

He could only assumed she was running scared, hence her lashing out. Which meant she knew more than she'd already revealed. Time to see how good his instincts were.

"True enough," he granted again. "You've said that the Ancient and her companion have been followed for the past month, yes? The Circle has known where she has lived for the past seventy years and more. I repeat, why have her watched by as disposable an asset as Dante if they already know such things, eh? Smacks of a plan."

Hope did nothing as he stood, save match his ascent and keep Caliburn's point within striking distance. Her eyes wandered over his shoulder for just an instant, as if weighing his words and having to *force* herself to accept their truth. This was as surprising to Malachai as her violence. Since when did Hope, who's experience circled this globe and all its shadows twice over, have to be convinced of anything?

She pinned him with those eyes of his again, ones which glowed white hot within the abyss of the pupil. "What do you know?"

"What do you?" His greatest dare yet, throwing her words back at her, particularly given her already-demonstrated impatience. At least it got her eyes off him, if only for a moment.

"All Souls Night." Those eyes, no longer dangerous, but actually pleading now. It nearly drew a shudder from him, his mistaking one sort of desperation for another. Gods.

"I've heard nothing of this." Malachai spoke with open arms and empty hands, demonstrating his ignorance clearly as possible. "The Vanir have been silent, their courtiers silent...which is actually rather unusual for them."

"But. . .nothing more?" She went utterly still for no longer than the blink of an eye, during which time she thought of nothing save plunging Caliburn through his chest, tearing across and up and down and clefting him into so many pieces that the floor might become littered with tiny tiny pieces of. . .

"Nothing."

All strength deserted her right then. She'd done entirely too much in too short a space, all of it coming to absolutely *no* gain, leaving her drained. Damn it all!

Hope swung away from the old one, her knuckles turning white for the strength of her grip on Caliburn's pommel. There was no time for this...and yet here she was all the same. The force with which she was clenching her teeth was equally wasted, giving her nothing except a distracting ache in her jaw.

Ironically, this might well have been the most positive thing she'd done since breaking her covert watch on the mansion two nights earlier, insofar as it focused her thoughts enough to actually think about her next step rather than simply react. She'd been lashing out all that night, from the instant she'd cornered the *meat* in his hotel room to racing out here, thousands of miles distant, simply to ask what could have been as easily asked over the phone.

If whatever the circle had planned come nightfall was to be averted, Hope recognized she needed to recognize them as something more than a collection of decayed and treacherous asses. Malachai was right, in that this all smacked of at least an underlying plan. Not something she'd actually had much experience with when it came to her distant kin. But then, most of the one's she'd encountered were little more than animals. While the Circle had a long history of regicide and simply backstabbing one's ally, most of the current membership had actually lasted longer than its predecessors. This lot seemed capable of fending off their natural instincts and working together at this.

Gabrielle's death would send off shockwaves throughout their dark world. She was *the* single most powerful of Bacchus' direct offspring, both for followers and her own 'attributes'. Were they to assassinate her, how many enclaves and holdouts would simply cease their resistance altogether, never mind actually run to their banner?

Their dark world balanced upon the thinnest of wire. That wire was Gabrielle, whether she realized this or not. Gods alone knew what would happen if it were cut.

Malachai was staring at her now. Hope recognized that look, and felt something akin divine revelation.

"Why All Souls Night?" she wondered aloud. "Samhain is when she actually out hunting. And surely their powers are better charged while the veil is lowest. . ."

Malachai adopted the air of a lecturer. "The Feast of All Saints is, I grant, the best moment to capture and control the energies of the other side. The seepage has become especially acute in the past century, with the revival of spiritualism and whatnot, so I suppose there is some residual seepage they could use."

"Still. . .All Soul's Night?"

"It's a powerful moment in and of itself. The ceremonies involved stir powerful emotions in its participants. . ." Malachai's self-righteous tone lit a momentary fire in her eyes. She extinguished it by ruthless effort of will. The man might be arrogant and irritating as all hell, but experience had taught her the value of listening...even to the arrogant ones.

"By saying 'goodbye' to the deceased?" Hope put as much petulance and disbelief as she could manage into the question, knowing she already knew the answer.

"The day is as sacred to the Japanese and the Moslem as it is to the Catholic and the Celt." Hope nodded her acceptance of this, having seen the celebrations of each culture and more. "And remember: it's the level of belief involved that determines how the real the actual level of power is."

"This isn't stage magic we're talking about," Hope reminded him, ready to clench her teeth again with frustration. "These forces are. . ."

"Potentially strong enough to physically tear this planet apart, to say nothing of what it would do to the collective unconscious."

"To say nothing of a single immortal?"

"Exactly, provided it can be focused properly." His thin lips curled up in a semi-smug grin, pleased to have led her well enough along to the obvious.

Hope wiped it away, her fist suddenly dislodging several teeth and adding several hairline fractures to his jaw. The force of the punch was so controlled, quite unlike the first one, that this time he went *through* the wall. It was only the strength of his Bacchae blood-gifts and his natural physical girth, itself significant, which let him live through the experience of essentially demolishing a plaster wall with cement-reinforcement.

Dazed as he was, he heard Hope's voice spit out "I'll be back later."

'There's a pleasant thought' was Malachai's final though before drifting off into unconsciousness.

It had begun to snow when Hope reached the street. Caliburn was secreted from both sight and mind, as much from herself as from the rest of the world at large. This was a long-practiced habit, securing the blade against those who would steal it by simply removing it from memory until it was once again needed, a fortunately rare occurrence.

She wandered the early morning streets for a time. Her car had been left outside that hotel, some distance from there, where she'd *spoken* to that piece of *meat* Dante. And look where that little escapade had led her.

Another flurry of silent curses-ones against the Circle, Bacchus himself, her own good person, the Titans, the universe in general-erupted across her thoughts.

It was *so* damn obvious, all of it...she should have seen it the instant Dante told her the day chosen. Of course All Souls Night held as much significance as Samhain itself, perhaps more so for raw symbolic value. Bacchae, particularly their elders, fancied themselves the 'lords of the undead' and so tended to let their imaginations run riot as to how far their influence ranged. The small fact the transformation did not involve the actual death of the participants was often lost on them. Such was the consequence of an era of mass media, where the most obvious truths can be lost, and the price of hubris.

Her teeth clenched as though against the unfelt cold. The weather *nothing* compared to the ice clenching her from within.

The Circle couldn't have picked a better night to work their plans. She'd felt the wildness of the energies and Powers two nights earlier, as no doubt had every priest and priestess with the merest gift of Sight the world over. Much had crossed over that night, most doing no harm and quickly returning from where it came. Still, there was enough left swirling about the ether to cause calamity undreamed of. All that was needed, as Malachai pointed out, was a *focus* to it.

And there was the rub. Gabrielle herself was simply too damn strong to be the focus itself. Hades, she'd likely know of any attack against her before the attackers did! And now she'd be even more careful, what with Xena in the house. . .

She stopped dead, the gray of her suit standing out starkly in the snow-reflected light. Now there, Hope mused, was the real enigma in all this. This "Xena". Ever since being informed of her presence in Gabrielle's life, Hope had spent literally every waking moment digging for the material facts of the woman's past. She'd learned more in that evening's misadventures than she had for all the effort she'd put in over the past several months. Yet, Hope strangely felt no anxiety where this woman was concerned, and seeing the two of them together only reinforced her acceptance of this newcomer's place in Gabrielle's life. An enigma to be sure, a bloody walking question mark, but not one she could see any threat in.

At least, until now.

Her pace picked up unconsciously, a terrible possibility suddenly coming to mind. Terribly *plausible* that is, and all the more horrifying for it. Hope didn't try and divine the fine details out of this sudden epiphany, her entire mind and energy centered on one goal: to get back to the mansion and keep those two safe. She'd bloody stand guard literally on top of the pair of them if that's what it took!

Her footsteps echoed down the sidewalk, their stucco rhythm increasing with each step. Had there been anyone listening, they would have heard those steps veer off into an alleyway after taking several blocks in stride. Veer off...and fade to silence.

That morning's snowfall didn't amount to much, and what little it did allowed only the vaguest of footprints.

Her's entered the alley, where the shadows proved especially thick, and simply ended four paces beyond the turn, well before where the snows turned to damp concrete.