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When last we met, Genna, a young college student at a Southern university, had just made the startling discovery that she is, in fact, an Immortal. Stefan Krägen, an eight-hundred-year-old veteran of the Crusades, has taken her on a pupil. Using a job as the school fencing instructor as a cover, he has been teaching her the ways of the Immortals. If you don't remember this part, go back and read Entering the Game, the introduction to this series.

Normal disclaimers--the idea of Immortals isn't mine, the new characters in here are, please ask before posting or linking, yada yada. Now, originally, this would have been a one-shot story. But to please the impatient among us (Shack, Jeff....) here it is in chapter format. Given that TIE Fighter is out of control, don't hold your breath waiting for chapter two. Sheesh.

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Stefan blinked against the light creeping in through the bedroom blinds. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. The disorientation passed and he knew he was in his own apartment, near the college where he'd worked more than three months now as a fencing instructor, and it was early on a Saturday morning. The nearest Immortal was Genna, and she was a friend, a pupil--not a threat. In fact, he was supposed to meet her today, in only a few hours, to go hiking. At least he called it hiking. Genna referred to it, only half-joking, as Parris Island training trips. He had tried to convince her more than once that the more stamina and strength she had, the less likely she was to end up with her head and her Quickening taken by someone else. Genna, he suspected, was still halfway unconvinced about the whole business. Fumbling across the top of the bedside table, he pulled the alarm clock in front of his eyes.

"Verdammt," he muttered, shoving the clock back to the table. "Why do I always wake up before the alarm on weekends?" He had a good hour before he had to be up. Pulling the quilt up a little farther, he turned on his side--

--And snapped fully awake as the sensation came. Automatically his hand fell to the sword at his bedside. Swinging to his feet in a single motion, he started for the door. Genna had a key, but she wasn't any more a morning person than he was. She also would have announced her presence by now. Glancing into the bathroom and finding no one there, he stepped into the living room. His sofa, a chair, and a Medieval print of Crusaders stared mutely back at him.

The kitchen.

Sword in hand, he started for the door, left arm out defensively, right hanging back with the sword ready to swing. He saw the blur of motion coming from the far corner and swung in defensive mode. The blades clashed against each other, and Stefan parried the attack without thinking, driving the other's sword towards the floor in a locking hold. Then he fixed ice-blue eyes on his opponent's face--

"Gott in Himmel," he breathed, and couldn't help the smile that crept over his features. For an instant, he was back in the Holy Land, picking himself up off the sand when he should have been dead, wandering a field of the slain, waiting for one of the Moslem warriors to come back and finish the job. Instead, a knight on a red charger had ridden out of the desert heat, dressed in the white surcoat of the Templars, the militant order of the Church that had sworn to recapture the Holy Land, much the same oath all the Crusaders had taken. Stefan had watched the knight approach with some trepidation--most Templars were French, or Italian, or even English--very few Germans. Ideally, they were all on the same quest. Practically, European tensions frequently carried over to the battlefield. As the mysterious, solitary rider came closer, Stefan experienced for the first time the sensation that was now so familiar--the warning that another Immortal was approaching.

The Templar reined in his war horse and dismounted, sword at the ready. Approaching cautiously, he called out toward Stefan, "Hail, Sir Knight!"

English...a language not too far from his own German, but far enough he wouldn't be able to hold a conversation. "Sum miles deum," he stammered in broken Latin--I am a soldier of God. Hopefully, the English Templar spoke the ancient language.

The knight reached up and pulled off his helm, revealing a pair of hooded dark eyes--the same eyes that glinted at him over crossed sabers today, almost eight hundred years later. Stefan, biting back laughter, lowered his Austrian blade. "Tyrus!"

He was not dressed as a Templar now, but there was no mistaking him. "Stefan, how long has it been?" He lowered the broadsword, grin broadening but never touching the dark eyes.

"Since the Crusades?" Stefan asked. "Eight hundred years. Since we last met? Almost eighty."

"Yes, the War to end all wars," the nine-hundred-year-old knight sighed. "How many times have we heard that phrase?"

"Too many." Stefan eyed the other man. He was dressed in a wool sweater, the style once favored by the British navy, and heavy dark blue trousers, clothing appropriate to the cold November air but not to a pitched sword battle, which even the ever-confident Tyrus had to know he'd face if he challenged Stefan. "I take it you're not here for my head."

Tyrus laughed. "If I was, I wouldn't have stopped that easily. Or I would have lopped it off when I found you wandering in the desert like a madman and saved you eight centuries of trouble."

"I'm glad you didn't," Stefan said. "Please, sit down. Can I offer you tea, perhaps, or coffee?"

"Tea, if it's not too much trouble," Tyrus said, picking up a scabbard from the wooden table against the far wall. "You might want to get some clothes on first."

For the first time, Stefan realized that he was still wearing only a pair of sweats and a thin cotton undershirt--he hadn't bothered to grab a robe, which would only have interfered with his sword arm, anyway. "Oh," he muttered, feeling his face warm a little. "Sorry. I'd better go change." He turned to go back to the bedroom when he felt, for the second time today, the presence of another Immortal.

"Stefan?" Genna's voice. Damn. He'd forgotten completely that she was meeting him here. "Stefan? You awake?" Her key was in the lock before she tried the knob and found it open. She stepped inside. "Stefan, are we still going to the Marbleyard?" Then she jumped, and her hand went to the hilt of the saber in her duffle bag--not really a fighting weapon for an Immortal, but all she had.

"Genna, it's all right!" Quickly he stepped where she could see him, unarmed, in the room. Tyrus hadn't reached for his weapon, and watched with an amused smile from a seat at the table. "He's an old friend." Stefan placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. To date, Genna's only experience with Immortals other than himself had been when she was attacked by a reclusive Immortal who had lived in the western Virginia mountains near the school. Stefan had been on hand to intervene. If he hadn't, she would have lost her head without ever knowing what she was. "Oh, yeah? How old?" But his hand was calming, and she relaxed.

"Older than I am," Stefan said. "Tyrus, this is Genna Coughren, my pupil. Genna, may I present Sir Tyrus Pattin, Knight of the Temple."

"A Templar?" Genna said even as she extended her hand. "I thought they'd been exterminated after the Third Crusade. Their last leader, de Molay, was burned in Paris in 1314." Stefan shrugged, a bit apologetically, at his friend. He'd forgotten she was a European history minor.

Tyrus's lip twitched. "I'm afraid that's true. As I'm sure you can tell, I survived by virtue of my peculiar situation." He rose and took Genna's hand, pressing his lips to the back of her fingers.

She smiled, arching an eyebrow in Stefan's direction. "Is this how knights are supposed to behave? You could take lessons."

"You'll have to forgive Stefan," Tyrus said, "he is, after all, only a German."

"And the Sachsens came from where again?" Stefan shot back.

Genna grinned. "I can see this debate's been going on for a long time."

"Eight hundred years, give or take," Stefan admitted. "Since the second Crusade."

"Hm." Genna nodded, then cast a speculative eye over Stefan and his state of undress. "Aren't you a bit cold, Stefan? It is November, after all."

This time he knew his face turned bright red. "Um, how about you get some tea going for our guest and I'll go change." He frowned and looked at her a little harder. "Where'd you get that scarf?"

Genna fingered the dark green and blue tartan cloth she'd tucked over her head rather than submit to the indignity of a hat. "From that Celtic shop in town. Why?"

Tyrus, who had seen immediately what Stefan was looking at, said, "You'd better be careful. Wear that around the wrong Immortal and you could lose your head."

"It's the MacLeod tartan," Stefan clarified. "I'm sure you didn't know that, but you might want to bear the fact in mind. Neither of us has a bone to pick with him, that I know of." A quick glance at Tyrus neither confirmed nor denied that, but it wasn't important at the moment. "Others do."

"I'll be careful." She pulled the scarf around her neck and unbuttoned the short quilted parka she had on. "Tea, you said?" He nodded and started for his room again. Genna let her eyes linger on his retreating back for a few moments before turning and retrieving the teapot from its place on the stove. Tyrus returned to his seat at the table and watched her with dark, brooding eyes. "You met Stefan in the Holy Land, I take it?" she asked as she filled the kettle.

"Yes," he replied, watching her while her back was turned. "I found him wandering around in a state of delirium after a scimitar nearly took his head off. He was lost, confused, and had absolutely no idea what he was."

"Hmh. Not unlike how he found me," Genna commented as she set the kettle on the stove. "Only he had to directly interfere when an Immortal attacked me. For a while I thought he had to be crazy."

"Did he have to kill you to prove it?" He said it so mundanely that she shuddered.

"No." Unconsciously she rubbed her forearm where Stefan had slashed her with a dagger to prove that she would heal far faster than any mortal.

"I had to come fairly close," Tyrus observed casually. "He was damnably stubborn about the whole business. Fortunately, a few healings were all it took. In a way, I'm glad. Stefan's untimely death would be a great loss to the Game. As I'm sure you've noticed, he's a great hand with a sword."

"I know," she said as she hunted through the cabinets above the stove. Why Stefan couldn't store his cups and saucers where a person of average height could reach them she could never understand. "He's teaching me. Almost a month and a half now."

"Are you any good?"

Before she could answer, Stefan's voice came from the door, "She's coming along." Stefan had dressed himself in a dark turtleneck and jeans, clothes Genna had jokingly named his "climbing gear." What she never said was that the clinging turtleneck and tight-fitting jeans flattered a figure toned by eight centuries of trying to remain in top condition. She hid yet another sigh. Immortal she might be, but she was still twenty years old. And eight hundred though he was, he still looked thirty. "Still young, though. She didn't have the benefit of being a soldier trained with a sword before she died."

"Unfortunate. That's the case in these times, though," Tyrus sighed almost regretfully. "All these young Immortals without the proper training. Easy pickings for old warriors like us, eh, Stefan?"

Stefan smiled, though it was more like a grimace. "Those of us hunting easy heads, Tyrus. Some of us prefer a challenge."

Genna frowned. She was missing something here. Stefan was standing with one hand casually, ever casually, resting on the hilt of his saber. Icy blue eyes, lit with what on first glance seemed friendship, on closer inspection were in fact glinting in suspicion and battle-readiness. Those eyes were the first Genna had ever seen of Stefan, when he'd appeared out of nowhere and confronted the Immortal James McDonnagh on her behalf. They'd held that same look then--not hostility, for she'd never seen him angry, but readiness. Carefully she studied Tyrus, and found the hooded dark eyes studying her in return. She shivered and looked away. The Templar's gaze held fire.

"Not the best way to stay alive," Tyrus observed in response to Stefan.

"I've done all right." The smile looked sincere. He'd worked on that over the centuries. All right, you've seen Genna, you know I'm still here. What are you after, Tyrus? "What about you? How have you occupied yourself since the war?"

"Which war?" Tyrus laughed. "I've been in them all, it seems. Well, not the Russian revolution. Best to let those Mongoloid barbarians sort out their own mess." He sighed almost wistfully. "I've been what you might call a wandering warrior. Sometimes a religious counselor. I am, after all, a knight of the Temple."

"I'd hate to see your patients after you'd counseled them, if your style's the same as it was with me." He stepped to where Genna was still futilely hunting the teacups and, reaching over her head, he retrieved them effortlessly. "You'll be wanting some too, Genna?"

"I prefer coffee, but if you both are having some--" He took the third cup down before she finished. "You two were in World War I?"

"I'm still not used to hearing it called that," Tyrus sighed. "It was truly the Great War."

"Speak for yourself," Stefan snapped, a little more peevishly than he'd intended. "We were in the war, all right--on opposite sides."

"You fought for the Germans?" Genna asked her mentor with a touch of incredulity.

"Of course," Stefan said matter-of-factly. "I am one, after all. Of course after 1933, I decided that I'd best be elsewhere. Most honest Immortals did."

"You didn't join the Army and fight for the good side in that war," Tyrus pointed out moderately.

"I wouldn't have felt right, taking up arms against the Fatherland, no matter how evil the men ruling it." Stefan knew he had to chose his words carefully. Silently he cursed Tyrus for ever dredging up the wars. And there were so many....

"Ah, Stefan, ever the reluctant hero," Tyrus said, and there was an edge to his teasing tone.

Genna turned her back to attend to the kettle, which was showing the faint signs of boiling--the stage at which she preferred it. Stefan like it boiling hot, but she hadn't had eight hundred years to get her mouth and throat accustomed to it. Something about Tyrus Pattin disturbed her. It wasn't just that he was only the second Immortal she'd really ever met, although that was part of it. He smiled and kidded, but there was a glint in his eyes that she did not understand; not a hostile expression but rather calculating. The way Stefan was acting was far from normal, too. She'd known the German sword-master for more than a month and she had never seen him quite so snappish with anyone, or so quick to change moods. Ordinarily he was the most amiable person she knew, a trait she envied. Now she couldn't tell if he was angry--or nervous.

"What brings you to Virginia, Tyrus?" Stefan took the cups Genna offered and extended one to Tyrus. "I thought you usually stayed on the continent these days."

The Templar shrugged. "I was wandering. I'd heard you were here, so I thought I'd stop by and see how my little protege was getting along."

"Not so little anymore," Stefan said, pulling out the chair opposite Tyrus and offering Genna the seat. "It's been eight hundred years, Tyrus."

"And now you're taking on pupils of your own." Tyrus turned an appraising eye on Genna. "What do you think of the Game, Miss Coughren?"

Genna shrugged uneasily, twirling her tea bag on its string. "I don't know." Tyrus raised a dark brow, expression incredulous. "I've only been..." She still had trouble with it. "...Immortal for a month and a half. I'm not even really used to it. Whenever I get a paper cut or nick my finger I still am surprised when it heals. And I've never fought. Not for real."

"And hopefully won't for a long time," Stefan added firmly. "I had to fight my first duel after three years, and I still didn't feel ready."

"No one is ever ready." Tyrus's voice was heavy and dark. "Unless you're one who provokes, you never see it coming. It's worst when the attacker is someone you knew." The hooded eyes fixed on the window, staring through the frosted panes into the gravel parking lot that was the back yard. "Someone you trusted."

The drop in temperature in the room was very palpable. Genna could have sworn Stefan's eyes darkened several shades to cobalt, and a faint tinge of color flamed in his cheeks. Tyrus's implacable face didn't change, but the dark eyes seemed somehow more hostile. "Look," she began hesitantly, "if there's something you two want to discuss-"

"It's nothing." Stefan's voice carried a grim ring of finality. "Just an old argument."

"Very old." If Tyrus's voice had changed, she couldn't tell. "Forgive us, Miss Coughren. When you're as old as we are, you'll know what a grudge can really mean."

"I see." She didn't, but it was safer not to ask questions. "You're not going to settle this with swords, are you? Because if you are, I am definitely leaving. I have classes on Monday, and I'd hate to miss them because I was a head shorter."

Stefan laughed, Tyrus smiled, and the tension was broken. At any rate, broken on the surface. "I think we can avoid violence, can't we, Tyrus?" Stefan assured her.

"Great. Then if we're not going to turn this into a bloodbath, are we still going to the Marbleyard today? Because if we're not I have plenty of other work I could be doing--"

"Not go?" Stefan grinned. "Of course we're going." Almost appraisingly, he turned an eye on Tyrus. "Care to join us?"

"Depends on what you're planning. I'm not as young as I used to be." He said the last with a cheerfully sardonic grin. "What's this Marbleyard?"

"It's a hiking trail that leads up to this rubble field of boulders-like the mountain face caved in on itself and all the rocks got caught up in this pile," Genna explained. "If you stay out of the little crevices this time of year's safe."

"Safe?" Tyrus raised an eyebrow.

"Eastern diamondbacks get easily annoyed when you wake them up from hibernating," she clarified. "I don't want to explain to anyone how I bounced back from a rattlesnake bite."

Tyrus nodded. "Understandable. Rock-climbing, eh?" He stretched, flexing strong arms. "Sounds like fun. Will we need our swords?"

"Is it ever wise to be without them?" Stefan asked rhetorically. "Backpacks are usually better than duffles-hands free and all that." He glared pointedly at Genna.

"If you'd find me a scabbard like yours, I wouldn't need the bag," she shot back. "And if you're going to find a scabbard, you might as well find me a sword to go with it instead of this fencing thing."

"When you're ready for a sword, you'll get one," Stefan said firmly. "Until then I can handle whatever comes along."

"What if you're not there?" Genna persisted.

"Stay close to me and that won't happen," he shot back.

Tyrus had watched the exchange with a bemused expression. "Shall we go? I'll be interested to see how you two get along when you're really training."

The Devil's Marbleyard lay at the top of a moderately difficult woodland trail that wound over a few half-frozen creeks and some narrow rocky outcrops of the mountain. In the spring, the rhododendrons and wild roses would be weighted down with flowers. Now the glossy green leaves of the bushes hung on skeletal branches, and the roses were thorny bramble. Genna had been there once or twice on hikes with school friends, but Stefan's regime made them look like casual strolls down main street. Tyrus didn't seem to be bothered by the pace his former comrade was setting. Genna, muscles still aching from fencing practice the evening before, trailed behind them, letting them banter about the good old days as long as they wanted. If Stefan was talking to his friend, that meant he couldn't engage her in conversation. That meant more oxygen for walking, and she needed it.

"There it is." They rounded a turn and she heard Tyrus whistle appreciatively at the site before them. She didn't bother to look up. She'd seen it too many times before. The Marbleyard rose out of the mountain in a seemingly vertical wall, reaching up into the clear fall sky above the Blue Ridge.

"Well, we'd better start climbing." Stefan looked over his shoulder. "Hurry up, Genna."

"Right. Sure." Shifting her backpack, more for show than any actual relief, she started for the rocks. The frost covering the ancient stones added a slick layer that made going slow and treacherous. Stefan, as usual, lead the way, seeming to know which routes were suitably challenging but not treacherous. Tyrus went next and Genna, still moving slowly, brought up the rear. The rocks were cold to the touch, and her fingers very nearly stuck each time she touched the bare face of the stone. Ahead of her, Stefan's lead increased and Tyrus seemed to be pacing him easily. With a pained grunt she pulled herself over the edge of a steeply tilted boulder. Her legs skidded along the icy surface. Muttering a curse she stood up and reached for the next ledge. Stefan and Tyrus were already out of sight ahead of her.

Her fingers jerked automatically at the sudden, burning cold of an ice slick. The spasm sent her arm back over her head. She felt herself begin to fall, and even as she knew she'd survive it she felt the terror grip her--

And a hand, a hand grasping her wrist. She looked up into the dark, gleaming eyes of the Templar. Relief coursed through her. "Tyrus, thank God! Pull me up!"

And he did. . .nothing. They hung there at the edge of the boulder, Genna dangling over the sharp rocks hundreds of feet below, Tyrus silently grasping her arm, the only hold between her and a crushing fall. "What's wrong? Pull me up!" Despite herself, there was panic in her voice.

Tyrus simply looked at her, the dark eyes emotionless and cold. His grip was powerful, it seemed as though he could hold her like this for days, but as she twisted there, reaching for a hold, he still made no move to pull her to safety.

"Genna? Tyrus?" Stefan's voice, from somewhere on the rocks above.

"Here." Without any other words, Tyrus hauled Genna to the flat surface in a single, strong, motion. Trembling as the adrenalin finally rushed through her in a spasm, she curled against the cold, hard surface of the boulder.

"Genna!" Stefan dropped from the rock above them, crouched beside his pupil. "Genna, are you all right?"

"She very nearly fell," Tyrus said. That was all. But when Genna raised her face to look at her "rescuer," she saw there a dark, cool smile that made her shiver all the more.

Genna slashed forward with the saber, aiming at an opponent she could not clearly see through the mesh of the protective fencing mask. Blade met blade and she riposted, changing from attack to defense in a single turn of the wrist. Her opponent switched attacks, trying to cut faster than she could block. He was bigger, and stronger, but she had more stamina. Twelve hours of practice a week beat three every time. He dodged sideways and slashed at her chest. Genna arched her body sideways and parried, deflected what would have been a killing blow. Using the momentum of her dancer's turn, she brought her own blade around and delivered a killing slash across her opponent's shoulder. "Good touch," Robert said, pulling his face mask off. "For a girl, you're not too bad with a saber."

"Nicely done, Genna." Stefan was smiling, arms folded in a gesture Genna had learned was an expression of contentment. Unusual enough for him. "I may actually put you in for our first meet."

"You were going to bench me?" Genna pulled her face mask off and walked to the sidelines where he was watching. "Were you planning on telling me beforehand?"

"And risk having you take my head off with the nearest convenient rusty knife?" He grinned, a feral look. "I was thinking about scoping out the competition in your class first. I wanted to see what you'd be up against."

"Whatever it is, I can handle it. So long as they're not out for my head." Robert was watching the exchange with undisguised confusion, but by now most of the fencing team was accustomed to Stefan and Genna's seeming non sequiturs.

"Don't be too sure." Stefan would have said more, but the sudden warning sensation drew his attention to the stairs. Genna's saber moved to a defensive position.

"Just dropping by to watch. No need to point that thing at me." Tyrus smiled that cool smile that did nothing to reassure anyone. Genna lowered her blade anyway. He'd never try to kill them in front of witnesses.

"We have a meet coming up next weekend. Genna's going to be the only woman in the saber division. She's coming along quite well." Stefan tried to keep the pride out of his voice, but he couldn't. He saw the glow that gave Genna and decided that a little praise, once in while, probably wasn't a bad idea. The look on Tyrus's face, on the other hand, made him nervous. He hadn't lied when he'd told Genna they weren't going to fight--he sincerely had no desire to behead his old teacher, but he was greatly afraid it was going to come to that. Tyrus never did anything without a reason, and their last parting had not been on good terms. . . .

"Tyrus! What brings you out so late?" Stefan had known what brought the Englishman to the deserted riverfront walk along the Thames. Beside him, Anya Iylanova, lovely, black-haired Anya, lowered her eyes. This was to be their last night together before Stefan returned to Germany, now preparing for war against England and her native Russia.

Tyrus laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "Don't worry on that account, my darling," and he put a horrible bitter twist on the word. "It's your lover for whom you should fear." He leveled his blade at Stefan. "Are you ready?"

Tyrus was still standing over them, his sword dangling from his right hand. His face was now stark white, his eyes wide and horrified. Stefan stared bleakly up at him. "Well, what are you waiting for? Finish it!" The last words choked out as a sob. Tyrus did not lift the sword again. Instead, he staggered backwards and turned fleeing from them, never looking back. Stefan didn't have the energy to follow. He stayed there with Anya, rocking her in his arms, the tears slipping unashamedly down his face....

He shook himself. Genna was staring at him oddly. Tyrus's expression was unreadable, but something in the hooded gaze made him suspect Tyrus was thinking of the same thing. "That's quite impressive," the Templar said, eyeing the girl with new respect. "Do you still fence, Stefan? I recall that in Austria you were considered quite good."

They were starting to draw a crowd. The rest of the team had noticed their teacher's lack of attention and were starting to gather around to see what had distracted him. "I'd be a hell of a fencing teacher if I didn't." Tyrus was aiming at something, Stefan could tell even as he answered.

"Care to go a round or two?"

He hadn't been expecting that. At least, not in front of witnesses. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Genna's face go white. "Why not?" He managed to keep his voice steady. "A little practice never hurt." He watched the other Immortal for any sign that it was more than practice he was after and saw none.

Tyrus produced his own sword from beneath his coat, and Stefan heard the murmurs of surprise from the watching students. He went to get his own sword from his bag, and Genna took the opportunity to grab his arm. "Stefan, does he-"

"I don't think he's here for my head. He's bitter, not stupid." He swung the sword in a lazy arc, stretching a little. "But I wouldn't put it past him to 'accidentally' stab me to death, just so I'd have to explain myself."

Her eyes widened. "You don't think--"

"I don't know," he interrupted. For some reason, the fear in her dark eyes reminded him of Anya, and that he didn't need. "I'll just have to keep him from cutting me."

Tyrus was tapping his foot impatiently. "Are you quite ready, Stefan? No use delaying the inevitable."

"Right." He stepped into the fencing circle and the students backed off a few paces. Tyrus extended his blade and Stefan crossed it with his own. "Just for practice. See how you've improved." Tyrus smiled, but didn't reply. He dropped into an at-ready stance.

Genna was standing beside Brooke, a foil-fencer and her best friend. "Do you think this guy is as good as Stefan?" Brooke whispered. "Imagine having two of them around."

Genna shivered. "One's enough. Stefan, be careful!" Brooke shot her a suspicious glance, but Genna's eyes were on the fencers.

Stefan waited, letting Tyrus be the first to swing. He didn't wait long; the Templar slashed out, aiming for Stefan's neck. He parried easily. Tyrus was playing with him, but he was playing rough. He went on the offensive, making quick, tight slashes that forced Tyrus to focus his defense rather than making big cutting moves. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Genna's face, white and drawn. She sensed the danger---she was learning.

"Genna, stop it! You're going to put claw marks in my arm!" Brook flinched away from her friend's grip. "They're not going to kill each other."

"Are you sure about that?" Genna had seen Stefan fight--had fought him day after day, week after week, and she had thought him unbeatable. Now she could see Tyrus was clearly his match--or more. Her mentor was holding his own, but not much more than that. The cuts were definitely aimed in the direction of the neck, too, enough to worry her. Her breath caught in her throat as Stefan stumbled on the slick tile of the gym balcony and Tyrus, seizing the advantage, drove a slicing cut not down across his torso, as one might expect, but up, stopping with the point of his saber only a hair's breadth from Stefan's jugular. Genna had to choke back a scream, and her nails dug into Brooke's arm.

Stefan found himself staring directly into Tyrus's eyes. The dark, piercing orbs cut into him as surely as the saber would, and for one, horrible instant he was sure he was about to die. The dark eyes held him transfixed, and in their depths he saw the same anger and hatred that had burned there eighty years earlier, not diminished in the least. Then, slowly, Tyrus lowered the blade and offered his former pupil a hand. Stefan ignored it and rose to his feet. "You're as good as ever, Tyrus."

"I've survived this long." Tyrus considered the rejected hand and slowly clenched it into a fist.

Genna let out a shaky sigh and released her friend's arm. Brooke turned a skeptical eye on her. "What is wrong with you? They were just playing." Then her face softened and she smiled wolfishly. "I could have watched a lot longer."

"Remember what I said about Stefan being too old for you?" Genna asked. "That goes double for Tyrus."

"I never understood that," Brooke sighed. "I think you're just trying to keep the good ones to yourself." Genna was already hurrying to her instructor's side.

"Stefan, are you-"

"I'm fine," he cut her off quickly. Then, more gently, "I'm all right. We were only playing around." Tyrus was watching her too closely. Stefan could see the other man's eyes lingering on the young Immortal and he didn't like it. "It was a good match." He turned and looked at his students, pale and staring with a mixture of awe, admiration and a healthy dose of fear. "Keep practicing and you might someday be half as good as that. Now, I think you ought to get back to work. We're not done for another hour or so."

He knelt and began a careful examination of his blade, fingers searching for any nicks. Genna followed, keeping her eye on Tyrus. "Stefan, he was trying to kill you!"

"Quite possibly." He kept his eyes on his sword.

"And he was good. Maybe even better. . .well, better than-"

"Better than me?" Stefan smiled at her. "Possibly. But I'm faster. Don't worry, Herzchen. He won't kill me, and he won't be coming after you, either. Not if I have anything to say about it."

"You're the eight-hundred-year old," she sighed, and then her German classes caught up with her. "What did you call me?"

"Never mind." Suddenly he seemed very interested in the blade's edge. "Just stay out of his way. I'll take care of Tyrus." He looked over his shoulder to where the Templar was watching two of the girls working with the epee. "Or, he'll take care of me."

"What?" Genna tugged at his arm, but he turned his attention back to the sword and refused to say anything further.