From the world of Legacy: War of Ages by Black Cate Publishing

The feeling came over her all at once: small, tiny pricks of cold that began between her shoulder blades and climbed up the back of her neck. Others of her kind experienced it in other ways, but for Isabelle, the Foreboding had always felt like a spider of water and ice walking slowly up her back. And this spider felt pretty big.

"Belle?" came a voice off to her right. "Belle, you okay?" Isabeau d'Acre, now Isabelle Dacer, ignored the man standing beside her as she scanned the dusty street for the source of her premonition. He'd feel it soon enough, anyhow.

A small flatbed wagon rattled past, the firmer on its buckboard blissfully ignorant of the two Immortals standing just inside the doorway of Granger's Feed and Dry Goods. It was a dry, if not overly hot day in Mesilla and town natives, farmers, and range hands milled about in the fading glare of the late afternoon sun. Isabelle squinted as she looked from shade into sunlight, her head still as Moise had taught her.

Let your eyes do the looking, the moving, she heard his voice say across the centuries. It's harder for others to spot you if you don't let them know you feel the Foreboding. Let them give themselves away first.

Beside her, Jason gasped as he became aware of the other presence. Reflexively, he reached for his revolver with one hand as the other slipped towards the sword she knew hung inside his duster.

"No!" she whispered. "Whoever it is, he's good." He had to be, given the size of the spider Isabelle felt perched just inside her skull.

Damn, but this Immortal was old.

Then, suddenly, she found him. Across the open square, near the livery stable. He stood next to his horse, hat tipped back from. blond brows, head turning as he studied the busy street. He was dressed like a rancher, hand on a battered cavalry saber that hung from his saddle, but she knew him. Even behind the handlebar mustache and three day beard, she remembered that face.

"Damn!" she said as she grabbed Jason and dragged him back into the feed store.

"What ... ?11

"Shut up and move!" said Isabelle as she shoved the young Immortal before her. "Out the back. Now!"

Jason Rawlins opened his mouth to argue, shut it when he saw her take a long hickory axe handle from a barrel on their way towards the back of the store.

"Hey!" came a voice from behind them. "Hey, those ain't free!"

"On account," said Isabelle as she and Jason stepped out the rear door. A line of low adobe buildings faced them across a brief expanse of rutted ground. To their right and left, the backs of several other buildings, both wooden and brick, stretched off for a short distance, then stopped abruptly. Past them, the arroyos and mesas of the New Mexico Territory extended to the horizon. Little cover, too much ground, and no time to spare, she thought.

Isabelle guided Jason across the rough road and around a corner, stumbling all the way. She cursed long narrow skirts, heeled boots, leg-of-mutton sleeves, east coast fashions, and her inability to hide a sword in any of it.

"Hold up," said Isabelle as she stopped and leaned on the axe handle. Jason obeyed, but continued to dance from foot to foot, hand on his Colt.

"Who was that, Belle?"

"One of us." She bent down and began tearing her skirt along a side seam. When the split reached just above her knee, Isabelle reached beneath the skirt and drew the bowie knife she kept strapped along her thigh. She ignored Jason's wide eyed stare at her revealed leg as she straightened.

"Uh ... but why are we running?" he finally managed.

But Isabelle did not answer. It had been like this the first time she had seen that face, she remembered, ages ago. The heat, the fear, the mud-brick walls on every side. They had been running, too, but through crowds. Dust had choked her every breath, her throat so dry she could barely answer when Raynaud had asked in Old French:

"Isabeau? Are you all right?"

In answer, she had held up her own sword, nodded. Her voice had come out as a thin rasp, like sand against the city's walls. "I'm here," she had said.

They were in Acre, the last Christian stronghold in the Holy Land, and the Mamelukes were battering at the walls even as they spoke. She was disguised as a young boy in leggings, a loose coat, and soft cap. It was 1291.

Raynaud gathered his charge beneath his cloak and drew her into the shelter of an arched doorway. People filled the narrow streets, screaming, praying, looting. They all seemed to be headed for the harbor.

"It won't be long now," Raynaud said. "Today, probably tonight at the latest, and the city will fal]."

Isabeau watched the masses washing by in the street, felt the undercurrent of terror that ran there. She remembered the stories about the atrocities committed by the Mamelukes at Jaffa and Ascelon: entire cities wiped out, not always quickly. And now, Acre was falling too.

She felt a pressure against her, looked up into Raynaud's face as he held her closer.

"I know, little one," he said. "It is always hardest to see your first home fall to the march of history." The knight's eyes softened, but only for an instant. As Raynaud's hand fell away from her shoulder, a hardness entered his eyes, and she felt the coldness on her back: another Immortal. Here. Now. The Foreboding.

Isabeau scanned the street, the alleys, the roofs, and saw him first. He was leaning casually against the remains of a fruit-seller's shop down the street, seemingly unaware of the river of bodies that flowed between them. His blond hair and fair eyes looked strange above flowing caftan he wore, out of place even in a land where Frank and German had been known to don the infidel's robes from time to time. Isabeau felt it at once: he was ancient. But there was more something almost unwholesome about his presence, his Foreboding. She would later come to realize it was his insanity she felt.

The Immortal favored her with a slight grin, then turned his attention to Raynaud.

"A knight, Gaisric?" he shouted over the noise. "Since when does a Goth take the cross?"

Raynaud took half a step out of the doorway, and Isabeau saw fear and rage cross the knight's face. "Caligula," he said. "False godling! Kin slayer!"

"You aren't still mad about my killing your whole tribe, are you, Gaisric? That was cen, turies ago!" And a twisted smile crossed his face.

Raynaud practically howled, "Bastard!"

The blond Immortal laughed as he drew a scimitar and began absently cutting his way through the crowd. Arab and Christian fell screaming in the street as Caligula came towards them, his grin never failing. After five paces, the Immortal's caftan was a study in gore from waist to hem. Isabeau felt her stomach chum, tasted bile, but could not took away.

Raynaud drew his sword with one hand, his old Frankish axe with the other, and stepped fully into the street. He gestured at the fleeing people. "Leave them out of this, damn you! They've no part in it!"

The scimitar stopped against a woman's throat. "You promise not to run this time, Goth?"

Isabeau saw Raynaud's shoulders tense. "I swear."

The other Immortal's face went slack. "Good." He let the woman go and she bolted away. By now, the street was nearly empty. Raynaud and the other Immortal watched one another warily, but Isabeau saw only the corpses. She fell to her knees and emptied her stomach onto the street. Caligula began laughing.

"Still spending time with fledglings, I see, Gaisric."

Raynaud ignored the jibe, spoke to her without turning. "Run to the docks, girl. I'll be along if I can."

Isabeau blinked once, releasing a tear in the process. "No."

"Go. You can't interfere and he'll only end up killing you. He and I have had this coming for a while."

Isabeau shook her head, whispered, "No." Raynaud held his sword out towards Caligula, who nodded. The knight turned, bent down before her.

"Isabeau," he began, and his eyes met hers. Raynaud's eyes were the color of old leather, of sun-dried earth, and it felt as if they were digging into all the secret places of her self. She stared back hard, trying to hide the terror she felt welling up inside. He held her gaze for a long instant, then grunted.

"Very well," he said. "But you must promise me something." His voice was quiet, pitched just for the two of them.

"What?'

"Caligula is mad, but he is also strong. Promise me you will not try to avenge me if I fall."

Isabeau looked past Raynaud, saw Caligula staring directly at her. She felt her mouth go dry, then forced her eyes back to Raynaud.

"I promise," she said, hating herself even as she said it. "But only for now." And Raynaud had nodded once, rose, and walked calmly to his death. The next fifteen minutes had been the longest in Isabeau's life, watching Raynaud slowly give way to the Roman until the knight finally fell, his body a mass of ugly wounds. Isabeau had run then, but not before she saw Caligula take Raynaud's head, triumph lighting the Roman's mad eyes. Tears had filled her eyes in Acre, but there were no tears now.

"Belle, what are we doing?" repeated Jason.

Isabelle blinked the memory away, brought herself back to New Mexico.

"Keeping a promise," she said. "Now, let's-"

The spider suddenly came back, strong as all hell. At the same moment, she heard the crunch of brittle earth beneath a boot. There, beyond Jason, just around the corner.

So much for promises.

She was past Jason and catching a sword stroke on the axe handle before the young Immortal had time to protest. The impact of steel on seasoned wood reverberated up the length of her arm, but Isabelle kept shaken fingers around the haft even as her other hand lashed out with the bowie. The attacker twisted away, and Isabelle swung the hickory handle in a wide backwards arc, bringing the tip forward and up, aiming for his throat. It was then she saw his face, just before he slipped inside and put his fist to her jaw.

"Hold it!" she heard Jason yell as she hit the ground. The click of the hammer on his hogleg being pulled back ended any arguments.

"How many times have I told you not to get fancy, Isa?"

Isabelle looked up into the dark eyes and bright smile of Moise Carvahel and sighed.

"Damn your unbelieving hide, Moise, where the hell have you been?"

The Immortal shrugged. "I just got into town." His voice was heavy with the Spanish accent she remembered so well, and Isabelle felt a shiver run through her at the sound of it. He must have been down to Old Mexico recently. Somehow, she doubted she would ever get over him.

Moise looked past Isabelle and his smile turned patronizing. "And this is ... ?"

Isabelle glanced behind her, frowned. "Someone who should know better than to interfere in combat between our kind."

Jason lowered his pistol. "But Belle, he would've -"

"Killed you after he was done with me, thanks to your interruption." She held out a hand and Moise helped her up. "Damn it, Jason, I told you about that: never interfere in a duel. Combat is a private matter for us. No one ever steps in. If you help someone else, sooner or later you'll find yourself out- numbered in turn."

The young Missourian scowled and put his Colt away. "Even if a friend's gonna die?"

Isabelle bit down on her lip, barely sealed in her shout. Don't you dare accuse me of Raynaud's death, damn you!

Her voice low, she said, "Even then."

"It was proclaimed so, long ago in Jerusalem," added Moise, "when Immortal cut down Immortal even as Rome butchered my people in the streets."

Jason stared. "You're a Jew?"

Moise bowed slightly. "My apologies for leaving my horns at home today, but yes, I am a child of Abraham."

The Missourian looked back to Isabelle. "I ain't going with no Jew, Belle."

Isabelle sighed. "Shut up, Jason. We have bigger troubles right now."

Moise raised an eyebrow beneath his hat.

"Caligula's here," she said.

"You can't kill him, you know."

"Why the hell not?"

Isabelle sat against a log, absently digging a furrow into the sandy earth with her sword. Beside her, Moise tossed a small twig into the fire, watched it burn before responding. On the other side of the blaze, Jason stared out pointedly into the night. He was still young enough to hate to run, Isabelle knew, and to hate her for making him do it.

They had stayed in Mesilla long enough for Isabelle to return to the room at the boarding house to gather her and Jason's things. Inside, she had found an old, well cared for Frankish axe lying on her bed, a piece of folded paper beneath it. The paper had held several words: Calvin Augusta, Imperial Ranch, New Mexico Territory.

Isabelle had taken the axe, her sword, a change of clothes, and Jason's saddlebags. The rest stayed behind; either she could get it later, or would never need it again. Then the three of them had ridden out into the brush and grassland, southeast towards La Mesa and Old Mexico.

Moise took a sip of coffee, continued. "Well, aside from the promise to that Hospitaller you told me about, there's the matter of Caligula himself. Crazy or not, he's been around for over eighteen hundred years now, Isa. You just don't walk up to an ex- Roman emperor and cut him down."

"Sounds like a good plan to me."

"Good enough to get you killed. Do you know why no one's killed him yet? Not because he's that good, but because no one wants to chance his Legacy. He's older than you and I combined, Isa; what do you think will happen when you take his head and the Rapture overcomes you?"

She had heard the same argument before. When one Immortal killed another, a portion of the slain Immortal's being - call it memories, call it soul, call it karma - passed into the slayer, and for a brief, singular instant, the two foes became one. Isabelle had felt the Rapture before, had experienced the unity of not only one soul with another, but with the whole of eternity that the Rapture encompassed. And always afterwards, she had found a fraction of that slain Immortal still within her. With all the others, though, they had been roughly her age or younger. But Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus: he would be the eldest Immortal she had ever tried to slay.

"I won't go insane," she said, sounding more confident than she felt.

Moise stared at her, hard. "Can you be sure? He might just overwhelm you."

Isabelle swore and drove her long sword into the dirt. "Damn it, Moise, what do you want me to do? He's rubbing Raynaud's death in my face! I walked away in Acre and I walked away in Lombardy - I'm not walking away here."

Moise leapt to his feet, an it seemed to Isabelle that the fire cast a devil's mask over his face.

"Walked away? I walked away when I was driven out of Spain, walked away when Jews were forced out of every decent city in Europe. I had to turn to your Infidels to be welcomed, then had to pretend to be Catholic when I returned. I don't like walking any more than you do, but sometimes it has to be done!"

"Like hell it does."

They both stopped. Across the fire, Jason had turned, stood.

"Walking is just plain cowardly," he said, staring straight at Isabelle. "You face a person down, no matter what."

"Oh Jesu!" More of that damn American heroism. She hated it. "You're not coming with me, Jason. I told you that before. Moise is going to train you: I don't have the time." Or the ability, she reminded herself. Moise was one of those Immortals who spent what seemed like most of his time training for combat and hardly any time living. While Isabelle had long ago decided she would never understand such a one-dimensional approach to life, she nevertheless accepted its limited value. Moise would teach Jason combat and she would reclaim the boy later to teach him about the world. "And you're not going to be there when I settle with Caligula", she concluded.

"She's right," said Moise. "But she's not taking him on, so it doesn't matter."

"Now hold on!" Jason stepped through the fire, ignoring the flames that licked his legs. "I can handle myself when it-"

"ENOUGH!" Isabelle got to her feet in the stunned silence and took up her sword. She pointed it at Moise. "I asked you to come here to take Jason and help him, like you did me. If I'd known Caligula was going to be here, I'd have left word to meet some place else, but we found out together. Now let me handle it my way."

Moise Carvahel of Valencia let his scowl slowly soften, but failed to turn it into a smile. He did manage a deep bow, however. "Madame, in the end, I always listen to my elders."

Isabelle snorted and turned the point of her blade to Jason. He stood, arms crossed, defiant. Just like the first time she had seen him, gunslinging in Kansas.

"And you - I found you trying to build a reputation when you discovered you couldn't die. Stupid. You're lucky Butch Cassidy didn't ride down from Colorado and take your head just for being a fool." Actually, she reflected, Cassidy and Sundance had nearly wanted to take hers for defending the boy. It had taken some fast talking and several favors to placate the two, that was sure. "You're going with Moise, and I don't care if you don't like Jews, Catholics, Buddhists, or Shamans, with him you go."

"And if I won't?" Isabelle saw Moise wince even as the flat of her blade connected with Jason's temple. The boy fell like a piece of lumber. Isabelle stepped forward, put her sword on his gun before his hand could reach it.

"Then," she said, "I get angry."

Isabelle awoke groggy and ill-tempered the next morning. She had had nightmares.

She had been a Plague Doctor again in Abruzzi in 1433, only this time she hadn't gotten out of the city before Caligula found her. Instead, he had dragged her back to the plague district and sat himself down on a battered throne. There, in a foul smelling piazza, she had been chained to the slimy cobbles and forced to watch as he held his twisted court of the damned. Caligula's diseased subjects had praised his false prophesies and blasphemous blessings, crying to him for salvation even as they expired and rotted before her eyes, Then, suddenly, Caligula was standing above her, a lop-sided grin on his face.

"Bad news, I'm afraid," he had said. "Turns out you can get the plague, so I think I'll just watch you rot and rot, but never die."

Now, with the burn of true daylight in her eyes, Isabelle turned her mind to the future. Breakfast was brief and silent, and Isabelle was on her horse within half an hour after rising. She looked down at the two men, offered up a weak smile.

"You're sure you want to do this today?" asked Moise. Jason was still stewing over the previous evening and said nothing.

Isabelle nodded. "I have to start sometime. Besides, I know you won't try to come after me for at least a day."

"And why is that?"

"It's the Sabbath: you can't travel or do business today."

Moise rolled his head back and laughed. "My own fault for being devout. Be careful, Isabeau d'Acre."

"Go with God, Moise Carvahel." She held out an open hand towards the other man.

"Peace to you, Jason Rawlins. May we meet at the final battle."

Jason said nothing, merely inclining his head. So be it, she thought. Isabelle wondered if she had been as dense when she first discovered her immortality. Probably.

They had only gone a half day out of Mesilla, so the ride back was quick and uneventful. Isabelle drifted to and from the Holy Land in the solitude and caught herself switching unconsciously to side-saddle sever- al times. She wondered briefly how the Crusaders would have fared in dusters and Jenim, with Winchesters in their hands. All things being equal, she decided, we still would have lost.

She rode through Mesilla, pausing long 2nough to stop at the land claims office and fiscover the location of the Imperial Ranch, :hen pressed on to Las Cruces. In the distance, a railroad whistle signaled the impending arrival of the train from Albuquerque headed south towards El Paso. Isabelle listened to the whistle as she dismounted in front of the local saloon, recalling Cugnot's experimental steam road carriage in 1769. She smiled, imagining what his expression would be if he could see the mighty iron beasts of today. Out of habit, she pulled the Winchester rifle down from her saddle to keep it from being stolen.

As her hand lifted to the saloon door and her mind turned towards the sandwich board that would be within, a small, cold leg pricked tenuously at the skin between her shoulders. The rumbling in her stomach stopped abruptly, and Isabelle knew there was more than roast beef, beer, and mortals beyond that door. Her grip tightened on the Winchester but stayed away from the sword inside her longcoat. Too many people around, even for him.

He had already sensed her, was staring at door when she came in. Caligula raised his glass, downed the whiskey in one smooth motion, and turned his back on her It was then she felt a small, hot spark flare inside her, challenging the spider on her neck.

Isabelle turned and walked out. Damned if she'd play his game this time.

When he came out of the saloon she was already down the street, reading the announcements on the post office door. From the corner of her eye, Isabelle watched him come, hands in the open, his step lazy. He paused beside her, and the spider gave one last freezing burst before fading to a dull sensation in her head.

"Walk with me," said Caligula.

Isabelle turned to meet his bright blue eyes, surprised at how young they looked. "Only until we're alone. Then..."

The Roman chuckled. "Ah, so melodramatic! Good, good ... I like that. Makes it more entertaining." He gestured, and they began moving back towards the saloon again. "Not like Gaisric, no. He was a complete boor. Arianist, you know. Actually, I'm surprised a devout girl like yourself could stand being around a heretic of his-"

Caligula broke off to look down at the barrel of the Winchester that had been shoved against his ribs.

"One more word about him," said Isabelle, "and I drop you here, witnesses or no."

He smiled. "All, but it won't kill me, you know. I'm on a voyage: nothing can truly harm me."

"No, but it'll shut you up, and right now, that's good enough." Caligula shrugged, twisted his mustache once, and walked on. As they gathered up her horse and continued on to collect his from the livery stable, Isabelle found herself staring at the Immortal beside her. Eighteen hundred years old! Three times her life span so far, and she could hardly comprehend all the things she had seen and done. What must it be like for him? If he had gone insane during that time she might have been able to understand it, but by all accounts, Caligula had been mad before he discovered his immortality. Some kind of cruel joke of fate? Two millennia of insanity, in one neat, undying package?

Not mad enough to be bested in all that time, though, she reminded herself. He was twisted, vindictive, and megalomaniacal, but he was also still alive.

They saddled up and left town in silence, Isabelle still studying her foe, he seemingly studying the clouds. By the edge of town, it had begun to bother her; by the time they were over the first low hill, she had to ask.

"Why are you using that?"

"What?"

"A cavalry saber."

"Why not? It does an admirable job."

"But..." She opened her coat to reveal her own blade, a Crusader long sword in a carefully oiled scabbard. "But everyone I've met uses a blade from, well, their original..."

"Life-period?"

"Yes."

Caligula laughed. "Oh, I still have my old gladius, dear girl. Even use it on occasion. But I've always liked a challenge, so I switch around a bit. Do you know how I decide?" Isabelle shook her head. He smiled. "I simply use whatever my last victim used against me! Then, when I kill again, I add the old blade to my collection at the ranch. Charming, don't you think?"

Isabelle looked away from the gleeful smile. "Trophies," she said. "I'm surprised you didn't mount the heads, too."

"They didn't keep well early on."

Isabelle snarled and reined in her horse. "Far enough," she said, sliding from its back. They were in a range of low foothills now, far enough away from town to not worry about interruptions. The sky was clear, blue, and big, with only a few clouds on the horizon. With the mountains at her back, Isabelle decided it was a pretty place for either vengeance or death. She recited a quick prayer as Caligula climbed down from his own MOUnt, crossed herself, and decided against asking him to hear her confession. He'd probably just laugh, anyhow.

The former Roman emperor tossed his hat to one side, drew his saber, and stretched. "Say hello to Gaisric for me, dear," he said, and lunged.

Isabelle parried the thrust, riposted in turn, and back-pedaled away just in time to avoid a slash at her abdomen. She shifted to a twohanded grip as Caligula began humming. He beat her blade once, twice, three times, then pressed. Head, arm, body, legs - it was a classic series of attacks and she parried them with ease. As he brought his tip on line with her eyes again, Isabelle swung her own blade up towards his head, followed through with his parry into a figure eight, and saw the edge of her sword heading straight for his side. In theory, his saber should have been forced to ride along the top of her own blade, but for some reason, it wasn't there. Instead, it was coming right at her throat.

Isabelle collapsed her back leg and rolled. She saw the saber slide above her as she fell felt a boot catch her in the thigh hard enoui to numb the entire leg.

As she scrambled to her feet, Caligula took a step back and waited. Waited! Isabelle felt her face flush with rage. The arrogant ... how dare he!

She stamped her leg once, twice, and feeling started to return to it. Backing away, she adopted a false limp to throw Caligula off, switched to a single-hand grip, and mentally cursed herself. She had left Raynaud's axe in her saddlebags. So much for poetic justice.

Caligula closed again, his blade weaving and thrusting faster than she could parry. A cut appeared along her sword arm, another on her shoulder, then a slash inside her leg. Isabelle found herself giving ground she desperately wanted to keep, leaving openings she thought were closed. And though it all, Caligula kept humming.

She used every technique she knew: every feint, every cut and thrust combination, all the distractions, even the lay of the ground, but her sword never seemed to be able to get past Caligula's defense and wipe that damn smile off his face. Her lessons with Raynaud, and later Moise, came back to her, but the drills and practices somehow weren't enough. She was good, she knew that, but Caligula was better. He knew all the moves, all the feints, all the ... tricks? No, no tricks!

Isabelle parried another slash, dropped to one knee, and stop-thrusted. A simple, basic move. To her surprise, she felt her blade meet flesh, saw her sword enter Caligula's stomach. He dropped to a knee as well, but began rising even as she drew her blade out. His face became a twisted, frightful thing, and Isabelle took a step away despite herself.

"Pray to me, child," he said as the flow of blood slowed, stopped. "Your death shall bring me closer to god-head. Be glad."

He moved. There was a clash of steel Isabelle could not follow, and suddenly her hand was empty, her sword sailing into an arroyo. Isabelle ran. Caligula began to sing.

She made it her horse, reached for the saddle bags, stopped.

No.

Why not?

As Caligula walked towards her, opera spilling from his mouth, saber raised for the kill, Isabelle Dacer, formerly Isabeau d'Acre, turned and fired five rounds into him from her Winchester. Caligula fell, a startled look on his face. It became even more so when Isabelle bent down and quickly tied his hands and feet.

"No courage?" he asked through the blood in his mouth.

"No chances," she replied.

Isabelle stood up from tying the last rope to the rail and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Beneath her, Caligula stared up with contempt.

"Gutless bitch!"

Isabelle ignored him, instead making a production of shading her eyes and looking down the tracks towards Las Cruces. A thin line of smoke was becoming visible in the distance.

"Ought to be along any time now," she said conversationally.

Caligula spit at her, missed. "It won't kill me. You know that as well as I. Running me over with a train will only make it worse for you when I recover."

Isabelle grunted. "I suppose, except I don't think you'll be getting up from this one, Gaius."

"Oh?"

"No. See, that's the problem with 'you really old ones - you don't appreciate technology. And I think it's a man-thing, too. Women accept change more easily." She crouched down, tapped the rail beneath Caligula's neck with her bowie knife. "You're right when you think I don't want to behead you. Hell, no one wants to dirty their minds with your Legacy: it's probably what's saved your life more than once. But that doesn't mean I don't want to kill you."

"Seems you have a problem then."

Isabelle smiled. "Not really." She looked down the tracks again, saw the smoke getting closer. "Way I see it, sword or train wheels, doesn't really matter, as long as you lose your head. I'll just let the Southern Pacific have the honors."

Caligula turned pate for a moment, then began to giggle. Isabelle frowned. "What?"

"All your careful thought, and you forgot one basic thing!"

"What's that?"

"I'm destined to be God, of course!"

Isabelle snorted and turned away. As she walked back to her vantage point on a near by hill, she could hear the whistle of the train in the distance. Funny, she thought, it didn't remind her of Cugnot anymore. Instead, it just sounded like a lonely, vain cry in the wilderness.

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