This story contains explicit scenes of sex between consenting adults.  If you are under age or don't care for this, LEAVE NOW.  As usual, characters from Highlander:  the Series belong to Davis-Panzer et alia ; I only play with them from time to time without any compensation.  No harm; no foul; no profit.  Anyone or anything new, however, is mine (left-overs again).  Beta-read by Kathy.  Thank you, merci beaucoup, tapadh leat, gracias, danke, grazie, spazebo, arigato.   This is an excerpt from Nor Even Death Divide.  Any errors are mine alone.

Seacouver: February 1996, following “Something Wicked”

I t was near midnight, her mountaintop home quiet when Rowan raised her head from her book.  Still a new experience to her, the sensation of another Immortal’s approach was startling. It’ll take months — years, she thought, to get used to this.  Wary, she pulled on a robe and slipped to the front door, sword in hand, Macleod’s instructions still echoing in her mind:  “Keep your sword with you.  Make it part of you.”   Standing at the threshold she looked through the narrow glass in the door.  The yellow glow from the porch light spread part way across the lawn, and when Richie stepped into the light she relaxed and set her sword aside, then opened the door as soon as he reached the top step.  Everything about him screamed something was wrong.

“What’s the matter?” she asked as he entered.  He was pale, and his hands shook as he pulled off his gloves, dropping them into his helmet.  His jacket hung open and Rowan could see a bloody-edged slash across his tee-shirt, the wound beneath it already healed.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he said.  His breathing was rapid as though he had run up the mountain from the city instead of riding the motorcycle now parked at the foot of the driveway.  Rowan closed the door behind him, took his helmet and set it on a chair.

“Sit down,” she ordered, and he complied, sitting on the edge of the sofa.  He propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.  Without asking she went to the bar and poured two generous portions of whisky.  She held one just in front of his hands.  “Here.”

He lifted his head to look at her and for the first time she saw the pain and fear — near panic — in his eyes.  She put the glass in his hands.  “Drink it.”  Again he complied with her command, swallowed the whisky and coughed, not accustomed to its potency.  He relaxed visibly as the alcohol began to affect him, and she sat next to him, pulling her feet up under her.

Richie took a deep breath and another swallow of whisky.  He shifted position so he could look at her and noticed she was ready for bed, wearing only a brocaded robe over a long silk nightgown.  Her auburn hair hung loose, still damp from washing, and soft-soled slippers covered her feet.  “Did I wake you up?”

“No — now, what’s the matter?” she asked again.  She looked closer into his eyes, trying to force her ability to read memories, but couldn’t get past the fear that lingered behind the blue eyes.

“Mac — he — ” he began.  It was difficult to go on, and he gulped his drink again.

“Did something happen to Duncan?”  He couldn’t be dead, she told herself.  She would know, she thought, if he had lost his head.

“Yeah, I’ll say.  He whacked one too many bad guys.”  There was more than a bit of aggression in his voice, a hardness born of fear.

“What?”

“It’s called a Dark Quickening.”  He drank once more, draining the glass, and set it down on the coffee table.  “He tried to take my head.”

Rowan inhaled audibly and closed her eyes, the vision of Macleod kneeling beside Richie’s headless body vivid in her mind’s eye again.

“Joe stopped him.”  The words slurred a bit, the double measure of whisky affecting him momentarily.

She opened her eyes but didn’t focus, looking far away, seeing beyond the room, beyond the house, beyond the present time.  She reached out, trying to reach the bond that yet connected her with the Highlander, but although she still felt it, she couldn’t quite grasp it with her mind.  She kept reaching out, visualizing a shining cord stretching between them, but though it touched them both it was forever inches from her mental fingertips no matter how hard she tried.

“Rowan?”  Richie touched her lightly on the shoulder.  “Rowan, are you all right?”

With a deep breath she brought her eyes back into focus and her awareness back to the present, back to the physical, and she nodded an answer to Richie’s question, but then shook her head.

“I can’t reach him.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a connection between us.  Psychic, I guess you’d call it.  Different from what we can feel as Immortals,” she tried to explain.  “I can tell he’s alive — but that’s all.”  Lifting her glass silently she uncharacteristically tossed the whisky back into her throat, swallowing it with a shudder that shook her entire body.  She took a deep breath held it a moment, then exhaled before speaking again.  “Tell me what happened.”

Richie started at the beginning, the phone call from Jim Coltec, Macleod’s story of their first meeting, Coltec’s odd behavior and finally Macleod’s attack.
 
 

Earlier that evening.

H e was alone in the dojo, going through another of the seemingly endless sword drills Macleod had taught him.  Back and forth he paced, his left hand guarding his face,  tracing figure-eights with his sword at arm’s length in his right.  He was at the far end of the room when he felt the familiar sensation of an Immortal’s approach, and he turned to see Macleod enter.  There was something different about the Highlander, something feral in his eyes.

“You okay?” Richie asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”  His voice was distant, as though it were coming from far away instead of the man who stood in the doorway.

“I was getting a little worried about you.”  They slowly walked towards each other, Richie’s training shoes soundless while Macleod’s boots made echoing footsteps on the wooden floor.

“You were?  Why?”  Richie had heard Macleod’s accent change before, but this voice was different in some other, inexplicable way.

“Well, you found Coltec.”

“Yeah, I found him.”

Halfway across the floor, Richie stopped.  “I know how much you liked the guy.  I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.”  There was a question in Macleod’s voice.

“Yeah, well, you did what you had to do, but I know how much you hated it.”  It was hard enough to take an enemy’s head, Richie knew; he could only imagine taking a friend’s.

“Hated it?  You’re wrong.”  Standing just a few feet away from Richie, he pulled his coat off and drew his sword in one movement, slashing backhanded at Richie’s chest, drawing blood, before the coat fell to the floor.

Stunned, Richie backed away, his left hand over the wound.

“I loved it.”

Still backing away he asked, “What’re you doing, Mac?”

“You’re a smart little boy, you figure it out.”  Suddenly the Highlander lashed out with his sword, steel clashing upon steel as Richie defended himself.  They circled around each other, Richie backing away, trying not to attack, only to defend, while Macleod was the predator, arrogantly twirling his blade between strikes.  He slashed next at Richie’s right thigh, turning away from the strike like a matador, ancient steel in his hand instead of a cape.

Limping, Richie continued to circle away from Macleod.  “Whatever happened, Mac, we can work it out.”

“Sorry, wrong number.”  The taunt struck as sharply as Macleod’s sword, cutting even more deeply.

Richie knew then that he had to do more than just defend himself; he would have to try to beat Macleod, to kill him.  He struck out, forcing Macleod into a more secure two-handed grip, but the katana sliced through the air and across Richie’s right arm, just above the biceps.

The cut itself didn’t hurt; the katana was much too sharp.  It was the air on the wound that brought the pain, the seeping blood that sapped his strength.  He knew he was healing; the bleeding already stopped from the first slash, his leg strong once again.  But it was Macleod’s bow that angered the boy, that brought him out of the pain, his sword singing in the air.  He pushed Macleod back, but his attack was turned away and soon it was he who was retreating, not fast enough to avoid a killing blow to his belly, sending the young Immortal to his knees.  As he sank to the floor, Macleod grasped his head, cradled it against his chest and kissed Richie’s hair, then spun away, deepening the wound.  He struck at Richie’s sword, sending it spinning, sliding across the wooden floor.

Macleod lifted Richie’s chin with the back edge of the katana, then circled behind him, the blade sliding across his throat, the cold steel against his neck sending a shiver down his spine.

“Just tell me why,” Richie gasped as he felt his strength fade, the wound deep enough to kill.  “The teacher kills the pupil?  Is that what this is all about?  Is it because there can be only One?  Is that it?”  He wanted to know; he had to understand why Macleod had turned on him.

“Hahahaha.  That’s as good a reason as any.”

Richie closed his eyes, a silent prayer learned as a child in his mind, as Macleod raised his sword for the final blow, a blow the young man had seen delivered before, that he himself had dealt.  He heard the whistle of the blade as it rose, then three shots in  quick succession, throwing Macleod onto his back several feet away, still gripping his sword.  As he tried to rise another shot echoed and the Highlander lay prone and spread-eagle on the floor.  Richie turned to see Joe Dawson standing in the doorway, cane in his left hand, smoking gun in his right.

“Kill him,” Macleod grunted with his last breath before he lost consciousness, the sword clattering to the floor.

As Richie retrieved his own sword, he could hear Dawson crossing the floor.  The wound to his abdomen was still bleeding, still painful, but he needed to have his sword in hand, needed to be armed.  He stayed on his knees, feeling the wounds heal, the bleeding stop.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.”  Stronger already, he struggled to his feet.  “Ah, Joe, what the hell?  He tried to kill me.”

“Just get out of here.”  Dawson’s voice was harsh, commanding.  He held the gun unswervingly on the still lifeless Macleod.

“You saw what he did.  Joe, we have to help him.”

“Richie, don’t you get it?  This is not Macleod.  Not the one we knew.  This man is not your friend.”  The Watcher didn’t take his eyes from the unmoving body on the floor.

“Ah, Joe?”

“Please, go.”  He repeated the command as a request.  “Please?”

“Okay.”  He still kept one arm against his abdomen, holding the edges of the wound together until it healed completely.

“Please,” Dawson begged.

“Dammit.”  With one last look at his mentor, his best friend, the nearest thing to a father he’d ever known, Richie turned and trotted toward the door.  The exertion overtaxed his still recovering body, and he was forced to slow to a walk before he reached the exit. He didn’t look back again.
 
 

“I know it wasn’t really him,” the young man explained.  “But you can’t think about that when somebody’s trying to take your head.”  He slipped off his jacket and picked at the cut across his shirt.  Had he been mortal the wound would have been fatal, an eviscerating slash, but it had quickly healed without a trace.  There was another, shorter cut through the shirt near the shoulder, and a faded welt across his upper right arm.  She hadn’t noticed the cut across his right pants leg, but now that she knew where to look she could see it as well.

“So Joe stopped him.”  Rowan pushed the images from her mind and swallowed against the horror  Macleod’s actions brought.

Richie nodded, still shaken from the retelling of his ordeal.  He stood up and took his empty glass to the bar.  “I don’t know what else happened.  Another?”  When she nodded he brought the bottle back to the sofa and poured for both of them, then set the bottle down within reach.  More relaxed now, he sat back into the cushions and stretched his head back.

“I just don’t know, Rowan.  This is the second time he’s almost killed me.”

Rowan heard a hard edge growing in Richie’s voice, his fear changing to anger.  “Second?” she asked.  There was so much about both Macleod and Richie she didn’t yet know, even recent events never mentioned to her, at first to keep the secret of her  Immortality and since out of long habits of secrecy.

“Last year Mac went  a little crazy.  He thought he was fighting someone else.”  He shook his head slowly.  “I don’t know if I can forgive him this time.”  He sat forward again and slammed one fist into his other hand.  “Dammit, I’ve trusted him with my life!”  The anger built, drawing into itself as fuel every argument over the last three years, every disagreement suddenly of major importance, all the good times overshadowed by the few bad times.  Suddenly Macleod’s sometimes patronizing attitude wasn’t caring but dominating, controlling.  “You know, I was killed the first time trying to protect #his# woman.”  Bitterness crept into his voice as the anger matured.

“Let it go, Richie.”  Her voice was low-pitched, calm and quiet, with a tinge of command that he ignored.

“No.  Not this time.  I can’t give him another chance.  Ever.”  Intense, his voice nearly broke, and she could hear the tears he could not or would not cry.

The silence stretched for several moments.  Though he didn’t say a word, Rowan felt anger pour from Richie like a heat from a blast furnace.  It threatened to carry her along, to consume her in the crucible of his fear and betrayal.  She pulled herself out of the current like a swimmer coming up for air, reaching for a hand to grasp, to pull her from the tide.  The tide of anger parted around her as she rose above the storm and finally she was safe.  Her battle against the maelstrom took but a second in reality and to Richie’s eyes she only closed her eyes briefly.

“Richie?”  Her voice was cautionary.

“Rowan, I can’t.  Don’t ask me to.”

“Okay,” she agreed.  “Hold on to the anger if you must.” For now, she thought, her idea almost audible in the silence.

They sat in the quiet for a moment, neither of them keeping track of the time.  As his ears became accustomed to the silence, he could hear the faint sounds of music from the back of the house.  He was blind for not seeing it before.  “You were expecting him tonight.”  He didn’t question the situation, assuming things were as they had been for months, as he believed they would be forever.

“No, not exactly.”  She leaned forward, elbows on her knees.  Her voice was distant, her mind trying again to reach out to Macleod, again unable to grasp the tenuous connection between them.  She felt tears sting her eyes, and she blinked them back, determined to weather the changes in their relationship.  “Hope would be a better word,” she whispered half to herself.

“Did you two have another fight?”  His voice softened some but the hardness of anger was still at its core.  He remembered their last estrangement, following a disagreement over Rowan’s latent Immortality, and the question of whether she herself should end her mortal life in order to bring it on.  The though of Macleod hurting Rowan too only fueled his anger.

“You don’t know?”  She wiped her eyes before she looked at Richie again.  “That’s right, you were away last week.”

He nodded.  “Down in Medford, racing,” he reminded her.  “What happened?”  He watched her wipe away the tears, and he felt compelled to protect her, to punish whoever had hurt her.  He touched her shoulder, trying to comfort, to support, wanting to wipe the tears away himself, to be sure she never cried again.

She sat back, pulling away from him.  “I took a head.”

“Oh.”  Memories flooded his mind; the awesome decisions that he had to make when he took his first head — Mako — and the consequences; the terrible devastation he’d felt when Macleod turned his back on him, sending him on an odyssey of his own design.  He understood now why he had had to leave, just as any student must eventually leave his teacher and face the world, as every son must leave his father.  Though they’d both often denied it, Richie knew there was more than a bit of father and son in his relationship with Macleod.  He knew too that even lovers bound as intensely as Macleod and Rowan would be affected by the complex changes a first Quickening caused.  He sat and waited for her to go on, knowing she would tell him when she was ready, and not before.

“Last week,” she explained.  “I was teaching my night class, and Duncan was supposed to meet me for a late supper and — ”  No word was necessary, euphemism or not; Richie knew what she meant.  “And…”  She paused while he nodded.  “I felt one of Us when I came out of the building.  I assumed it was Duncan.”

“Big mistake?” he guessed.

“Big mistake,” she agreed.  “It could have cost me my head.”

He was quiet, waiting for her to go on.

“Charles Beckworth.  I’ll never forget that name.”  The memories came back, and she felt the adrenalin surge through her body just from remembering.  “He was waiting for me,” she went on, “and caught me off guard.”  She drank from her glass, this time just a swallow.

“You fought?” Richie prompted.

“We fought.”  She smiled, remembering Beckworth’s fatal error.  “He didn’t expect someone who knew how to use a sword.”
 
 

Seacouver University: 10 days earlier.

T he world spun around her as she left the Liberal Arts building, stepping into the cold light of the arc lamps overhead.  “Duncan?” she called, looking around.  There was a man dressed in dark clothes standing at the base of the overhead light, waiting.  At first glance she thought it was Macleod, but realized she was wrong when he approached her drawing his sword.

“I’m Charles Beckworth,” he said.  “I hear you’re new.”  His tone was sinister, threatening.  There was an almost oily sound to the way he said new, and the touch of his voice made her feel soiled and dirty.

In a heartbeat her sword was in her hand, her books and purse forgotten on the ground.  She stood still, forcing Beckworth to come to her and as he neared her position she glimpsed a movement behind him.  Too far away for either of them to sense him, Macleod trotted across the grassy strip between the University buildings and the parking lot but stopped before reaching the pavement, his footfalls still silent on the soft ground.  She knew he could not interfere once the challenge had been made and was accepted.

“I like you new ones,” Beckworth continued as he approached, shedding his overcoat.  “You can be so — refreshing, so — unskilled.”  There was a hint of Eastern Europe in his voice, the accent faded over the centuries.

“I’m Rowan Douglas,” she announced when Beckworth came within sword’s reach.  “I may be new,” she admitted.  “But I think you’ll be surprised.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, then shook it briefly.  “Perhaps.  Such a pretty head,” he said, his voice supercilious, patronizing.  “But not too pretty to take off.”  With that he swung his sword only to find his first strike blocked.

There is a vast difference between fencing and fighting and for the first time Rowan fought.  She knew Macleod was nearby, but he stayed far enough away from the fight lest his presence distract  her or warn him.  After only a few blows, each more forceful than she was used to, her wrist was sore but she was strong and kept her grip on her weapon.  She told herself she could do this, that she could beat Beckworth and with her belief came reality.  She concentrated on winning the duel, blocking any thought of after from her mind.  Blow after blow she parried, striking in response, until finally she twirled away from a slicing stroke and stabbed as she turned, impaling him on her blade.  He fell to his knees, and she pulled her sword from his body, the tempered steel now blooded.

“Tell me,” he gasped.  “Am I your first?”  No longer was his voice so offensive.

She nodded and told him, “Yes,” then breathed deeply, trying to catch her breath, wanting to calm herself, but knowing what it was she had to do next kept her nerves on edge, her breathing fast, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Good.  Everyone should be first at something.”  His wound was healing, but defeated, he stayed on his knees.  “Do it, then.”  He looked her in the eye, challenging her to follow the rules of the Game.  “Do it.”

She clenched her teeth as she raised the sword, both hands on the hilt.  He dropped his head, baring his neck, and she swung hard, closing her eyes as the razor sharp blade separated his head from his body.

Macleod watched as the fog rose from Beckworth’s body to envelop Rowan.  She gasped for breath, and her body started to shake, still saturated with adrenalin.  He could see the confusion on her face as Beckworth’s essence filled her, then the shock when the first of the lightning hit.  Bolt after bolt of energy battered her body, and she barely stood against the wind of the Quickening.  With her feet spread apart she was able to stay upright, and in the last seconds of the storm she raised her sword above her head, drawing down the last of the Quickening.  As the last crackle of energy dissipated she collapsed like a marionette with the strings cut.

When it was finally over Macleod was at her side, sliding like a base-runner to sit on the pavement next to her.  He pulled her into his arms and held her while her breathing finally slowed, until she could focus her eyes.  “You’ll be okay,” he told her.  When she could stand he helped her to her feet, then picked up her books and purse as she put away her sword.  He looked around, and seeing no one approaching, he picked up Beckworth’s sword.

“Here,” he said as he reversed the hilt and offered it to her.  “You earned this.”

“A trophy?”

“Yeah.”

“Another rule?  I thought I’d learned them all.”  She still panted, trying to catch her breath, to calm her pounding heart.

“No, not a rule, just — a tradition.”  He shrugged.  “Besides, it minimizes the questions the police ask.  They don’t think swords if they don’t see one.”

She took the sword, turning it in her hand, sighting along the blade.  “This must be three or four hundred years old.”

“More like seven,” Macleod said.

Her eyes opened wide.  “He was that old?”

“Maybe.”  He shook his head, uncertain.  “Maybe he just carried an old sword.”  He looked around again, expecting to see security guards or police any minute.  “We better get out of here.”

She nodded wordlessly, still shaken, but did not move until he put an arm around her, supporting her both physically and emotionally.  She leaned her head on his shoulder and let him lead her away from the grisly evidence of her coming-of-age as an Immortal.
 
 

“I ’d never killed anything bigger than a mosquito,” she reflected, the breathed deeply once more.  “I told Duncan now I knew I could take on Maggie’s killer — I asked him to help me find him.  Everything seemed all right that night; and I stayed at the loft,” she went on.  “Duncan got up early and went out.  He left this behind.”  Her hand went to her left ear, touching the earring she had given Macleod months earlier.  “I took the hint.”

“Yeah.  Tell me about it.  He wasn’t so subtle with me.”

You have to leave.

It’s that time?

Richie leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.  “When I took my first head Mac sent me away. I messed around on my own for a few months, then got myself in trouble and went running to him in Paris.  He took me back, but things were different.  Not better, not worse,” he qualified.  “Just different.”

They sat quietly, each of them thinking, remembering what it was they shared: their Immortality, the Game, their ties to Macleod.  After a moment’s reflection, Richie spoke up, the pain and anger returned to his voice, to his soul.  “I really thought if I came here and talked to you I’d calm down and everything would be okay.”

“It still hurts?”  He knew she didn’t mean the cuts from Macleod’s sword.

“I’m still so angry.”  He nodded.  “Part of me wants to do something to hurt #him#.”

“That won’t solve anything.”

“Yeah, I know.  Maybe I should just hit the road — clear my head.  Maybe even take a few.”  The tone of his voice hardened more with each word.

“Richie?”  She could feel him shedding the inhibitions of Macleod’s teaching, sense him slipping away from the path their teach had chosen for both of them.

“I mean, isn’t that what this Game we’re in is all about?”

She had to admit it and nodded.  “There can be only One,” she recited.  That was the bottom line, the reason for their existance, their ultimate destiny.

“Do you know,” he went on, “how many heads Mac has taken in the past three or four years?  It must be thirty or forty just since I’ve known him.”

“That’s a lot.”  She tried to imagine that many Quickenings, that many Others in her mind.  She shuddered at the thought.

”And he gets bent out of shape if you or I take one.”

“He’s just being protective.”  It was a lame excuse, she knew, and she wondered why she was defending him as he had turned his back on her as well.

“The rule is: once you take a head you’re on your own — no more protection.  We can’t fight each other’s battles.”

She nodded.  “So what are you going to do?”  She felt the air fill with tension, and something told her she wasn’t ready to hear Richie’s answer.

He looked intently at her for a long moment, then turned his head away, gathering the courage to go on.  “I’ll tell you what I want to do.”  After a moment he raised his head and looked directly into her eyes.  He took a deep breath and held it, then let it go slowly.  “There’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time,” he said.  He held her gaze, their eyes locked, and raised a hand to touch her cheek.  His fingertips barely brushed her skin, and they both felt the energy surge between them.  “I’ve wanted you since I first saw you,” he went on, “but you were with Mac.”  His other hand touched the other side of her face and he held her head gently between his fingers as though she were as fragile as a Fabergé egg.

“You two had something special — but that doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

His confession surprised her at first, then she realized she’d been aware of his attraction all along.  Immersed in her developing relationship with Macleod she had done nothing to encourage Richie’s attentions, but neither had she done anything to discourage them, not quite believing a man so much younger than she would be interested in her.

She lowered her eyes, breaking the growing bond between them.  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Richie.”  Neither she nor Macleod had told him of her past life as Debra Campbell, nor of the psychic bond they shared because of it, though she had hinted at it earlier.  He didn’t know where she came from, how she had lived in the years since college.

“I don’t have to know anything.”  He caressed her cheek, then drew her head to his.  They hesitated on the brink of a kiss, both of them holding their breath, hesitant to cross the line that still marked them as merely friends.

“I’m so much older than you.”  She was quickly running out of excuses, and she realized she didn’t really want to put him off any longer.

But Richie knew what he wanted, had wanted for months and now was determined to have.  He had long tried to banish the feelings, the desires, but now he let them take him over and he leaned the fraction of an inch more to kiss the corner of her mouth.  He slid one hand behind her head, her damp hair cool to this touch.  “No.  No, you’re not,” he corrected.  “We’re both Immortal.  That makes us the same age.”  He held back, just brushing her lips with his own, brief, sweet kisses that added to his desire.  He had never believed that this could happen, sure he would never have the nerve to approach her, sure she and Macleod would stay together forever.  That he would be so angry at Macleod he would even consider this had never occurred to him.

Rowan closed her eyes, surprised that Richie’s kisses were so exciting, so enticing.  Though she thought him attractive, she had never thought of him romantically, but as his kisses continued she felt a fire kindled deep inside.  This was right, she knew, however unexpected.  She ran her hands along his arms to his shoulders, bared by the tank-style shirt he wore, feeling the well defined muscles beneath his skin.  She raised her chin, breathing deeply, and he took his kisses along her throat to the vee of creamy skin exposed between the lapels of her robe.  “Rich,” she said, her voice hardly more than a sigh.

He raised his head, worried she wanted him to stop.  Afraid to ask, he only looked into her eyes.

“Richie,” she repeated, and gently stroked his face, feeling the stubble of a day’s growth of beard, the fair whiskers nearly invisible against his skin.  “Are you sure this is what you want?”

He nodded.  “Oh yeah,” he said, his voice thick as his passions built.  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

He had set aside the fear and pain he carried, and she could see into his eyes, beyond the blue irises, into the realm where past and present and future combined, where reality and possibility mixed.  She saw the truth of his feelings, the depth of his desire, and the strength of his passion.  She knew he needed the affirmation their joining would bring him.  She knew her own pain as well, the pain of rejection, of loss, of having killed.  She needed his youth, his passion, and his desire as much as he needed her experience, her depth, and her serenity.  One by one she removed the diamonds from her ears and dropped the studs on the table.

She took his face between her hands, as he had hers, and kissed him full on the mouth, a kiss of invitation, of promise.  “We’ll be more comfortable in the bedroom.”

“Here’s fine,” he said, breathless from her kiss, thrilled she wanted to continue.

“I’ll be more comfortable in my own bed.”  She stood and took his hands in hers, then pulled him to stand next to her.  He was taller than she by several inches, but they fit together as though molded as one and after a brief embrace she led him down the hall to her bed.

Tall, thick candles flickered at the sides of the bed and in front of the dresser’s mirror, lighting the bedroom with their soft, golden glow, scenting the air with a fragrance that was both stimulating and relaxing.  The lights of Seacouver twinkled brilliantly outside the wall of windows, the sheer draperies pulled aside since sunset.  The bedclothes were pushed back, an open book face down on the coverlet.

“You were in bed.”  His resolve wavered, for a moment unsure of himself and of what they were about to do.

Rowan set aside the book and turned back to Richie.  “I had a feeling I would have company tonight,” she said, explaining the candles.  “I didn’t know it would be you.”  She stood near him, deliberately not touching him, and whispered, “Where were we?”

Richie could contain himself no longer.  He wrapped his arms around her, the cool silk of her robe and the dampness of her hair in contrast to the heat he felt building in his loins, to the fires he sensed deep within her.  He held her body against his, breathing in the fragrance of her hair, the gentle scent that was just her.  He slid his hands to the belt of her robe, and slowly he loosened it, then eased the open robe over her shoulders so that it slid from her arms to the floor.  Beneath it she wore a long nightgown, an ivory sheath with only thin straps over her shoulders.  The silk clung to her curves, revealing the contours of her breasts, the sinuous curve from her waist to her hips, and he looked lustily at her, felt his body respond and his breath quicken.  “You’re beautiful,” he said, running his fingertips along the neckline of the sheath from shoulder to shoulder.

Her hands went to his shirt, and quickly she pulled it over his head and off his arms.  She held it briefly to her face, his scent strong in it, stained with both his sweat and his blood, and then dropped it to join her robe.  She ran her hands over his bare chest, combing her fingers through the curling golden hair that covered him, extending over his shoulders and onto his arms, her hands ranging over his body, exciting both of them all the more.  She stepped away from him to the edge of the bed, and he quickly followed her, not wanting to be separated from her for even a moment.  He brushed her cheek with his fingertips, and bent his head to kiss her neck.

“I thought,” he said, lifting his mouth to her ear, “ that I was going to seduce you .”  His fingers traced the thin straps over her shoulders, leaving a tingling line wherever he touched.

“If that’s the way you want it.”  She shuddered as his breath touched her ear, and she felt the fires of passion fill her.

“I think,” he kissed her shoulder.

“That’s the way,” he kissed her other shoulder.

“I want it,” he kissed her lips, this time a hard kiss that demanded her response.  She answered, opening her mouth to his probing tongue.  His hands held her shoulders firmly, their bodies close together, and as one they sat on the edge of the bed.  She lay back and he leaned over her, continuing to kiss her, his hands roving over her shoulders, in her hair, down the side of her hip, and when he reached the hem of her gown he pushed it up, his hand resting lightly on her thigh, then continuing back to her hip, her side, until he lifted the garment up and over her head.  He took his eyes the length of her body and back, then kicked off his shoes and stood, his eyes on her face, and pushed down his sweatpants and briefs along with his socks.  He was well aroused, and she  looked him up and down as well, then with a sigh of anticipation she slid towards the far side of the bed to make room for him. He lay beside her, turning onto his side to face her once again.

There was nothing more they needed to say to one another, for this healing was within, the physical act a metaphor to them both for the acceptance they each craved.

She let him take the lead, let this be his seduction, and let herself be swept into the tide of passion he brought to her.  She knew he needed to be in control now, not just of himself and his own destiny, but of her and what they shared as well.  His hands and mouth ranged over her body, caressing every inch, kissing everywhere he touched.  From head to toe and back again he stroked and kissed, nipped and tasted, until he knew all of her, from the curve of her ears to the crooked little toe on her left foot.  He learned where her skin changed from satin to velvet, where her hair curled and where it lay flat against her skin.

By the time he again kissed her mouth her arms ached to hold him, her hands to caress him.  She stretched her arms up over her head, a deep breath filling her lungs and she hummed her pleasure as he traced a line up her arm, again following his touch with his mouth.  He kissed the soft skin inside her elbow, the pulse at her wrist, the palm of her hand, before kissing and biting at each fingertip, first on one hand, then the other, her fingers, her palm, her wrist, her elbow then holding her hands, his caress suddenly a restraint, he kissed her forcefully, hard, and she sensed the return of his anger, of his fear.

She turned her head away from his kiss, and opened her eyes wide.  “Richie,” she gasped.  She tried to keep her alarm out of her voice, to banish the fear that crept in.  “Richie, make love to me,” she demanded, “don’t rape me.”

He pulled away and released her hands immediately.  “I didn’t mean…”

“Shhh.”  She touched her fingertips to his lips.  “It’s okay.  I don’t like being held down.”

He kissed her fingertips, silently apologizing, wondering if he should go on.  “I’ll stop if you want,” he offered, though he wasn’t sure he could, positive he didn’t want to.

She smiled her forgiveness at him, and a warmth like sunshine washed over him.  “Stop now and I’ll take your head,” she threatened playfully, then sighed, closing her eyes.  “Don’t stop now.  Please.”  Her plea neared begging, her need controlling her voice.

“Your wish is my command,” he quipped, then bent his head again to her breast.  He used his tongue and lips to caress one rosy tip, then the other, revelling in her excitement.

She played with his fair hair, her fingers combing through the short curls, around his ears, across his forehead.  He felt her gentle push and moved down her body, nuzzling her navel on the way to her most secret places.  He somehow knew exactly what she wanted, what she needed, and as he continued her breath came faster and faster, her sighs more and more as cries of pleasure.  His confidence, threatened momentarily when she stopped him from restraining her hands, returned, and he let his own enjoyment drive him on, the anger nearly forgotten, overwhelmed by their rising passions.  First with his hands followed by his mouth he probed and caressed her deepest secrets, tasting her essence, her tart flavor a drug that fueled his own excitement.  Urged on by both her responses and his own he found the most sensitive spots where the moist velvet skin trembled at his touch.  He leaned his cheek against the cool smoothness inside her thigh, struggling to catch his breath, not wanting to stop.  Even the susurration of his breath against her body kept her at a pinnacle of excitement.  Like a long distance swimmer he gasped a deep breath and again dove into her soft contours.  Flicking the tip of his tongue back and forth and in and out he tantalized and teased until he could no long keep himself from her touch.  He raised his head finally and looked up at her, sighting across her body with its hills and valleys of sweet flesh.  Dragging himself away from the center of his pleasure he pressed a kiss onto her lips, sharing with her the lingering traces of her own essence when she thrust her tongue into his mouth.

She tasted the mixture of flavors, there still an overtone of the whisky they’d shared as well as the blend of them both.  He held the sides of her face again, his fingers combing into her hair.  His body stretched along hers and she felt the velvet and steel of his manhood against her belly.

Still kissing deeply they turned so he lay back, his head and shoulders propped on her pillows.  Slowly, tenderly she drew back from the union their mouths had made.  He tried to raise his head off the pillow to kiss her again, but she lay a hand gently on his shoulders, telling him silently to lie still.

“Don’t stop, Rowan.  Oh God, don’t stop now.”

She kissed him lightly, a sparkle in her eyes.  “I haven’t even begun,” she whispered, her fingertips ranging over his chest and down his flanks.  Her nails traced lines of fire across his belly, back to his chest, over his shoulders and down his arms.

A sly smile came to his face and he let her continue.  “Okay,” he murmured, letting out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

She pulled up one leg so she half sat at his side then bent over him to follow her fingers with kisses.  She followed his example and moved down his legs, tickling his feet and toes before shifting back to his more sensitive areas.

He bent one leg up and she stroked the inside of his thigh, slowly from the back of his knee, teasing, tantalizing, her fingers repeating their route on his other leg.  She hesitated at the top of his legs, looking once more to his face.  His head was stretched back, his mouth open in a soundless cry, his chest heaving with his panting breath.  She was pleased to see his response, happy she was able to excite him.  Old enough to be his mother, Immortal or not, she hadn’t slept with a twenty-year-old man in twenty years.

Slowly she drew the tip of her tongue along the underside of his erection, following the pulsing vein from the base, then circled the sensitive tip and slid her slender fingers between his thighs to grasp and knead the hanging organs, lifting them into her hand, gently squeezing and stroking as she took him deeply into her mouth and throat.  She pulled back but did not release him, then repeated her movements, down and up, down and up, settling into a rhythm that matched his breathing, matched her heartbeat.  He moved his hips beneath her, rising into her.  Her hair spread across her shoulders, and as they moved together the long locks slipped to the side, each strand tickling, adding to his spiraling ecstasy.

He levered himself up onto an elbow, and reached for her.  With a last flourish, like licking the drip from an ice cream cone, she released him, her hand taking the place of her mouth, gently circling the hard shaft, teasing at the velvety end.  “Now,” he told her, his voice a husky whisper, “now.”

She threw one leg over his hips and mounted him, her body ready for his penetration, her warm, moist recesses fitting around him in the most intimate of embraces.  She knelt astride him, shifting her hips until she had all of him, then rose up onto her knees till only the tip remained inside her, clenching around him, then lowered herself once again.  He moved in rhythm with her, his manhood a piston within her, his hands fondling both her breasts at once, thumbing the nipples into hard erect nubs, kneading the soft, heavy flesh. She breathed in audible gasps, her head flung back, her hair streaming down her back.

Suddenly she fell forward, her head to his shoulder, and wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly to him, he rolled them both over, still joined, thrusting deep and deeper into her.  She raised her legs, wrapped them around his loins, holding him in her and her to him.  She dug her fingers through his hair and pulled his head to her, and again their lips met.  Immediately they opened to each other, breathing each other’s breath, each becoming the other, becoming one flesh, one body, one soul.

She cried out against his kiss when he thrust deeper than ever, pushing himself against her womb, and his cry joined hers as he filled her.  She quivered with their passion, and as the spasms left them both, she stroked his back, his sides, from shoulder to buttocks, long, slow strokes that brought a purring sound from deep in his chest, and sighs from her throat.  Their heartbeats slowed, their breathing calmed, and still they remained locked in their embrace.
 
 

H e toyed with her hair as she lay sleeping, her head inches from his own.  Never had he felt like this afterwards; mortal or Immortal — never so connected, never so right.  Growing up on the streets he’d lost his innocence young, but before it had always been just sex, just play.  What he wanted, needed, was all that mattered, early worries about pregnancy and disease eliminated when he became Immortal.  Physically nineteen forever, he knew he would have to learn to deal with the hormonal imperatives that often motivated his desires, but this was different.  It transcended the physical, went beyond the merely emotional.  It wasn’t that they were both Immortal; he hadn’t felt like this before.  This was more that what either of them wanted or needed, but what they created together, somehow more than either of them.

He lay on his side, facing her, one arm stretched up under his cheek, and he reached across with the other to finger the auburn strands of her hair.  Just dry finally, it fell like silk when he lifted a tress and let it slide off his fingertips.  He eased a lock of hair away from her eyes, and a ghost of a smile crossed her face.  Then suddenly her eyes snapped open and she gasped for breath, her whole body jumping as though shocked.

“Shhh,” he soothed, stroking her cheek.  “What’s the matter?”

Her eyes were unfocussed for a moment, then she blinked several times, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “What?” she asked, looking around.

“You jumped like something bit you.”

“I always wake up like that.”

“I’ll remember,” he said, and the question of whether he would ever wake up next to her again crossed his mind.  He shoved the question aside, focussing only on now .  His fingertips continued to stroke her cheek, his touch lingering at the corner of her eye.  “You know, I think you look younger since…”

“That’s just the glow, Richie.”

“No, I mean it.  There used to be little lines at the corners of your eyes, and around your mouth.  They’re not there anymore.”

“I guess that’s part of the magic.”  He really had been interested in her all along, she realized, if he had looked at her so closely in the early months of their acquaintance.

“Yeah.”  He pushed the hair away from her face and softly kissed her forehead, his lips lingering on the smooth skin, feeling the faint sting of salt.  He filled his lungs with her fragrance and felt a fire grow within him again.  “ This was magic,” he whispered, the movement of his lips another kiss.  He repeated his last word over and over, moving his lips across her eyes, over her face until he had kissed all her features.

A warmth spread through her, centered on the spot his lips touched, reaching to every fingertip and toe, filling her with the same feeling of satisfaction, the same feeling of fulfillment, the feeling of being cared for that she craved in her deepest soul.  Never would she acknowledge this need, always speaking of her independence, the loner in her, but raised by grandparents, her father never known, she had always felt abandoned, always insecure.  It was this need the communal Household led by Ares and Maggie had addressed, the polygamous extended family providing security without individual commitment.  More formal than the sixties’ commune it had grown out of, she had been committed to the Household, not to any one person, and while the members of the Household came and went, the Household endured.

But the time had come for her to move on.  Fifteen years as a professor, rising from Instructor through Assistant to Associate, she had been bypassed for the tenure list one time too many.  It was hard to leave the Household, but she could not continue in a department which didn’t value her work. Ares, whose counsel she had always valued, second only to Maggie’s, directed her here, to her new life.  Her Immortal life.

“Now,” Richie said, “about all these things I don’t know about you?”

“It would take a book,” she chuckled.  “Start with what you think you do know.

“Well,” he began, twisting his fingers in her hair once again, “you’re from Scotland.”

“Bzzzzzzt.”  She tapped the tip of his nose with one finger.  “Wrong.  I was born in California.”

“No way,” he objected.  “I’ve been to California.  They don’t talk like you.”

“And how’s that?”  She traced the outline of his mouth, never lifting her finger from his face.

“Like Macleod.  Like you’re from Scotland.”  He thought for a moment, remembering Annie Devlin’s lilting voice.  “Or Ireland.”

She laughed and shook her head.  “My grandparents — the people who raised me —  lived on a small island off the coast of Scotland.  Just after World War Two NATO took over the whole island.  Everybody in the village decided to come to America, and NATO relocated them to California, near Vandenburg.  Everyone around me was from Scotland, so I talk like them.”

“Okay.  You teach history.”

She silently granted his correct statement.

His patience evaporated.  “Why do I have to know anything else?  I know you’re Immortal, like me.”  He gently caressed her cheek, drawing his fingertips down her throat, then deep into her cleavage and back to her neck, back up to her face, and tipped her chin up to meet his kiss.  “I know I like this very much.  That I like you very much.  That I like the way you make me feel.  That’s enough,” he said, each sentence, each thought punctuated with another kiss.

“The only other thing I want to know — need to know — is if you like this.”  He kissed her again, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace.

Unable to answer him with words, she expressed her enjoyment by returning his ardor, holding him as tightly as he held her, kissing him as fervently as he kissed her.  This time their hands moved over each other in unison, exciting each other at the same time.  Now they knew each other, now they knew what made each other sigh with desire, what brought cries of pleasure, what made each other squirm and tingle with delight.

Now the urgency was gone, the drives behind them slower though just as powerful, and they took their time taking each other back to the summit of passion they’d shared before.
 
 

I t had been a long night, but Joe Dawson had one more errand to perform before turning in for a few hours of sleep that morning. It had been a long night, indeed, beginning with his killing his closest friend.  Shooting Macleod had saved Richie’s life, but only by breaking the foremost rule of Watchers.

He’d interfered.

He’d kept one Immortal from killing another.  Already he was planning how he would write the Chronicle without mentioning his own involvement, wondering how he could account for Richie’s survival in the face of Macleod’s dark Quickening.

He didn’t know which soul controlled Macleod now, but he knew it wasn’t the Highlander’s own.  The Macleod he had Watched for eighteen years, whose life he had studied, whom he knew as well as he knew himself would never have threatened Richie  Only the most evil of Immortals ignored the custom of safeguarding their own students.

He’d shot Macleod — again, this time deliberately.  Why he had carried his pistol to the dojo that night still mystified him.  While it was legal for him to keep the gun behind the bar or at home, he had no permit to carry it concealed.  Somehow he knew he would need its protection, never guessing he would have to take the offensive against Macleod.  It had weighed heavily in his pocket all night as he had followed Macleod to the docks and Watched as Macleod signed on a freighter bound for LaHavre, then searched the city for Richie, but the boy had disappeared.  He wasn’t at his apartment; he hadn’t gone to Joe’s.  He wasn’t at any of his other frequent haunts.  Dawson was afraid he had taken to the road again, afraid the Watchers would lose track of him.

He drove up the mountain shortly after dawn, hoping it wasn’t too early to awaken Rowan.  She had to be told what had happened, where Macleod had gone.  While none of Dawson’s informants had caught sight of Richie after his headlong flight from the dojo, Dawson was not too surprised to see the familiar red motorcycle parked outside Rowan’s house.  He pulled his car into the driveway, parking as close to the porch as he could.  Bone tired, he made his way along the walk and up the steps.  “You’re getting old, Dawson,” he muttered to himself as he stopped at the top of the steps to catch his breath before ringing the bell.

The sky was lightening when Rowan woke again, the sound that startled her into wakefulness repeated once.  She identified the sound as her doorbell and slid from Richie’s arms, snatching her robe from the floor.

“Rowan?”  Richie mumbled, still half asleep but his arms missing her, his hands suddenly empty, his fingertips closing on air.  “Rowan, come back.”

“Someone’s at the door.” she whispered.  She bent and kissed his forehead.  “I’ll be right back.”

The Watcher waited, then pushed the bell again.  She’s probably still asleep, he thought and peered through one of the narrow windows in the wooden door.  Though the interior of the house was dark, he could see Rowan walking up the hallway, and as she adjusted her robe he caught a quick glimpse of bare skin beneath it.  Sleeps in the nude, he automatically catalogued, then chastised himself for thinking as a Watcher in this instance.  Here he was a friend, nothing else.

She looked through the window before she unlocked the door.  Opening the door wide she invited him in and greeted him with a kiss on the cheek.  Her hair hung loose down her back, her face was without makeup, her eyes more grey than green.  She wore no jewelry, not even earrings in her pierced earlobes.

“This must be important,” she guessed.  “You look like what the cat dragged in.”

“I feel like it,” he admitted.  He looked around the room, expecting to find Richie sleeping on the couch but instead saw only his helmet and the remains of the bottle of whisky and two empty glasses.  “I know it’s early, Rowan,” he began, silently declining her offer of a chair.  “But I wanted to tell you.”

“About Duncan?” she interrupted.  “I know you shot him last night to save Richie.  Is he all right?”

“Yes and no.”

“What does that mean?”

Joe heard Richie’s voice from the back of the house, and he looked up to see the young man come out of the bedroom, barefoot, barechested, and hitching up his pants.  He looked again at Rowan and now saw the signs of what he had broken in on — her mouth swollen, her face flushed.  “I’m getting real good at interrupting,” he said, apologizing, his embarrassment evident.

“Don’t worry about it, Joe,” she paid automatically, her focus on his new.  “What about Duncan?”

“Oh, yeah.”  He looked back at Richie and saw a hardness in his face, a coldness in the blue eyes he’d never seen before.  “He’s alive.”  Joe shook his head again remembering how close he’d come to taking the Immortal’s head himself.  “But he’s still — possessed is the only word I can think of.”

“Shit,” Richie muttered.  His voice was still hard, his single expletive punctuated by slamming the bathroom door.

“Where is he?”  She turned back to Joe, ignoring Richie’s intrusion.

“On a freighter, on his way to France.  I don’t know if they’re going across the Pacific or through Panama.  We’ll pick him up in LeHavre.”

Both Rowan and Richie knew Dawson’s we meant the Watchers.  An awkward silence descended over them as Richie emerged from the bathroom and joined them at the door.  At first he glared at Joe, then pulled his eyes away..

“Look,” Dawson said to them both, “I don’t know what’s going on — though I can give it a good guess.  You can tell me to butt out, but I gotta ask…  What is going on?”

Richie blushed at Joe’s accusation, the color rising not only in his face but across his bare chest as well.  “Joe,” he began, “it’s not what you think…”

“Yes, it is,”  Rowan contradicted.  “It’s just what he’s thinking.”  She turned to Dawson. “Yes, Joe, Richie and I spent the night together.  I’m a grown woman. I can take any man I want into my bed without answering to anyone.”  She moved toward the kitchen, motioning for them to follow.  “Least of all Duncan Macleod,” she added under her breath, “or you.”

The two men followed her into the kitchen.  While she set the coffeemaker to brew a fresh pot of coffee they sat at the table in the center of the room.  “What happened between you and Mac?”  Prying, yes, but he needed to know, to understand what was happening with his friends.

Rowan looked at the Watcher in amazement.  “I thought you knew everything.”

Dawson raised his hands in surrender.  “I can’t be everywhere, all the time.  No one could. I’m interested in what Mac does in public, but only as much of his private life as affects other people.  If I were Richie’s Watcher, or yours, Rowan, I would write that he stayed the night here, not what the two of you might’ve done.  We’re historians, not voyeurs.”

She touched Joe’s shoulder, her hand lingering for a moment.  “Of course.  I’m sorry.”  She took a chair herself while the coffee brewed and again explained.  “Last week I took my first head.”

Dawson listened carefully as she continued and repeated the story.  Halfway through her account Richie got up from the table and filled mugs with coffee, setting one in front of each of them.  Joe smiled his thanks and drank while he listened.

“I still love him, and I’m sure he cares about me, but we can’t stay together.”  She held the mug in both hands, letting the heat seep through the ceramic into her hands, but it did little to warm her heart.  “We’re both too independent, especially now, and I’ve never been monogamous.  But this Dark Quickening thing.”  Thinking about the possible consequences to Macleod, she drank deeply of the coffee, felt the caffeine course through her body.  “I know what a Quickening is like now, and believe me, Beckworth was no angel.”  She drank the rest of the coffee down.  “Can Duncan come back?  Will he come back?”

“I don’t know,” Dawson said honestly.  “Until now it’s only been a myth.  No Watcher has ever been close enough to an Immortal to tell if it’s for real.  Our, uh, relationship is unique.”
 
 

T he coffee pot was empty, the sun higher in the sky, and Richie had excused himself to shower before returning to the city.  An awkward silence had settled in the kitchen, and Joe traced the rim of his empty cup.  “So you killed Charles Beckworth.”

She nodded, still not comfortable with having taken a life.

“You’re right — he was no angel.  He made a habit of challenging new Immortals, particularly women, figuring they couldn’t defend themselves.”

“He couldn’t know I was new with fifteen years experience with a sword.”

“No,” Joe agreed, “I guess not.  Not too many new Immortals know how to use a sword.  It’s not the sixteenth century anymore”  He drained the coffee cup and pushed himself up from the table to stand.  The morning light flooded the south-facing kitchen, and as the sunlight struck him he stifled a yawn.  “I gotta get some sleep before we open tonight.”

Rowan accompanied him to the door.  “Do you have that name for me yet?”

It took him a second to recall which name she meant.  “Yeah, but I don’t have a location.”

“Give me his name and I’ll find him.”  Her voice was hard, and he knew what she had in mind for the other Immortal.

“Stanley Lujac,” he said quietly.  “It was Stanley Lujac who took Maggie’s head, almost ten years ago.”

“Thanks.  I know you had to break your rules to tell me.”

“Rowan, I break the rules just knowing you and Mac and Richie.”  He kissed her cheek at the door.  “Just watch your head, okay?”

“And Joe — ”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t blame Richie.  Last night was as much my doing as his.”

“I don’t blame anybody.”

“Then don’t be so judgmental.  I can deal with it, but Rich looks up to you.  With Duncan gone off he needs your support — your approval.”

“He’s got it,” the Watcher assured her.

“I do, too.”  There was a hint of vulnerability in her voice that tugged at his heart.

Joe reached his free hand to her face and touched her cheek.  “Next thing I know you’ll be seducing me.”

He turned and left but as he made his way down the steps, she whispered, just loud enough so he thought he heard.

“All you have to do is ask, Joe…”
 

This page last updated
21 August 2002

© 2000 Emma Keigh