Okay, here's part one of a story that's been percolating in my head ever since I started watching the show. Its basically an attempt to expand the presence of the supernatural in the Highlander world. Hope you enjoy it. Just a few words of advisement: there's likely to be some graphic violence in here, and I may even slip in a four-letter word now and again. Here we go:
The ancient castle squatted like a boulder in the center of the tiny valley. Four hundred years ago, its high, dark walls had served to repel the Papal soldiers who sought to destroy the seat of a Protestant nobleman. In the ensuing centuries, the Bonnheim family had fallen on hard times, and the ancestral home fell into disrepair. The last Bonnheim died in 1943, never living to see the damage his castle suffered as the Allied forces stormed Germany, bombing everything in their path.
In 1963, three days after the death of the American president in Dallas, a wealthy West German industrialist and antiquarian purchased the derelict castle for a song. The renovations cost considerably more, but the man, Virchow by name, happily poured hundreds of thousands of deutchmarks into the ruin. Strange accidents seemed to plague the crew, but Virchow persevered, and his castle was taken care of. When the repairs were completed, Virchow moved his household and his considerable collection of antiquities into the citadel.
As the years passed, his family prospered and his collection grew. But the years began to take their toll. In 1982, Virchow was crippled by cancer. Though he recovered somewhat from the disease, his legs were amputated, and he spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair. No longer could he traverse the globe in search of the relics of the past. He turned to his eldest daughter to handle this duty, and his collection continued to grow.
In the summer of 1995, Virchow died of a stroke. His daughter Anna was away at the time, acquiring a new piece for Virchow. When he died, she hurried home, bringing the piece with her. Virchow was entombed in the Bonnheim crypt below the castle, and the new piece was afforded a place of honor in the main hall. The piece was a small crystal shard, barely a finger long, flawless in every facet and detail. Anna never knew why her father had been so excited by the piece, and she never learned the legend associated with the crystal. She was understandably surprised when the deaths began.
Dark clouds obscured the moon, hiding the stars in a shroud of blackness. Past midnight, the castle lights were extinguished, and the only illumination, the light of a nearby village, reflected off the clouds. Quintan Pierce thought is was a perfect night for burgling. With practiced ease he scaled the rough walls of the castle, clawed gloves and pitons serving him better than even a grappling hook would have. Upon reaching the summit of his climb, the wiry man slid over the top of the wall, seeming to ooze between the crenallations in his jet black outfit.
He looked around while slipping his climbing gear into one of the pouches on his web belt. He made no sound. After a moment, satisfied that the castle was quiet as well, he advanced warily across the battlement, his ears tuned to the barest whisper, and his eyes behind the clumsy goggles searching for electronic surveillance devices.
Pierce was slightly put off by his inability to find any such devices. It was inconceivable to him that the old man wouldn't have tried to protect his precious relics. Pierce knew there weren't any guard dogs; at least he hadn't seen any on his scouting trip. The tour guide didn't mention what kind of security the castle had, but that was unsurprising. In Pierce's experience, few people ever advertised how they kept their valuables safe. Still, the tour guide had said that no one had ever successfully stolen anything from the Virchow collection.
That was surprising. And it offended Pierce's professional pride. Something would have to be done about that track record... which was at least part of the reason why Quintan Pierce was now making his way into the interior of the castle. Suddenly he froze. A moment ago, he thought he heard something rustle. Something... leathery. His eyes narrowed behind the goggles as his ears strained to catch the sound again. Was it his imagination, playing tricks on him?
No. There it was again. In the courtyard. Pierce reached behind him and drew the sword draped across his back. The blade was blackened for stealth, but its edge was razor sharp. And Pierce was well versed in the blade's use. He moved cautiously out into the courtyard, long sword held at the ready. The courtyard was vast and dark; the citadel walls loomed over him with all the crushing weight of a mountain. He had a sudden sense of foreboding.
Moving with the lithe grace of an acrobat or a swordsman, he slid from shadow to shadow, clinging still to the outer wall, not yet daring to step out into the open. He could sense no others like himself... but at the edges of his psyche he could sense something watching him.
The muscles in his shoulders tensed, and he whirled soundlessly, the blade coming up in a defensive move. Nothing.
Pierce took a deep breath. <Maybe it is just my imagination>, he thought, slowly lowering his sword. He didn't see a pair of glowing eyes flicker open against the wall, fifty feet above him, did not hear the careful unfurling of mighty wings, and was not prepared for the attack when it came. A piece of shadow detached itself from a the darkness and dropped five stories to slam its considerable bulk into the thief.
Pierce crashed to the ground, unconsciously crying out at the assault. His sword fell from nerveless fingers, ringing on the cobbles as it bounced away. Pierce swore and twisted under his assailant, trying to flip on his back or at least gain some leverage. His attacker did not budge. It sat on Pierce's back like a block of marble, unmoving and seemingly insensate.
Cold hands, strong and sure, wrapped around Pierce's neck, pushing his face into the ground. Real panic exploded in his gut, but when the attacker began to squeeze, he relaxed somewhat.
<Choking I can deal with,> he thought, even as the air in his throat escaped in a hiss. The grip tightened, and Pierce felt claws dig into the soft flesh of his neck -- the panic blossomed anew, and then, inexplicably, his head was wrenched free of his shoulders with the sound of popping vertebrae.
As Pierce's death rattle shook his body, the Quickening was unleashed in a torrent of energy that illuminated the courtyard and the killer in violent flashes of light. Blue white tendrils of lightning played along the muscles of the attacker, causing him to lurch back away from the body. His eyes glowed in rage and discomfort, and he staggered further back, away from the roiling mass of energy and light.
And then, almost as soon as it began, it was over, and the courtyard of Bonnheim Castle was once more as dark and silent as a crypt.
An arc of lightning flashed outside the rambling house, as, unseen behind the heavy storm clouds, twilight slowly faded to evening. Deep within the building a wooden coffin banged open as its occupant snapped awake, rising from his slumber. He stepped out of the coffin, stretching his muscles in a peculiarly mortal fashion. Tall, long of limb, he was an exquisitely beautiful creature. Skin a pale as snow, ringlets of raven hair spilling down past his shoulders, and eyes of purest azure peeking out below thick eyebrows gave him an unearthly appearance. He brushed an errant lock of hair away from one eye and opened the wardrobe by the coffin.
Moving swiftly, he divested himself of his garments and chose a new outfit: jeans, a black wool sweater over an Adidas t-shirt, and his customary black leather jacket. Pulling on a pair of comfortable boots, he exited the room and made his way upstairs and to the garage. A blood red Lotus waited for him there, and he hopped into the vehicle and started it up. The garage doors whirred open, and the sleek sports car squealed out of its cave and onto the drive. In moments, Michael Hazard was on his way into town.
Several hours later, Hazard stepped out of the heavy rain into a cozy little bar in the French Quarter, a bar with no name. Hazard swept his long wet hair back, revealing a face flushed with color and health. His eyes fairly glowed as he surveyed the occupants of the watering hole and spotted a familiar figure in the back. Hazard's fluid, graceful movements carried him to the booth at the far end of the room. A tall man sat there, his dark eyes staring into an almost empty mug of beer. The man swept an olive-skinned hand through his neatly trimmed hair absently, then took a healthy swig of his beverage.
As he did so, he noticed Hazard approaching. Setting the mug down, he gestured at the empty chair across the table. Hazard took it.
"Good evening, Hazard." said the man in strangely accented voice. "You look well fed."
Hazard grinned self-consciously, careful to keep his large canines hidden. "Two would-be rapists. Not appetizing, but very filling." The Vampire's grin softened somewhat. "Something is troubling you, old friend."
The man nodded, but remained silent.
Hazard sighed heavily. "Perseus, are you going to tell me about it, or should I just pick your mind for the answer?"
The man called Perseus took another draft of his beer, then signaled for the waitress to bring another round. After she dropped off another mug, heavy with amber liquid, Perseus spoke. "An old friend was murdered recently. I just learned about it today."
Hazard looked quizzically at Perseus, one finely drawn eyebrow arched in curiosity. "Murdered? Not...," he trailed off, finishing the sentence by making a chopping motion with his hand.
Perseus nodded. "Whoever killed him wasn't part of the Game. Which means his Quickening was lost."
Hazard didn't know what to say. Though he had a vague understanding of the rules of Immortal life, he knew he didn't understand all of it; nor could his friend truly appreciate the existence a Vampire led. Finally, he said, "What do you plan to do?"
Perseus quaffed the rest of the beer in one long gulp. "I'm going to find out what happened, naturally. Pierce was... a little rough around the edges. But he was one of the few Immortals I felt safe calling friend. I can't just let it go."
Hazard smiled. "I didn't think you would. Do you want my help?"
At this, Perseus actually smiled. "No, I don't think so, but thanks. I might invite Kurt, though. This might be right up his alley."
Hazard's curiosity was piqued again. "Kurt? Are you sure you won't need my help? Kurt's good at what he does, but..."
The Immortal smiled and interrupted. "Michael, thank you for the offer, but no. I should be able to settle this on my own." He signaled for another beer, then searched his pockets and found a cigarette.
As he struck a match, he said, "You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"
The Vampire grinned. "Go right ahead."
Perseus left the bar a short while after talking to the Vampire. Whistling a tuneless melody, he made his way through the darkened alleys of the French Quarter. The rain had stopped, but he kept his Saints cap and trench coat on all the same. Somewhere, on the wind, he caught the sound of jazz. Coltrane.
He smiled a moment, recognizing the tune, and altered his whistling to match it. And then unbidden, Pierce came to mind.
He was looking down the barrel of a Colt .45, and wondering if a bullet in the head could kill him. Only slightly less important than the gun was the hand attached to it, the finger caressing the trigger, and the owner of both hand and gun, a man Perseus only knew as the Waco Kid. The Waco Kid was a notorious outlaw, a cold-blooded killer who was responsible for the deaths of over twenty men.
He thought Perseus was cheating at cards.
"You been winning all night, city boy," the Kid growled, pushing the pistol muzzle further into Perseus' face.
"Hey. Hey," Perseus said. "If you want your money back, fine. Go ahead, take it. Fine with me, really." A trail of sweat slid down his brow. He glanced over at Pierce, the other Immortal at the table. The Brit had a huge grin on his face, his mustaches bristling with humor.
"Now that isn't the spirit, Percy," Pierce said, chuckling.
The Kid spared a glance at Pierce. "You two together?"
Both men considered this a moment, and Pierce adamantly shook his head. Perseus said, "Well, yes. He put me up to it, Kid. I didn't want to do it, but he said he'd kill me if I didn't!"
Pierce's grin disappeared. He opened his mouth to deny the accusation, but the Kid silenced him by angling his other pistol towards the Immortal. As he did so, his attention was diverted from Perseus for a fraction of a second. That was all the time the Spartan needed.
With a speed honed in an eternity of combat, he grabbed the Kid's wrist with enough strength to break it, causing the Colt to drop from nerveless fingers. To the mortal's credit, he reacted quickly, swinging his other hand in an attempt to pistol-whip Perseus. The Immortal blocked the clumsy attempt and brought his knee and the Kid's stomach together in a collision that left the gunslinger gasping on the floor.
A swift kick to the head, and the boy was laid out on the rough wooden floor of the saloon, unconscious. Behind him, he heard someone say, "I'll go get the sheriff," and hurried steps made their way out the door.
Perseus looked at the Brit. Pierce said, "An interesting stratagem, Percy. What made you think the Kid would believe you?"
Perseus shrugged. "These Americans really dislike you 'John Bull' types anyway. Besides, I don't know if he really believed me or not. It doesn't matter. Shall we continue this discussion outside?"
Pierce sat back. He reached into his coat and pulled out a pipe.
"No," he said. "No, I don't think so. I'm not much for the Game in any case, but I really don't want to fight you."
"No?" Perseus said. "Then why are you here?"
"Coincidence?" offered Pierce, lighting the pipe and taking a puff. Perseus took his seat once more, shaking his head.
"Try again."
Pierce smiled around a ring of smoke, then leaned forward conspiratorially. "Gold," he said, a twinkle in his eye.
Now Perseus really was intrigued...
Perseus shook himself out of his reverie. <Living in the past is for old men,> he chided himself silently. The rain had picked up again, but the Immortal ignored it, walking unhurriedly through the downpour.
The street was almost deserted. This was unusual for a city like New Orleans, a city that usually came alive at night. Still, Perseus reasoned, the storm must have driven most of the nightlife into their dens. As he crossed the Rue St. Honaire, he felt it.
The Buzz.
As always, it started as a slight tingling in the base of his spine, a tingling that traveled up his backbone at the speed of light, exploding into a full-blown buzzing feeling as it connected with the reptilian center of his brain.
He acted without thinking, moving into a defensive stance and dropping behind a nearby car, scanning the street for the nearby Immortal. He reached beneath his coat and grasped hold of the hilt of his blade.
When the figure stepped out of an alley across the street, he drew his short sword.
The Immortal stepped closer, and Perseus made out his general shape through the curtain of rain. He was tall, broadly built, and wearing a long coat and fedora against the rain. A great two-handed sword was held in his right hand. Perseus stood up.
"I am Logan MacClennan of the Clan MacClennan," the other immortal said, giving his blade a practice swing. He had a heavy beard and long dark hair under the hat. The eyes glowed with feverish intensity.
Perseus likewise identified himself, mentally comparing his challenger and himself. The man was a head taller than he, outweighed him by fifty pounds at least, and the length of his sword gave him a reach three feet longer than Perseus'. Not only that, but Perseus could tell the Scot was experienced -- the strength of his Buzz intimated that the man had taken many a head.
Of course, Perseus wasn't new at this either. "This is all so sudden," he said. "I thought all you attacker types liked to play with your prey. Aren't you supposed to stalk my woman or kill my friends or something?"
MacClennan actually smiled. "No, Perseus. I am no dog without honor. A straight challenge is my way. Or do you need to prepare for a battle?"
"No, no, nothing like that," Perseus said, shrugging out of his coat. The rain soaked into and through his shirt almost instantly. He shifted his grip on his foot long blade. MacClennan divested himself of his coat as well, draping it over the Ford Escort Perseus had hidden behind. The two combatants stepped out into the center of the street.
"Is that your only sword?" MacClennan asked.
Perseus nodded, then realized the subtle movement might have gone unnoticed in the heavy rain. "Yes, it is," he said.
MacClennan shrugged. "That is unfortunate. Well, this should be rather short, then, eh?"
Perseus smiled. MacClennan's blade might be bigger, but the Greek Immortal had a few unseen advantages. First was age; he was easily fifteen hundred years older than the Scot. Second, his short sword might look simple, but Perseus had made several modifications to his blade over the centuries. The short gladius was made of a tungsten carbine alloy, not simple steel, and one edge was serrated like a surgical saw; ideal for cutting through bone or severing heads. The blood grooves gave it a nice, balanced aesthetic look, while serving a utilitarian purpose. On top of that, the sword was carefully balanced for throwing.
The Scot stepped forward and attacked, swinging his heavy sword in a sweeping arc. Perseus ducked under the blow, and stepping to the side, unleashed a stinging attack on MacClennan's flank. The Scot reacted quickly, bringing up his heavy blade to parry the attack.
Perseus riposted and lashed out with the edge of his blade.
MacClennan was too slow, and acquired a shallow cut across his collar bone.
MacClennan growled in rage and slashed at Perseus. The quicker man blocked easily, but was pressed back by the force of the blow, out of the range of his sword. The Scot followed up with his attack, swinging for a crippling blow to the leg. Perseus leapt up and flowed into a Taido spinning kick. His boot connected with MacClennan's head, knocking him onto his back in the wet street.
Perseus landed lightly on his feet. MacClennan, dazed by the blow, struggled to get up. Perseus planted his booted foot on the Scot's wrist, and drove his sword into the man's heart.
He twisted the blade, and wrenched it free. MacClennan's eyes rolled up onto their sockets as his life left him momentarily.
"There can be only one," Perseus said through clenched teeth, bringing his sword down and splitting the other Immortal in two. The head rolled in the puddles, blood spraying from the severed neck. A cloud of light began to form around the neck, expanding to encompass Perseus. He staggered back as the light enveloped him. Arcs of lightning caressed him, sliding over him, touching him more intimately than any lover.
The Quickening swallowed him whole, and he devoured it in turn. When the light subsided, Perseus stood alone, slightly dazed. The streetlights in the area were shattered, and all the automobiles in the immediate area were scarred by electrical burns.
Perseus recovered quickly, subsuming MacClennan's voice beneath all the others he had killed. He picked up both coats and MacClennan's sword, adjusted the cap on his head, and disappeared into the night.
Perseus rose early the next morning, showered, shaved, and made himself a modest breakfast. As he did, he thought about the events of the previous night. He had never met MacClennan before, never even heard of him. In fact, as far as he knew, the MacLeods were the only Scottish Immortals. And they weren't the types to go hunting; the Highlanders were fairly sedentary and preferred to let the Gathering to come to them.
MacClennan had obviously been of a different sort. Yet he failed to fit into the mold of the typical hunting Immortal. Most of them were "evil," to use a morally charged word. The wanted to kill other Immortals, derived some amount of perverse pleasure in the Game. The most extreme example of the hunters had been the Kurgan. That one had been evil, beyond a doubt. Perseus had engaged the man twice in his lifetime, both instances barely escaping with his neck intact.
The older MacLeod had done the entire Immortal community a great service by exterminating the Kurgan a decade ago. He certainly saved Perseus from having to make the attempt.
But MacClennan: what had driven him to attack Perseus? Perseus knew he could use MacClennan's Quickening to answer the question easily, but he wanted to puzzle the answer out himself. He absently munched on a bagel as his mind worked.
Could MacClennan have slain one of Perseus' old enemies, and felt the hatred of the Greek through the Quickening? A possibility. Or could he have had something to do with Pierce's death? That brought Perseus up cold. He stopped chewing, forced the wad of bagel down his throat. Easy way to find out. Just concentrate, summon up the memories of the dead man. Yeah, real easy. Perseus took a sip of orange juice. Then carefully, he centered himself and called MacClennan up. A moment later, he had the answer. One he wasn't expecting.
MacClennan's current alias, Ashford Brown, had been a businessman in town for a convention. He learned about Perseus through contacts in the underworld -- the underworld, that is -- and decided to look him up. What with the Gathering on and all, MacClennan had figured it a good idea.
Perseus smiled grimly. MacClennan had gone looking for trouble, and found it. Too bad for him he couldn't handle it. Perseus was both disappointed and relieved to learn MacClennan was not involved in the attack on Pierce. Disappointed because he still had to leave... and relieved because he still had to leave. Germany wasn't one of Perseus' favorite places, but he was feeling edgy and in need of some travel. So, Germany it was.
He stood up, finishing his juice, and picked up the phone. He dialed the number of Kurt Densmore. He let it ring five times, and was about to hang up, when he heard someone pick up and mutter, "Hello?"
"Kurt." It wasn't a question.
"Yes?" the sleepy voice said on the other line.
"This is Percy. I have a problem, and it may require your expertise to solve it."
The voice was suddenly awake. "Sorry, Perce. I didn't realize it was you. What do you need?"
"A friend of mine was recently murdered in Germany, in a castle with some... history." Densmore did not miss the significance of the stressed word.
"Don't want to talk about it over the phone, hmmm?" Perseus remained silent, not bothering to answer a purely rhetorical question.
"Tell you what," Densmore continued, "drop by the house about noon.
You're not leaving right away, are you?"
"No, not yet," Perseus said. "See you at noon." He hung up.
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PoT_Ch01.php -- Revised: January 27, 2021.