Standard disclaimers. Highlander: the series is not my show, Duncan, Richie and Joe are not my characters. This is a piece of fanfiction, for entertainment (mine and yours) only. There is no intention to infringe on copyright (although we all realise that fanfiction IS a copyright infringement).
Deathless Prose
Richie Ryan tossed the garishly coloured paperback book onto the coffee table, where it landed with a thump. Duncan MacLeod gave the younger man a quizzical look as he glanced up from his own reading.
"What's this, Richie? Too many long words for you?" he teased.
Richie frowned and gestured to the book. "I picked this up in the gas-station yesterday. I think you should check it out, Mac."
MacLeod shrugged, marked his place carefully in the leather-bound volume he was reading, placed it on the table and reached for the paperback.
The front cover was embossed in metallic lettering over a painting done in the glossy, quasi-realistic manner favoured by fantasy artists. A tawny limbed beauty, her raven hair astream in some designer breeze, perched astride a powerful motorcycle. Her clothing was minimal, consisting mostly of skin-tight, spike heeled, thigh boots. Her arms were raised above her head, holding aloft a shining sword, from which bolts of lightening flashed skywards. The title was 'Undying Blood' and the author's name, in smaller letters at the bottom of the page, was 'Annette Daniels'.
"Looks standard for the genre to me," the Highlander remarked.
"You don't know the name?" his pupil demanded. MacLeod shook his head.
"Should I?"
Richie shrugged. "Maybe," he replied. "Read it, Mac, and then you tell me."
A frown crept over his face as MacLeod read the first chapter. The frown deepened as he read further. By the end of the story his face was a thundercloud.
Richie was working out in the dojo when Duncan went looking for him, dancing his way through a series of swings and parries with his sword against an imaginary opponent. He looked up at his teacher's entrance and noted the expression on his face."Well?" he asked.
"Where did you say you found this," MacLeod demanded in return.
"In the book-rack at the gas-station," the young Immortal replied, "but since then I've seen it in other places too. Bookshops, the supermarket - it's on the best-seller list. In the top ten."
The older man grunted. "I'm not surprised, it's damn well written. And the subject is.... enthralling," he finished ironically.
Richie grinned wryly. "It is that, Mac. So, this Annette Daniels, is she one of us?"
"I don't recognize the name," MacLeod replied, "but then, I don't know every Immortal in the world."
Richie frowned thoughtfully. "But whoever she is, this 'Annette Daniels' must be an Immortal - that was the Game described in her story. The Game, the Prize and us."
MacLeod shrugged agreement. "Apart from minor details, yes," he agreed. "But there is another possibility - that she is one of Dawson's people, a Watcher."
The younger man nodded thoughtfully. "He might know her," he suggested, "or know of her, at any rate."
Mac pulled on his coat. "That's what I thought. Coming?" he asked.
Joe Dawson closed the pages of the paperback book and handed it back to MacLeod with a thoughtful frown."I can see why you're concerned," he commented. "It's not a name I know, either as an Immortal or a Watcher but, if you like, I'll check the database for you." He paused and added, "Although, it could just be a coincidence."
MacLeod shook his head. "It's too close for that," he argued.
An hour's search of the computer database turned up one 'Annette' (beheaded fifty years ago) and two 'Daniels', neither of whom seemed likely candidates to be the mystery author. A short biography in the back of the book described 'Ms Daniels' as English and in her mid twenties. Charles Daniels had an apparent age of forty and a strong French-Canadian accent, while Michael Daniels (born late eighteenth century) was known to be only semi-literate, even now. There were no current Watchers who matched the description."Of course, if it is a pen-name, we wouldn't be able to match it from this," Dawson observed. MacLeod scowled.
"We can only hope it's her real name," he replied.
"What if she's neither one of your people nor mine?" suggested the Watcher. "She could be either a friend or lover of someone. Someone close enough to be told of your people's existence."
The Immortal snorted and rolled his eyes in disgust. "I'd hope that anyone I trusted with my story wouldn't immediately turn it into entertainment."
Joe shrugged. "That depends on whether or not they believed you." His friend raised his thick dark eyebrows expressively.
The woman was in her late forties. She wore an expensive Donna Karen skirt suit and a silk blouse, carefully applied make-up and a hundred dollar haircut. The hair was still dark, whether by nature or artifice, and her scarlet mouth was pursed and heavily lined through years of smoking. At this moment she was on her third cup of coffee and her fourth cigarette."Good morning, Netty," she called brightly as the second woman entered the hotel coffee shop.
'Netty' glared at her companion. She was much younger, around twenty-four or twenty-five, with long copper coloured hair. Her complexion was pale, as redheads tend to be, but beneath her make-up, the skin had an ashen tone and dark circles ringed her gray-green eyes. She was also dressed in a skirt and jacket suit; but of a less impressive label and cut.
"Did I ever tell you how much I hate that nickname, Isobel?" she muttered.
The older woman smirked. "My, you are grouchy this morning. Low blood sugar, probably. Here, have a muffin," she pushed the plate of food towards the other place setting.
"Crumpet," Netty corrected her.
"English muffin," Isobel repeated.
"Crumpet," the younger woman repeated stubbornly. "You made me change half the words in my book to their American equivalents. At least allow me to speak my own language."
"Tsk, tsk," Isobel scolded. "You set your story in the US. We had to change the language."
"Yes, but my character was British," the writer complained. "And that's another thing - when are you going to get my biography changed? This is the second volume of my trilogy and you've still got me listed as 'English'. I'm from Scotland."
"But you live in England."
"Arthur C Clark lives in Sri Lanka but that doesn't make him Tamil," was the retort. Isobel laughed.
"Oh, Annette dear, you are in a state today. I hope you're going to be more cheerful at the signing."
Annette sighed and buttered a crumpet. "I promise I'll be nice to all the little fanboys and girls," she growled. "I'll even smile sweetly when they tell me their ideas about how the story should go; and I'll try not to snarl when someone tells me how I've got it all wrong."
Isobel laughed. "I sometimes wonder why you ever became a writer, if that's how you see your readership," she chuckled.
The writer frowned. "I told you why," she replied. "I started writing because my therapist suggested that writing would exorcise the dreams."
"And did it?"
The younger woman appeared to consider. "Perhaps at first," she admitted. "The details became more clear cut and specific but at least they came less frequently - or they did."
The older woman regarded her charge sharply. "Have you been dreaming again?" she demanded. Annette nodded.
"Ever since we started planning this trip," she admitted. "From once in a blue moon, they started coming every few weeks; and in the last month, more than that. In fact, in the last week I've dreamed every night. Last night's was the worst yet."
"Perhaps we should get you some sleeping pills," Isobel suggested.
Annette shook her head. "They don't help," she stated. "Either they send me off to sleep but leave the dream cycle alone, and I wake up screaming, or they anesthetize me into unconsciousness and I feel like hell in the morning because it wasn't real sleep."
The older woman frowned more deeply. "Then as soon as this trip is finished, I'm taking you to see my therapist. Meanwhile, if things get worse, forgawdsake, tell me. You're important to us," she referred to the publishing company she represented, "and we'd rather re-schedule a signing tour by a few weeks for ill-health, than lose you for longer because you've had a breakdown."
"Hey, hey hey, Mac, my man," yodeled Richie, stepping out of the elevator into MacLeod's apartment. "Is this a good day, or is this a good day?"MacLeod smiled at his young friend's ebullient air and raised one amused eyebrow at Dawson, who had 'just stopped by' a few minutes before.
"Good morning, Richie. What are you so cheerful about?"
Richie grinned. "Only this," he replied. "You know that lady writer that we were all so worried about a few weeks back?"
Mac nodded.
"Well, I've found her," the boy announced. He handed the older man a printed handbill. MacLeod perused it quickly then handed it to Dawson.
"Seems the book's part of a trilogy," the youngster continued. "Part two's out in hardback this month, so the publishers have organized a signing tour. Ms 'Annette Daniels' will be in Warburtons this very afternoon. I'm going to check her out."
The two older men exchanged glances. "Like some company?" enquired MacLeod.
"I think I'll come too," added Dawson. The Highlander shot his mortal friend a half second's glare that might have been annoyance. Of late it seemed that he couldn't move without the Watcher being there too.
Warburtons was a large and long established bookstore in the centre of town, with three stories of salesfloors. The top floor was where fantasy and science fiction were situated and for today it had been turned into a giant party. The visiting author was seated, with her publishers' agent/representative, at a desk in the centre. Although her appearance had been advertised, Annette Daniels was still a new enough name in the world of fantasy writers that she did not draw huge crowds. A small and informal group of perhaps fifty or sixty wandered around the room. As Annette had predicted the majority of those present were young and male. The few females present were also mostly young.The store manager had provided wine for those he considered 'VIPs' - thin, cheap domestic wine - and a selection of nibbles. Annette had declined the alcohol and asked instead for coffee. She wasn't willing to risk tea, although it had been offered, after her last experience of Stateside teamaking. Isobel had accepted the wine and was now trying to bully the manager into finding her an ashtray, despite the fact that the store had a 'no smoking' policy.
"Who do you want it made out to?" the writer asked of the young redheaded man who slid his book onto the table before her.
"Richie Ryan," the boy replied, smiling. "May I just say the sword-fights were very believable. Have you had much experience?"
Another one, Annette thought to herself with a grimace. To him she replied, "Who has, these days?. Six months of fencing at school and a few lessons in stage-fighting. I'm glad you enjoyed it."
"Oh, I did," the boy grinned at her and, despite herself, she found herself smiling back. He had an engaging smile. "So did my friend," he added. "In fact he's come along with me just to meet you." He gestured at two older men, one apparently in his mid-thirties, the other much older, who stood talking nearby.
"Mac?" called the boy. The younger of the two men turned round, a curious look on his face. He was tall, dressed in a long black trench coat and with his dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. His dark brown eyes were lightly ringed with good natured creases. It was a face that looked as if it smiled easily.
Annette bit back a scream. It emerged anyway as a strangled yelp.
"Miss Daniels?" his voice was pleasant. Pleasant and faintly familiar. That accent surely never originated here in the States. It held overtones of many places and an underlying burr of home.
He held his hand out for hers.
"Stay away from me," the writer pleaded in terror. She scrabbled her chair backwards.
"Netty dear? Are you all right?" Isobel was at her side at once. She glared at the dark haired man, convinced that he was the source of her charge's panic.
"No. I have to go. I feel sick," Annette gabbled. Without even stopping to pick up her bag, she fled towards the staff exit and stairs. Behind her Isobel and the store's security staff guarded her escape.
Joe Dawson watched the young woman's reaction to Duncan MacLeod and her fear driven flight. While the security staff surrounded MacLeod and Richie, he was free to follow her. He headed first for the elevator and then for the rear of the store.Once outside the door, common sense had reasserted itself and Annette stopped running. She leant against the wall, placed her hands over her face and shuddered.
Over twenty years of Watching had taught Dawson the art of invisibility. Concealing himself in a nearby doorway, he watched her and saw the older woman, the publisher's agent, arrive.
"Annette, are you all right?"
Annette burst into tears. "Isobel, oh god. It was him!"
Isobel reached out and took the younger woman in her arms. "What did he do to you? What did he say?" her expression was fierce. "The manager's calling the cops just now. We'll have the pervert locked up."
Annette shook her head. "He didn't do anything. He didn't say anything either, Isobel, except hello."
"Then what possessed you to run away like that, girl?" exclaimed the older woman.
This caused a fresh burst of sobbing. "I dreamt him," the young woman confessed. "He's the one from my dreams."
"Is he now?" murmured Isobel. "Well, if I saw the man of my dreams, girl, I wouldn't run away from him like that."
Annette pulled free from the agent's embrace and scowled. "My dreams, Isobel, not my daydreams," she corrected her. "Oh, if only he were just from my daydreams."
Duncan MacLeod and Richie Ryan found themselves ejected unceremoniously onto the street. Warburton's security staff barred their return to the store. The young redhead was furious at this treatment but MacLeod seemed resigned. At length he suggested that they return home.On the way, Richie calmed down enough to question his mentor about the woman. The older man frowned slightly. His jaw was tightly clenched, the muscles working convulsively in his cheek.
"Do you remember how you were when we first met, Richie?" he asked, mysteriously.
"Yeah, young," replied the boy with a grin. At MacLeod's quizzically raised eyebrow he blushed and went on, "Okay, young-ger. And a right smart-ass," he admitted, "but you and Tessa cured me of that."
A fleeting shadow crossed the older man's face at the mention of Tessa's name. It was several months since her death; he had recovered enough to consider love again, but he still missed her, still mourned her.
Life went on. He smiled, bitterly at first, and then with wry humour. "The cure's not complete yet," he informed the youngster.
Joe Dawson waited and watched as the two women got into a cab. Listening carefully and without breathing - because one's own breath can drown out a quiet sound - he was rewarded by overhearing the older woman give the driver a destination. When the cab drove off, he stepped out into the street and summoned one of his own.
The telephone was already ringing when Mac and Richie arrived at the loft. MacLeod answered it at once."That's interesting. Thanks, Joe. Stay there, we'll join you," Richie heard him finish.
"Was that Joe Dawson?" he enquired.
MacLeod nodded. "He's at the Claremont Hotel. He has a line on our mystery lady."
The youngster immediately grabbed his jacket and put it back on. "Well, what are we waiting for?" he demanded.
Dawson was waiting for them in the hotel foyer. He acknowledged their arrival with a nod and gestured for the two to join him."You're just in time," he informed them. "When they arrived, Miss Daniels went upstairs to change and pack. The other one - the publishers' agent - asked for their bills. Then she ordered a cab for the airport. If you want to talk to this woman, you've got about half an hour."
MacLeod nodded. "Do you know which room she's in?" he enquired.
"Yes, I... whoah," the Watcher interrupted himself as the elevator door slid open. "Here she comes, Mac."
"With bodyguard," growled Richie, his eye on the older woman. The young Immortal remembered all too well how Isobel had glared at him back at the bookstore.
"Joe? Can you handle her?" asked MacLeod. "Richie, give him a hand distracting her. I should be able to corner Ms Daniels myself."
The two women stepped from the elevator and into the foyer. Isobel scanned the hall for a bellboy to take their luggage."Here, let me help you with those." She turned to find an attractive man of about her own age with dark, gray-streaked hair and beard, standing at her elbow. He was holding a wheeled porter's trolley. He smiled at her and she smiled back.
"You're surely never the bellboy," she drawled.
He gave her another charmingly lopsided smile. "Only a would-be white knight, eager to aid a lady," he replied.
Annette was still a bit spooked from her experiences at the bookstore. Isobel said she'd smoothed things over with the management there and promised him an extra few dozen of the pre-signed book copies.She'd let the older woman steer her back here to the hotel while she was almost in a daze. They hadn't been due to check out until the next day but the agent had suggested they cut short their stay and take an earlier flight to the next town on their schedule. Isobel might not have been sure what was going on, but she understood, or claimed to understand, why the writer was so keen to leave this town.
She let the agent struggle with the bags - not deliberately, but because her thoughts kept drifting back to that meeting. That face, those eyes, swam in her vision still, that voice echoed in her ear. 'Miss Daniels' was all he'd said, yet it rang in her mind even now.
"Miss Daniels?"
No, that was not an echo from her mind, nor was that face only in her mind's eye. Annette whimpered.
"Miss Daniels?" MacLeod repeated. Before him, the young woman cringed back."Go away," she pleaded.
He shook his head. "I have to talk to you."
She cowered away from him. "Please. Leave me alone." Her eyes darted around the room, seeking her companion and protector, but Isobel's attention was elsewhere. In panic and desperation, she lunged towards the revolving main door.
Duncan tried to intercept her but the door was immediately blocked by a middle aged couple and their luggage entering the hotel. Then one of their suitcases managed to get jammed in the wedge shaped area and it was almost a minute and a half before the door would move, in any direction.
Annette ran with no clear idea of where she was running, or even why. She had dreamed of this man and those dreams were not always pleasant; but those were dreams, not reality. In reality he had done nothing to her.The city was large - larger than any city in her native Scotland and larger still than the small English city where she had made her home. The pavements - no, sidewalks - were crowded in this downtown area and the conventions of pedestrian traffic differed from those she was familiar with. After bumping into and jostling at least a score of people, she stopped running.
She was now several blocks from the hotel and had turned more than one corner. She glanced behind her - no sign of the man - so she halted to catch her breath.
Duncan had watched the woman disappear down the street through the plate glass frontage of the hotel, so he knew in what direction to start looking. After that instinct kept him on track, turning one corner after another, staying always on the same side of the street, avoiding crossing traffic.Sure enough, there she was. She stood by the kerb, glancing back nervously, poised to flee yet again. He ducked into a doorway to avoid her eye.
Somehow he'd have to get close to her without her seeing him, and grab her so that she couldn't run away. Her panic puzzled him. He'd had no idea what to expect of this mysterious novelist - a fellow Immortal, a Watcher, someone's mortal lover? - but a complete stranger who fled in terror at the sight of him?
She intrigued him, obsessed him. Before he was curious and mildly concerned about her writings, now he had to know where the stories came from. It was a compulsion as deep as the urge to fight a strange Immortal on first meeting and just as hard to ignore.
He watched as the woman, looking and not seeing him, relaxed. Then he began to edge closer.
Annette drew a deep calming breath. The street was quiet and almost empty and there was still no sign of him. She looked around, trying to get her bearings. Isobel would surely have missed her by now and be worried - and the taxi was booked. The sooner she got back to the hotel and into that taxi, the sooner she'd be out of this town and away from that disturbing man. Someday soon she'd have to sit down and work out exactly why he affected her the way he did; but she wanted to be safe on her counselor's couch when she did that.She turned and began to retrace her steps.
She was coming this way. In seconds, she'd pass right by him. Duncan waited patiently and then slid out from the doorway behind her. He caught her arm tightly, pulling her up short."Miss Daniels?" he kept his voice low, hoping this time she wouldn't panic.
Annette screamed and jerked away. Automatically, thanks to the Women's Self Defense classes, she spun her wrist in a circle breaking his hold, and stamped down on his instep.
Though she hadn't a fraction of his training and experience in the Martial Arts, her actions surprised MacLeod just long enough for her to break away. She fled once more, this time taking off across the street.
Panicked though she might be, she still remembered her road sense. Unfortunately she was British and so was her road sense: so to her the truck was on the wrong side of the road. She had only seconds to remember this before the impact sent her rebounding from its fender, to land in an untidy and bloody heap on the tarmac.
Richie saw MacLeod take off after the Daniels woman. Dawson seemed to have her companion well in hand. In fact old Joe was proving himself to be quite the charmer. The young man threw him an admiring smile and a wink and followed after his Immortal mentor.It was easier for him to follow MacLeod than for Mac to follow the woman. Although the Highlander was in a hurry, he was not trying to avoid anyone and the boy could zero in on Mac's Immortal 'buzz' anyway.
He heard the sirens as he came into sensing range of the other Immortal and an ambulance tore past him, all its lights flashing.
MacLeod turned as Richie came up behind him. He took the boy by the arm and led him away from the scene of disaster."What happened, Mac?" the youngster asked. MacLeod shrugged.
"She ran right into the path of the truck rather than talk to me. I never thought I was so terrifying."
Richie's mouth quirked. "Only when you've got a sword in your hand," he quipped. Graveyard humour, it didn't amuse the older man. "And she was quite a looker, too," the youngster added sadly.
The paramedics were loading the woman gently onto their stretcher and into the ambulance. There was an air mask on her face and an IV drip in her arm but it was obvious to both Immortals that they were just going through the motions. Death was familiar enough to both of them that they recognized one who was almost through its doorway.
Joe Dawson caught Richie's frantic signaling and looked up to see MacLeod standing outside. With a smile and a muttered excuse, he extricated himself from Isobel's company."What happened?" he asked. Duncan explained. Dawson's face drained of colour.
"Oh, god," he sighed. He shook his head and squared his shoulders decisively. "Somebody had better tell Isobel." Leaning heavily on his cane he turned to re-enter the hotel. MacLeod stopped him.
"Not yet, Joe," he said. "For the moment it might be best if Miss Daniels is reported as a 'Jane Doe'."
The Watcher's eyes widened. "What?" he exclaimed. "You mean?"
MacLeod nodded. "I had better get down to the morgue. Someone should be with her when she first comes to."
Now Dawson shook his head. "Not you, Duncan," he stated. "You've seen the effect you have on her. Someone else will have to explain it to her." He turned to Richie.
"Me?" the young man squeaked. Both older men nodded.
"She has met you before," Dawson reminded him. "She wasn't afraid of you until she saw MacLeod."
"Take the T-bird," Duncan told him. "She'll probably be disoriented at first, hopefully she'll be tractable. Keep it simple and bring her to the dojo. I'll stay out of the way until you've had a chance to talk to her. Try to find out what is it about me that frightens her."
Annette woke with a start as a wave of agony washed over her. Then it faded almost as quickly as it began. She couldn't think where she was, which hotel room in which town. The room was cold and her bed was strangely hard. She opened her eyes and pulled the sheet from her face.It was pitch dark and she reached out her hand to fumble for the bedside light; but her hand touched the wall only inches from her side. She tried the other side, and found it the same.
Confused, she tried to sit up and her head met the ceiling barely a foot above her. She explored her surroundings by touch. She was lying on a bare metal surface, in a narrow, shallow space. The walls and ceiling were also metal.
"Hello?" she called softly. "Where am I?"
No-one answered but just as she was about to call again, more loudly, she was filled with an overwhelming sense of 'presence'. Like when someone was sneaking up behind you and you couldn't possibly hear them but somehow you knew. A soft buzz, like the white noise from a stereo switched on but not playing anything, murmured in her head.
There was the metallic sound of a heavy door latch, like an industrial fridge, and then light flooded in on her.
She felt her bed slide out from its niche and found herself looking up into a young man's face. An attractive face and one that was vaguely familiar.
"Hi," he greeted her, sounding a little awkward. "Richie Ryan. We met earlier."
She frowned, recognizing him. "At the bookshop," she agreed. She sat up and suddenly realised that under the sheet she was naked.
The young man's eyes widened and he blushed. "Oops, I should have thought of that," he muttered, as if to himself. He unzipped his own jacket and threw it around her shoulders.
This was all too weird. "Where am I?" she demanded. Richie grimaced.
"Err, the morgue," he informed her. "Come on, lets get out of here before anyone comes in and sees us."
She stood down from the shelf but otherwise didn't move. "The morgue?" she echoed.
He nodded uncomfortably. "Fraid so. I got a whole lot to tell you, explanations and all, but this isn't the time or place." He took her by the elbow and steered her towards the door.
She let him guide her this time. "Where are we going?"
"To the car, first," he replied, "then to somewhere where I can tell you exactly what's going on, what's happened to you. And maybe find you some clothes."
"What happened to mine?"
He grimaced again. "I expect they cut them off you in the ER," he said. "They were in a bit of a state."
Suddenly she remembered - well the last thing she remembered.
"I was hit by that lorry. I should have been killed."
He winced. "You were. As I said, there's a lot to tell you."
Richie was trying to find her some clothes while she hid in a toilet cubicle. While she waited she caught sight of her face in the little metal mirror bolted to the wall above a miniature handbasin and winced. She looked - well, she looked like a corpse. Mud and dried blood matted her hair and stippled her face. She ran water into the tiny sink, scrubbed her face and tried to wash and comb her hair, with only her fingers for a grooming aid."Yo, Daniels, you still in there?" Richie rapped at the door and hissed. "Got these for you." He shoved a bundle of fabric and a pair of soft slippers in through the crack she opened. The slippers were a little too big and the clothing turned out to be a set of nurse's scrubs. Still, with the brightly coloured leather biker's jacket zipped up over it, she didn't look too unusual. A staff member going off duty, perhaps.
The boy then led her out to the carpark, taking care to avoid crowded areas and instructing her to keep her head down as much as possible in public.
"Wouldn't do for one of the doctors or nurses who worked on you to suddenly see you walking about," he explained. Annette, still puzzled by the unusual circumstances of her awakening, allowed him to guide her.
The car he led her to was a beauty. A black Thunderbird, old enough to be judged a classic and in perfect condition. She was no expert, but she knew enough about cars and their worth to know that this boy could never afford a car like this.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked.
"Somewhere we can get you cleaned up properly," he replied, then added, "and where you can get a proper explanation about what's happened to you."
"Not back to my hotel?"
"Not yet. I promise I'll take you back there later, if you want. Word of honour," he finished, crossing his heart.
As the boy led her through the swinging double doors, Annette again felt/heard that faint buzz of presence she had felt back at the morgue. She realised that it had been with her slightly all the time she had been with the boy, but faded into the background. Now it strengthened again and she realised it meant someone else was nearby. Nearby but unseen."What is this place?" she asked.
"A dojo," the boy replied. "It belongs to my friend Duncan MacLeod. You met him earlier."
She stopped where she stood, her eyes wide with fright. "Him?"
Richie grabbed her before she could run away again, holding her tightly in his arms. "Whoah!" he exclaimed. "What is it about Mac that scares you so, lady?"
Annette shuddered in his embrace. "I dreamt him," she explained.
"Dreamt of Mac? So why does that scare you?"
She hesitated, biting her lip. "Because I died in those dreams."
The boy frowned. "You died in that street," he informed her. "Mac was there. Was that what you were dreaming of?"
"I..." she began, "Maybe. I suppose so; but in my dreams there was a sword."
The redhead grinned. "Yeah, there usually is with Mac. I got one too and so will you soon. It sort of comes along with everything else."
"Everything what else?" she demanded. "You promised you'd explain what has happened to me."
"I will," he assured her, "But Mac could explain it better. He's older, lots older, and he's had more experience at this. Thing is," he quirked a smile at her, "it's a bit difficult to explain anything when you keep making like an Olympic sprinter."
For a moment he wondered if he was getting through to her when she tensed in his arms. He continued to hold her tightly, until finally she relaxed.
"All right," she agreed. "I won't run away from him. Take me to this Duncan MacLeod of yours - before I go crazy with curiosity."
Annette sat on MacLeod's couch, her hands cupped around a mug of hot tea. MacLeod made good tea, she decided. As she sipped, letting the warm beverage soothe the chill of the mortuary from her body, he explained what had happened to her."Just like my stories," she murmured, when he had finished.
"More or less," he agreed. "You said you had dreamt of me; what else did you dream?"
She shrugged. "Of swords and fights and death," she answered. "Of dying and not dying; and of killing."
"And of Quickenings," Richie interjected, "though that's not what you call them in your books."
She nodded, frowning. "That was what scared me most about the dreams," she told him. "The feelings that came after the killings were...." her voice faded to a whisper, "like sex. Addictive."
The Highlander nodded. "They could be, if you let them," he told her. "This is the time of the Gathering and we all have to take heads; but if we come to enjoy it too much then we become the very thing we should fight."
"And you talk about 'the Game'," she murmured, "Why do you call it that?"
MacLeod shrugged. "What else would you call it?" he queried in return.
She shuddered. "So what happens now?" Timidly she glanced up and found her gaze trapped by the sad/kindly expression in his dark brown eyes.
"Now you learn to fight, to defend yourself," he told her. "I can teach you, if you'll let me." She nodded, hesitantly and he smiled.
"But first you get cleaned up and start to feel human again. Richie will show you where the bathroom is and I'll find you a robe you can wear until we collect your bags from the hotel."
The desk clerk pointed Dawson to a 'phone booth in the corner. Dawson thanked the boy and took the call."Duncan? Is everything all right?"
"Fine, Joe," the Scotsman replied. "Miss Daniels is here at the dojo with me now. She's a little shook up but she seems to be accepting things quite well."
"You're with her? She has no problems with that?"
"We've talked," Duncan informed him. "No, no problems now. It was a misunderstanding."
The Watcher sighed in relief. "Glad to hear it. When can we expect Miss Daniels back here? Isobel has been going frantic - I had to stop her calling the police and the hospitals."
"That was what I wanted to talk to you about, Joe. Miss Daniels will be staying on here for a while - a week or two at least. She says Ms Forsythe offered earlier to postpone the rest of the signing tour for ill health if she needed it. You might say she needs it."
"I'll say," Dawson agreed. "But I think Isobel will want to talk to the girl herself about that."
"I agree. Can you bring her over here? And if you could bring Annette's bags too."
Isobel Forsythe was reluctant to let Joe Dawson, a man she had met only hours before, lead her off on some wild goose chase. Common sense told her that the best course of action was to wait at the hotel and let the police find her missing author; but the police would be unwilling to take any action when the girl had been missing such a short time. Eventually, unwillingly, she agreed to go with him.The dwelling that he took her to looked most unprepossessing from the outside. A large warehouse type building of dirty stone, the first floor was taken up by some kind of gym. A dojo, he called it. That was the Japanese word for a gym, wasn't it? He showed her into a converted freight elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. They were met there by a redheaded young man. He greeted Joe cheerfully.
"Mac's in the kitchen," he said. Joe nodded his thanks and led her through.
The converted loft apartment was a complete contrast to the building's exterior. Polished wooden floors, comfortable, classy, old fashioned furniture and what looked to her like genuine antiques. It took both money and taste to furnish a place as well as this, yet make it look like a home and not an interior designer's showplace.
When she saw the man that Dawson called 'Mac', the woman was momentarily startled; and when she saw Annette sitting in his kitchen, sipping a mug of tea, she was amazed.
"Annette, honey!" she exclaimed. "Are you all right?" she ran to hug the younger woman.
Annette stood up and returned her embrace enthusiastically. "I'm fine, Isobel," she replied, her voice soft and a little tearful.
"Why did you run away like that? Where have you been?" the agent queried, then noticing that the writer was dressed in a man's dressing gown, too large for her slight frame, demanded, "And what happened to your clothes?"
Annette glanced at MacLeod before replying. "I..., uh, there was an accident and they were ruined," she said.
"An accident? What kind of accident? Were you hurt? We should get you to hospital."
Once again the younger woman exchanged a secretive look with the dark haired man.
"No, it's all right, Isobel. I've already been to the hospital," she told her. "I'm not hurt."
"The main damage was to her wardrobe," interjected the man. He smiled and added, "I hope you brought Miss Daniels' bags - I asked Joe to ask you."
"They're downstairs in the dojo," Dawson informed him.
"I'll get them," offered Richie.
Isobel waited while the bags were fetched and made use of the time to study and observe both the man MacLeod and her charge. There was something going on here that she was not being told - an accident that ruined clothes yet left the girl unmarked? Looks exchanged and sentences unfinished; she had the feeling the girl wanted to say something and MacLeod didn't approve.
"Coffee, Ms Forsythe?" asked MacLeod.
"Thank you. Do you mind if I smoke?" she asked, rummaging in her purse.
He frowned slightly but shrugged. "I'll fetch you an ashtray," he replied.
She moved closer to Annette, placing herself between the young woman and the three men, and made her move.
"All right, put your hands up!" she snapped, pulling the .38 from her purse and aiming it at the men. "Annette honey, get your clothes on," she gestured to the bag that Richie had placed on the couch. "Whatever it is that this guy has got on you, he can't hurt you now." She centred her aim on Macleod.
"Aw, man," groaned Richie, smothering a grin behind his hand and shaking his head.
Annette squeaked in fright. "No, Isobel, please," she exclaimed. "It's not like that."
MacLeod faced her squarely, a gentle smile on his lips and Isobel was confused. There was not a trace of fear on his face; and there should have been. No matter how secure he felt, the gun should have made him at least slightly concerned. At this range she couldn't miss and there was no way he could reach her before she pulled the trigger.
"Isobel," Annette pleaded again.
MacLeod smiled at the younger woman. "It's all right, Annette. Go ahead and get dressed," he told her.
"But..." the girl protested.
"Your friend is concerned for your safety," he went on. "After your reaction to me earlier today, she is quite rightly worried and suspects that I might be holding you prisoner in some way."
"But you aren't," she said.
"No. You are quite free to go," he assured her.
Isobel looked suspiciously from MacLeod to Annette. "He's not holding you?" she demanded.
Annette sighed and shook her head. "No," she reassured the older woman. "Mr MacLeod has been very nice to me, considering how I treated him. I explained to you why I ran away from him and I explained it to him. He understood."
The agent frowned in puzzlement. "I'm not sure I do," she said. "If he's not holding you, why are you still here? Why didn't you come back to the hotel, after you'd been cleared by the hospital?"
"Because I was still a bit shaken up and because I had to find out about the dreams," Annette replied. "And because I wasn't exactly dressed for polite company."
"We thought it would be better if we brought her here," added Richie, "where she could get cleaned up first and talk comfortably, rather than in a hotel room."
"And since we've missed our 'plane," Annette went on, "and checked out of the room, Mr MacLeod suggested that we stay here tonight." MacLeod nodded confirmation of this.
"I'm going to be staying on for a while longer anyway," she added. At Isobel's look of surprise, she explained, her words tumbling out in a rush. "I have to: you said you could get me a postponement of the tour - I have to deal with the dreams, Isobel. The dreams - and other things."
Isobel glared at MacLeod. "And you can help her with this, MacLeod?" she queried.
"I believe so," he answered.
"And there's really no 'funny business' going on?"
The writer and the man exchanged looks again.
"No, nothing like that," Annette assured her.
Isobel sighed and lowered her gun. "All right - but it's not going to be easy explaining this one to Head Office."
"Don't try," suggested MacLeod. "Tell them that Miss Daniels is ill. Tell them she was in a minor road accident and the doctors suggested she take things easy for a few weeks."
The agent shot him a mildly poisonous glare. "A good enough excuse, I suppose. Okay, MacLeod, I'll need to use your 'phone."
The two women embraced at the boarding gate while Duncan MacLeod stood nearby."Bye, Isobel. Thank you for everything."
Isobel eyed the younger woman warily. "You're sure you won't come with me? You could still have that postponement; and take the time to see a reputable therapist."
Annette shook her head. "I really think this is best. I'll meet you in one month and we can go on with the tour."
The older woman shrugged. "All right; but I'm going to be calling you regularly," she warned, sending a fierce glare in MacLeod's direction.
"You have the number," MacLeod agreed.
Richie Ryan eyed the slender redheaded woman and turned to Duncan. "Do you think a month will be long enough for her to learn, Mac?" he asked. "No offense, Annette," he added to the woman herself, "but some of the others are real experienced, you know."MacLeod shrugged. "I'll know better after her first training session," he replied. "You said you have done fencing and stage sword work?"
She spread her hands helplessly. "A few months of fencing, twelve years ago, and half a dozen sessions with some Historical Re-enactment people when I was researching the books."
Richie grinned. "Well, at least you know which end of a sword is sharp."
She grinned back. "With re-enactment swords, neither end is sharp," she told him. "Real steel, real weight and balance but no edge. After all, you wouldn't want to cut someone's head off by accident." With a full night's uninterrupted sleep and an explanation for her dreams, the woman was beginning to recover her sense of humour.
MacLeod quirked a half smile at her. "Not by accident," he agreed. "Which style of sword did you use in this play-acting?"
"A Viking style broadsword. Circa tenth century."
He raised one eyebrow admiringly. "Rather a heavy blade. When you fenced, was it with epee or sabre?"
"Epee," she told him.
"We'll try you with a sabre," he suggested. "It has less weight than a broadsword but more cutting power than a rapier. The rapier is primarily a stabbing weapon - good enough for mortal duels; but for us...."
She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "We need cutting power," she finished for him.
MacLeod brushed the sabre aside and brought his katana round and under, slapping the woman firmly on the ribs."Ow!" she protested.
He frowned at her. "Again," he instructed. She struck again and again he parried her blow with ease.
"This is not a stage duel," he told her crossly. "You're still striking at my blade."
She hung her head. "I..." she began, then trailed off, leaving the rest of her excuse unsaid.
"You don't want to hurt me? Don't worry, you won't - for long," he grinned briefly, reminding her obliquely of one of the benefits of Immortality. "Even if I did let you touch me. The only blow you have to be careful of in a training match is this one," as he spoke, his sword moved, blurringly fast and came to a halt barely touching her neck.
Annette swallowed. She could feel the edge razor sharp against her skin. MacLeod lowered the blade and smiled encouragingly.
"Now, shall we try again?" he asked.
Annette unwound the damp towel from her hair and threw it with some venom at the laundry basket. Richie looked up and grinned."He been working you hard today?" he queried.
She groaned. "It's not the work-out I mind," she replied. "God knows, I need it. Writing is not an energetic occupation and I could stand to lose a pound or two; and if he's telling the truth about this Gathering...."
"He is," the younger Immortal confirmed.
She shrugged. "Then I suppose I need to learn how to defend myself as soon as possible. Plus we have only two weeks left of the month that Isobel promised me. Although ...." she paused, frowning, "I don't really understand why he's so hot to teach me," she murmured. "If the object is to be the last one and get the Prize, why train possible rivals? Why not just take my head himself?"
Richie gave her a shrug and a half smile. "Some folks would," he told her. "But since the idea is take your Quickening and your power and knowledge - well, lets face it, you haven't got much yet. You haven't lived long enough or taken any heads yourself. Neither have I, for that matter."
She quirked him a wry smile. "Sort of like gulping a couple of peanuts instead of a half decent sandwich," she joked.
He grinned back. "I guess so. Anyway, I'm not sure Mac is really that keen to get the Prize. Especially if it means taking out friends. He's in the Game more to prevent the wrong people getting the power - and to stay alive, of course. I feel the same way.
"Actually, I'm kind of jealous of Mac and the other older Immortals," he added. "You and I, we were born too late. By the time we became Immortal, the Gathering was beginning. They got a few centuries to learn and have fun, when there was less chance of someone wanting their heads; when meeting another Immortal was more likely to end up in some medieval tavern booze-up instead of a fight. They got to play around, we have to be responsible and capable from day one."
She sighed. "Yeah, that's what's getting to me," she confessed. "That and the fact that he keeps treating me like a child."
He grinned at her. "Well, by his standards you are," he reminded her. "So am I, though I've been Immortal longer than you - even if I was born a few years later than you. Remember, he's over four hundred years old."
She sighed enviously. "I know - and just think of the history he's lived through. I wish I could just talk to him about the times he's seen. History was supposed to be my subject at Uni, except I started getting the dreams and had to drop out."
"When you live through it, it isn't History, he says, just News. Hey, why not ask him? He does talk, you know."
"Not to me he doesn't," she grimaced. "Anyway, he scares me, he's so intense."
The boy nodded. "Yeah, he's been a bit like that since Tessa died. She was mortal but she understood about him and they'd been together for twelve years."
"Woow," she exclaimed. "I guess that's a long time for anyone. How did she die?"
He scowled. "A drug-crazed punk with a gun shot her in the street. Me too - that was my first death. Ironic thing is, Mac had just rescued Tess from another crazy that had been holding her hostage to get at him. He told me to get her to the car, while he went after the bad guy, and this mugger just appeared out of nowhere."
"You didn't know you were Immortal then?"
He shook his head. "Not an inkling. You know how you're not really Immortal until you die for the first time? Well, I'd been living with Mac and Tessa for a year by that time - they took me in after I tried to burglarize their antiques shop. Seems he knew that one day I'd become Immortal, but he didn't tell me."
"You didn't have any warning?"
"Not like you did," he retorted. "I just thought he was being kind; and trying to save me from my life of crime."
"Was it working?" she asked, with a grin. He grinned back.
"I can still work a lock," he told her.
The scream resounded in the apartment. Duncan and Richie were both woken by it. Both appeared in the main room at the same moment, half dressed and sword in hand.There was no sign of an intruder. Not a thing seemed out of place, then Annette stumbled from the guest room, wild eyed and disheveled, her sabre clutched tightly in her fist. She was awake and aware but the look she gave MacLeod made his heart stop.
Richie approached her. "Annette, you okay?"
"M'okay, Rich," she mumbled. Then she sobbed, dropped her sword and flung herself into the young man's arms.
He held her gently and sent MacLeod a look of utter bewilderment. The older Immortal closed his eyes briefly, as if in understanding, and laid his own sword down.
He picked up the crystal decanter from the sideboard and poured a generous measure into a glass. Richie led the young woman, still shaking with the emotion of her night terrors, to the sofa and MacLeod put the glass into her hand.
"The same dream?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Not quite," she replied.
"But I featured in it?" he pressed.
She did not reply, except to hang her head and clamp her lips tightly together.
Richie squeezed her hand. "Hey, don't I get to star in these dreams of yours?" he joked.
She winced. "You don't want to, Richie," she told him.
"Duncan, do you think I'm ready to go it alone yet?"MacLeod shook his head. "Not yet. Oh, you know the Rules and you might manage to defend yourself, if you remember what I've been trying to teach you, but I'm not sure you are really ready for the Gathering. I'm not sure you'll ever be ready for the Gathering."
"You mean, you're not sure I'll ever be able to take someone's head," she sighed. "MacLeod, if my dreams are true predictions of the future then you need have no concern about that."
Later that same day Annette approached Richie."Richie, you ride a motorbike; do you know the bike dealerships in town? Know where I could get a deal I could trust?"
The young man blinked at her request. "Sure, Annette," he confirmed. He eyed her speculatively and added, "Never thought of you as a biker."
"I'm not," she admitted, "or, to be more precise, I haven't been up till now. I always liked bikes but Mum would have had forty fits if I'd got one when I lived at home. I had one, a little hundred cc thing, when I first moved out and went to Uni. Just to get me around; but since then I've become..." she paused and finished with a wry smile, "a little cautious."
He nodded thoughtfully then grinned at her. "And now you realise that you don't have to be cautious any more?" he suggested.
She grinned back. "I must admit it does seem like a waste of time, with our advantages," she agreed.
He chuckled at that. "Okay, so what kind of bike you after? I mean, what money do you have to lay out on this?"
The woman gave him an innocent look. "Oh, about fifteen thousand dollars," she replied, and watched his jaw drop.
"Fifteen thou.....?!" he exclaimed and an expression of purest joy spread across his countenance. "Yeah, I think we can get you a bike for that."
MacLeod returned from his errands to find the apartment empty. Nor were his two students in the dojo. Richie he wasn't concerned about - the boy was no fool and could usually look after himself. He was progressing satisfactorily with the sword and he was a survivor anyway. Annette however was another matter.The girl seemed timid beyond what was normal for women in this day and age. Never once had he seen her lose her temper, even when he'd tried to provoke her. She listened, wide-eyed, to everything he told her and answered him with exaggerated respect. By now her bladeskills were passable but she lacked aggression in a fight. She never pressed her advantages and still seemed chary of actually causing hurt to anyone - even someone she couldn't hurt.
Still, it seemed that the two of them had gone out together. He wasn't aware of any strange Immortals in town and two together wouldn't be regarded as 'easy meat' for a head-hunting Immortal anyway.
When the two arrived, they were laughing and the girl was more animated than he'd ever seen her. She was also dressed differently.
"Been shopping, you two?" he asked them. "That's an interesting outfit, Annette," he added, staring pointedly at the brightly coloured bikers leathers she wore.
Richie grinned wolfishly. "Suits her, don't it, Mac?" he offered. Annette giggled and blushed faintly.
"And you should see the bike that goes with it," the youngster went on. "Man, it is something."
"Triumph Trident," Annette grinned proudly. "Richie wanted me to get a classic Harley or an Indian but I said, no, I wanted something that there would be no problems getting parts for if it broke down."
"Hey," Richie interjected, "the Trident's not quite a classic yet but it will be, in a few years - some people already regard it as Class, which is the first step to classic; and it's a bitchin' bike anyway."
The Highlander regarded the two young Immortals with faint amusement. "Bitchin'?" he quoted. "I take it, then, that it 'kicks ass'?"
"And how," Richie replied. "She can leave me standing - she did, in fact, on our way back here from the dealers."
"You were racing?"
Annette giggled. "Hardly," she retorted. "I barely had the throttle open. Compared with his little sewing machine on wheels...." she giggled and ducked the mock blow the boy threw at her.
MacLeod smiled to himself. This was a side to the girl they hadn't seen before: but then, her main character in the novels had ridden a motorbike. Maybe she wasn't as timid as she appeared.
"Richie, I'd like you to train with Annette today," MacLeod announced. "It's time both of you learned what it's like to face someone other than myself with a sword. It'll do you both good - you'll never learn if you're constantly overmatched.""Okay," the boy agreed. "That all right with you, Annette?"
She shrugged but there was a shadow in her eyes. "I guess so, Richie," she agreed, sounding reluctant. "I suppose I will have to fight other people eventually and that is one thing I did learn from the 'play acting', as you put it, MacLeod - if you are constantly paired with the same person, you get into their way of fighting. Then when you have to fight someone different you're at a disadvantage."
MacLeod nodded. "Well put. She's right, Richie. I haven't been doing you any favours, concentrating on your training myself. It's time you fought a different opponent."
The two young Immortals fenced, concentration tight on their faces. It was not a fencing match that any of Annette's teachers from those long ago schooldays would have recognized. There were no masks, no vests, the two swords were of vastly different types and, unlike the re-enactment battles she had taken part in, a touch with these razor sharp blades meant blood drawn.Blood had been drawn half a dozen times so far. MacLeod watched from the sidelines, coaching and encouraging both protagonists from time to time. Now with a single word, he reminded the girl yet again of her old mistake.
Needled and desperate to impress her teacher, Annette pressed forward. Richie let her come and responded with a move he'd learnt from Mac, when he, Richie, had overreached himself in the same way.
The sword's blade slid along her ribs, creating another trickle of blood that stemmed itself almost at once. Richie grinned wickedly and Annette clenched her teeth in embarrassment. She withdrew a pace and the boy followed, pressing his advantage.
A flurry of blows followed that she barely parried. By now she was retreating faster than Duncan considered wise. He was just about to warn her, when she found the edge of a mat with her heel and tripped, landing ungracefully on her posterior.
Her opponent had the bad grace to laugh as he helped her to her feet. Though nothing showed on her face, the woman was now furious. Without waiting for Richie to resume a ready stance, she attacked.
He parried clumsily and blocked her blade but on the return swing his blade struck her on the forehead. It was a hard blow, harder than he intended, and drew more blood than any previous cut. The blood streamed down, mixed with sweat, into her left eye. Richie waited for her to call 'time-out' and began to ease off.
But Annette did not pause to let the cut heal, nor even to clean the blood from her face. Instead she pushed forward, her blows increasing in strength and frequency till he was hard pressed to keep up.
MacLeod's attention was caught. This was more like it. Just when he'd been ready to suggest the girl join a nunnery, she showed the temper that went with that flaming red hair. He always told his pupils 'don't get angry - make your opponent angry' - but anger, properly channeled, was necessary for a fighter. It was the Fire that drove you to live, survive and win. Until this he'd have sworn Annette Daniels had none.
Now Richie was on the retreat. She had him on the run and very soon she'd have him backed into the corner. MacLeod thought about warning him but the boy knew the layout of the dojo well enough. He should know it better than the woman. If he let himself get cornered, perhaps he'd learn something and hopefully avoid it in future.
A vicious slash and the sabre's blade scored a deep wound on the boy's upper right arm. Blood, a lot of it, poured out and the sword fell from his hand. The fight was over.
But it wasn't. Annette showed her teeth in a mirthless grin and raised her sabre. Richie stared, unable to believe his eyes.
The katana knocked her blade aside.
"Enough!" MacLeod told her; but her blood was up.
Now she went on the attack against Duncan himself; and this time she showed no timidity and little respect. She had more than a dozen cuts and bruises that, though healing at the supernatural speed of an Immortal, must have stung and hurt like crazy. It was the look in her eyes that gave him the clue, however.
The girl was a Berserker. In the midst of her fury, she was able to ignore minor distractions like pain. Anger gave her energy, so she felt no weariness, and the berserker rage meant that she was focused on the fight. Other considerations, such as friendship, mattered not at all.
MacLeod understood. To most people the image of the Berserker was that of the savage Viking, chewing at his shield in madness and bloodlust, but it was common among his own Highland warriors. In fact it was the utter fearlessness of the Clansmen's charges that had made the Highlanders so highly respected in battle.
And there was no way that he knew to bring her out of her berserk state short of killing her. A Berserker would eventually come down on their own ........when there was no-one left to fight. Traditionally you pointed them at the enemy and stayed the hell out of their way until they fell over with exhaustion at the end of the battle.
He had to end this quickly. While she had almost no finesse and her skills were no match for his, she was dangerously unpredictable. In her present state she was also tireless and she could easily wear him down long before she collapsed herself. Even surrender was out of the question - a Berserker gives no quarter because they recognise none. Having made his decision, he waited for an opening and ended it.
Richie watched in horror as MacLeod beat the woman's sabre aside and ran her through. As the steel slid into her heart a look of peace fell over her face and the look of frenzy left her eyes. She crumpled to her knees with the beginnings of a smile on her lips, silently mouthing the words, "Thank you."
Annette's eyes snapped open. She still lay on the dusty, bloody floor of the dojo and MacLeod stood over her. He held his sword, the point resting on the floor to one side of her neck."I could have taken your head," he informed her soberly. "I still could." He watched her to see how she would react.
She drew a deep, peaceful breath and smiled. "But you didn't and now you don't need to." Then she laughed, just for the joy of laughing.
"I'm alive," she caroled. "I lived through the dream. I'm free of it. It didn't happen. I'm alive, Richie's alive - and I think I've proved to you, MacLeod, that I can fight, yes?"
He gave her a wry smile and reached down to help her to her feet. "You can fight," he agreed. "Yes, you can certainly fight. You might even survive the Game, for a few years at least."
She laughed again. "A few years? Duncan MacLeod, now that I've lived through my nightmare, I know that I have more than a few years left to me - and I know that we can be friends for those years to come. Where's Richie?"
"Upstairs, changing his clothes."
She grinned. "I owe him an apology. What would be the best way to go about that, do you know, MacLeod?"
The Highlander smiled and shook his head. "You'd better ask him that yourself; probably dinner at your expense - and I warn you, feeding Richie Ryan is not cheap. Richie has two great passions in his life. One is his stomach; the other - well, he's young. Both as an Immortal and as a mortal; and young men have other appetites."
"So do young women," she responded. "I think I'll go make that offer."
Annette packed the two leather motorbike panniers with care. Richie Ryan watched her regretfully. MacLeod seemed untroubled."Are you sure you want to do it this way?" the young man asked. In reply she stopped what she was doing, pulled him to her by his shirt front, and kissed the tip of his nose.
"I'm sure," she told him. "I 'phoned Isobel this morning. She'll meet me on Thursday and we can finish the signing tour. After that, I plan to do a little touring by myself. I'm going to visit all those places I always wanted to but let myself be persuaded were too dangerous for a woman alone. California, Mexico, South America. Then maybe I'll do Europe as well."
"What about your writing?" asked MacLeod.
She turned towards him, grinning. "So long as I have plenty of battery power," she answered, holding aloft her portable laptop computer, "there's no problem. I don't even have to print it out to send to the publishers; it has a built in modem and they're set up to receive Email and other electronic communications."
The Highlander eyed her sternly and shook his head. "I was referring to the series of books that drew our attention to you. Do you intend to continue it? The subject is rather dubious and could be dangerous for us all."
She laughed softly. "Yes, I will continue the series, MacLeod," she told him. "For two reasons. One, I signed a contract for a trilogy. If I don't give it to them, the publishers will want my head. Two - well, I can't think of a better protection for our kind than a work of fiction. If the books become well known, who would believe in the reality?" Then she added, "Except some very sad little fanboys; and no-one takes any notice of them," she finished with a grin.
Richie laughed. "True," he agreed. "And if any cop finds your sword, you can show him the books and claim you need it for research purposes."
She packed the computer carefully in the fibreglass topbox, placing her spare sweaters on and around it for padding, then locked the box and clipped it into position on the bike.
She sighed. "That's everything," she announced. She held out her hand to MacLeod, who took it in his and raised it to his lips and kissed her fingers.
"God go wi' ye," he murmured, the Highland accent of his youth momentarily strong.
"And with you," she replied. "We will meet again. I've seen it." She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Thank you for everything, Duncan. Perhaps next time we meet you can tell me tales of your youth."
"I look forward to that," he answered with a smile.
"Hey!" objected Richie. "Don't I get a good-bye kiss, or was that buss on the nose it?"
She turned back to the redhead, grinning. "Of course you get a kiss, Richie. Come here," she grabbed him by the shirt again and this time kissed him long and hard. When she stopped the boy groaned.
"Now I wish you hadn't done that - or that you weren't going," he muttered, continuing to hold her close. He kissed her again and then put her away from him at arms' length.
MacLeod smiled to himself. "Keep in touch," he told her.
"Yeah," added the younger man. "Drop us a line every so often and let us know where you are. Maybe," he suggested, "I could even come and join you."
Annette laughed joyously. "I'd like that, Richie," she said. "I'd like that very much."
(continued in Homecomings)
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