Date: Thu, 5 Jan 1995 00:30:21 -0500 Reply-To: NancySSCH@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Final Repost Aloha Ch1.p 22-28 c 1994 N.L. Cleveland Aloha Ch 1 p 22-28 Duncan watched the sun creeping through the blinds, the soft light illuminating the golden down that frosted Yomo's cheeks. He felt a tide of melancholy sweeping through his heart, turning the memory of the night's passion to dust. It was too easy, after 400 years. Too easy to pick the right words to say, the right tone to take with almost any woman, just like he could tell from the slightest, subtlest hints of body language if a man was going to help him or betray him. Most of the time, anyhow. Those few rare exceptions, like Joe Dawson, the Watcher who had become his friend, like Tessa, those were the ones who intrigued him, puzzled and drew him to them, their elusiveness, their enigmatic nature part of their basic attraction. Tessa had loved him, but she had never been predictable. She truly had an old soul, far wiser in the world than her years alone could let her be. She had constantly fascinated him, revealing new depths and facets to her character under every different circumstance, and always remaining a loving, charming woman. Absently, he caressed Yomo's hair, feeling the soft dark silk slipping though his fingers. So like Ko in some ways, so very different in others. She murmured and snuggled closer, still asleep. But she wasn't Ko, wasn't Tessa. Never would be. Grief turned to irritation surged through him and pushed him up from the warm cocoon of the covers. Duncan eased himself from the bed and padded to the bags. He knelt in front of them, weighing whether or not to pick the lock. He turned, and found Yomoko staring at him, an unreadable expression on her face. "You're interested in what's inside my bags, Duncan MacLeod? Is that why you're here? Why you offered me your room? Your bed?" He rose and smiled at her. "C'mon Yomo. I never expected this to happen. It was an unexpected delight, not something I planned." " Why, we didn't even know each other before yesterday. And yes, I'm interested in them. Are you selling something at the auction today?" She sat back on the bed, pulling the sheets around her. She tilted her head, clearly trying to decide whether or not to answer him. He smiled again, playing the silly innocent, and prattled on. All the times the Immortal thief Amanda had fooled him, in their centuries of on-again, off again love affairs and intrigues, had taught him well how to misdirect suspicion. Now he could use those hard learned lessons to his own advantage. "Of course that's not why I invited you here." He sat beside her, and ran his hand slowly up her still bare leg, to where the sheet covered her thigh. She tensed and moved infinitesimally away. *Work harder, boy.* "I was just hoping for a quick look, in advance of the sale." He burrowed his hand under the sheet and followed the line of her leg higher, tracing the delicate skin of her inner thigh with his fingertips. "But I'd much rather look at you." He eased the sheet loose from her breasts with his other hand, and delicately kissed her, between the two soft mounds, then moved his lips to the right and left, tickling her nipples with his tongue. This time she relaxed. He snuck a quick glance at her face. She smiled down at him, and played with his hair, coiling and smoothing it between her fingers, as he continued ministering to her breasts. * * * * * Duncan opened his eyes again, savoring the luxuriance of awakening late. The sun was fully up now, and daylight flooded through the open windows. Someone had raised the blinds. He was alone on the bed. "Duncan?" Yomo inquired lazily, her voice coming from across the room. "Mmmm?" He leisurely rolled his head and glanced towards her. His eyes widened and he came fully, abruptly awake. She stood, naked, holding an equally naked blade pointed directly at him. He sat up, prepared to run, to fight, or to admire, waiting for a more tangible clue to her intent. Yomo stepped delicately towards the bed, flashing the katana's blade almost faster than his eyes could follow in an intricate series of twirls, thrusts and counterthrusts. Her body glowed in the sunlight, the slender muscles in her arms and legs sliding smoothly under her skin. Duncan's attention was divided, torn between admiring Yomo's breathtaking beauty and control, and trying to anticipate where she would swing the sword next. She ended her approach with a final twist that brought the sword's sharp tip to a quivering stop within an inch of Duncan's throat. She held it there for a long moment, her eyes locked with his. Searching his. For what, he wondered. He reached up and pushed the point down with a finger. She let the blade sink to the carpet. "Very impressive," he said, in neutral tone, hoping the pounding of his heart could not be heard across the room. He held out his hand, palm up. "This is what you are selling? May I see it?" He kept his voice calm and level. It was not entirely without effort. Yomo tossed her hair back and shrugged. With her empty hand she pulled a soft golden cloth from the chair behind her, lifted the blade's point from the rug and presented the katana to him, holding it lightly across both her hands, nestled in the golden silk. Duncan took it and hefted the balance. It was like a feather, quivering to fly. He'd never felt such a live, eager blade. The hilt was odd. He looked more closely. Some kind of stylized black dragon worked around it, the design echoed in black etched tracery along the blade and in the precisely detailed and superbly menacing black cast metal dragon whose writhing body formed the tsuba that guarded the hilt. "It is lovely work." He ran his gaze along the smooth, blunt back of the blade, noting the loving care with which it been polished to mirror brightness. Then he tested the edge, tossing up a fine paper tissue from the box on the dresser, slashing the blade in a swift, short cut through the air and watching the two newly halved tissues flutter to the floor, cleanly sliced . Razor sharp indeed. A few nicks, but no major flaws or cracks in the metal. He tilted the blade so the sunlight played along its flat side, revealing clearly the hundreds of tiny wavy lines paralleling the curved edge that showed where the metal had been folded and refolded and hammered into shape in the forge. A labor of love, and the product of rare skill. It Iooked functional. Lethal. Old. The handle was polished by use, and almost seemed to flow into the shape of his hand. There was no maker's mark visible. It would be under the hilt, etched deep into the metal of the shaft, but he could tell that this was one of the Koto, the ancient blades of medieval Japan. It seemed to be from the Kamakura period, from the late 13th or early 14th century, when the smiths had been at the height of their art. He met Yomo's eyes. "May I see the sheath?" She walked silently across the room to the leather case and lifted out a black enameled wooden sheath covered with intricately knotted, tarnished golden cord. He got to his feet and followed her, still carrying the katana. The sheath betrayed its age far more than the blade. If it was the original. He studied it carefully, the style of knotting, the crumbling, stiff leather, the worm eaten wood and fabric. Very old. Maybe 11th century. He'd not seen one of those since he'd been in Japan, almost two centuries ago. A dedicated blade. They never left the families of the owners. Never. Why was it here? Surely it couldn't be for sale? Especially not to gaijin. He stepped away from Yomo. He knew it was foolish, heard all the host of voices and 400 years of hard won instinct all rise up in unison. *Don't do this.* He ignored it. Ignored them. He thirsted to feel the blade move in his hand. It was almost like a drug. He'd never held a blade like this. Probably never would again. *Certainly never will if you don't sit down right now.* He moved through a short kata. Five steps, thrust and twirl. The blade floated in his hands, almost pulling him into each move. He glanced at Yomo. She was learning towards him, intent, watching, a frown quirking her brows. The warning chorus rose up again. Regretfully, Duncan stepped back to her side. He wiped the blade clean of dust and oil with a soft black cloth she handed him, then carefully slid the katana back into its sheath, as she held it for him. The blade almost sighed as it disappeared, and settled with a comforting rightness into the ancient worn wood. Duncan rested his hand on the hilt for a moment longer, then let it go. Yomo wrapped the gold cloth back around the sheathed blade, and slipped the bundle into her leather case. She turned back to Duncan, inquiring with her eyes. "You know how to handle a katana. Not many do. Where did you learn?" "I studied with a Japanese master." "Who?" There was a charged undercurrent to her voice. "He was rather obscure. Myota Sensei. He's been dead a while. He was very old, when he taught me." She relaxed. "I've never heard of him. He must have been very obscure." "This katana is very old?" He made it a question, not a statement. Yomo walked to the window, looked out on the patio and pool below. "Old, yes, that's why it's here to be sold." She turned and grinned at him. "I could hardly bring something made last week, now could I?" Duncan joined her at the window, watching the bustling activity below. The tingling started, the unmistakable warning that another Immortal was nearby. But where? Duncan's senses fixed on a large fringed beach umbrella, near the pool. A man's hand in a dark suit jacket was all that showed. He was holding a drink. A heavy gold signet ring gleamed dully on one finger. Duncan reached for his swim trunks and tossed a robe over his shoulder. "I'm heading out for a swim, care to come along?" Yomo looked surprised, but shook her head. She locked the case again and began setting out her clothes for the coming day. Duncan brushed his lips across the crown of her shining hair, and headed out the door. He heard the latch click shut behind him. Out of her sight, he dropped all pretense of casual ease and moved quickly down the hallway. He took the fire stairs two steps at a time, and only slowed when he reached the exit door. He eased it open and sauntered across the patio, trying not to pant to audibly. The buzz was gone. So was the Immortal. An empty glass and a half smoked cigar were all that remained. Duncan wrinkled his nose in distaste. A pool attendant came over to the table, and began clearing the debris onto a tray. "Excuse me, did you happen to see where the man went who was sitting here?" Duncan smiled, wondering if there was any point to the exercize, but going through with it, anyway. The attendant looked at him blankly. "I dunno, man. I didn't see nobody. I just got on." "Well, who would have seen him?" Duncan tried to smooth the irritation out of his voice. This was getting ridiculous. The other Immortal should have declared his intentions long ago. They both knew the other was here. "The shift just changed. I dunno who had this table. Sorry, mister." Duncan pressed a bill into his hand. The attendant brightened immediately. It always worked. "Hey, thanks. Say, you could always ask the shift manager. She's still around in the bar." "I will. Thank you." Duncan headed back into the cool, dark opening with its imitation palm thatch roof. He paused at the door to let his eyes adjust to the lower light. There, in the corner. A woman was frowning at a pile of invoices, and entering numbers rapidly into a small calculator. That must be her. Time to be charming again. He switched on a broad grin and approached her table. "Hello." She glanced up, clearly annoyed at the interruption, but maintaining the professional mask of courtesy. "The bar isn't open yet. You'll have to come back after 10." Duncan slid smoothly into the leather seat across from her. "I'm not here for a drink. I can see you're busy, I won't be a minute. I was just trying to catch up to an acquaintance of mine." He smiled again, as she stared at him, a tiny crease between her brows. "I spotted him on the patio, from my room. But by the time I got to the pool, he was gone. I wondered if you could tell me who served his table, and if he put the bill on his room charge." Her expression hadn't changed, her face was frozen in polite but annoyed mode. He kept on anyhow, knowing it wasn't going to work. "I'd love to see him again, but this place is so huge, and I'm leaving this afternoon. I don't think I'll just bump into him again." He tried to keep the warmth up, but there was no answering sizzle, not even a spark from her. A spiteful voice in his head muttered *She's probably doesn't like men, anyhow.* His eyes dropped to her left hand, and the glitter of a diamond engagement ring there shamed the voice to silence. She stared at him, flat and level. "Why don't you check with the registration desk. If he's here, they'll know." She turned back to her figures, ignoring him. "Um, actually my friend travels under different names. He likes to avoid publicity. The press. You know. I'd really like to invite him up to my suite, its the presidential, for a drink." He smiled, persistent. Hopeful. She looked up again. Sighed, exasperated. "It is not our policy to identify guests who wish to remain anonymous, to anyone, even to other guests. Not even those in the Presidential Suite." She spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. "If you have a problem with that, you can speak with the manager." She reached over and picked up an in-house phone, and looked at him, her eyebrows raised. Duncan smiled, defeated, feeling his muscles aching with the effort by now, shook his head regretfully, and rose to his feet. "Thank you, ma'am. I do understand about policy. Well, I just hope I'll bump into him again, before I go. Have a good day." He spoke to the top of her head. She had already replaced the phone and was back at work on her figures. She nodded without looking up and continued her calculations. He sighed, and stepped back out to the pool area. *What do you want, every woman you meet to hop into bed with you? Looks like you're doing pretty good, to me.* **How would you know? You never even had a girlfriend** Duncan wandered back to the edge of the gently lapping water. He lay his robe on a chair and dove in, swam a length in the tepid chlorinated liquid, then climbed out and headed back to his rooms. It was like swimming in a bathtub.