Date: Wed, 27 Apr 1994 19:37:59 CDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Heather Hirshorn Subject: For the Love of Devon (Part 8) ****************** For the Love of Devon Part 8 ***************** Duncan found Devon on the hill of heather that comprised their practice space. Her auburn hair blew around her head like a cloud, she looked like a fierce Valkyrie ready to take him to Valhalla. She held the katana at guard, like he had taught her, waiting for him. He tried to warn her. "You're not ready to use that weapon yet. You'll just wind up hurting yourself." It was the wrong thing to say. Her hazel eyes blazed green fire; they changed colors when she was beset by some strong emotion. "I am not quite as helpless as you would like to believe. Now fight me, damn you." Reluctantly, Duncan readied his sword. The two katanas were very similar, but the handle of Devon's was shaped like a rose. Devon made the first move, using all of the tricks that Duncan had taught her over the course of the past several months. Duncan was indeed surprised at the level of skill with which she wielded her weapon, but he was the more experienced fighter and it showed as the fight drug on. He tried once again to make her see reason. "See, you're already tiring. Please Devon, I think you've proven enough...I don't want to fight you anymore!" Devon's full mouth curved into a sneer. "Oh and isn't that always the way of it? Isn't that the way you always treat your female opponents?" She paused as she neatly sidestepped his half-hearted attack. She spun around and began to drive him back. "You haven't beheaded one of the females you've fought against, have you? Why is that Duncan? Is it because of some misplaced chivalry you haven't been able to shake?" With each breathless question, her attack became stronger, more vicious. She ignored her aching muscles and focused on her rage. Duncan felt the first faint stirrings of fear. Devon recognized it and jeered triumphantly,"You didn't think I could hold my own against you? You hate me because you think that my father will die trying to protect me? I might not have my memories, but my body remembers more and more every time I hold a sword." Soon, words became impossible for both. Devon feinted and Duncan fell for it. He reached too far and her foot lashed out, sweeping his feet from under him. He fell heavily and Devon slashed his wrist, causing him to lose his grip on his sword. With a shout, Devon rested her katana on Duncan's throat. "Devon, no!" Connor's panicked voice rang out. The rain fell in sheets now, punctuated by flashes of lightning. "Father, this is between me and Duncan." Neither figure took their eyes from the other. "I cannot let you do this. Haven't you learned anything? It isn't just about fighting or winning! If you kill him, it will destroy you." Tears welled up in Devon's eyes. Her hand began to shake and try as she might to keep the blade steady, it slipped, slicing a small area of Duncan's flesh. Duncan reached up and pushed the blade from his neck. Devon's suddenly numb fingers released the blade and she suck to her knees, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "Connor, let me handle this." Sensing Connor's objections, Duncan finally looked up. "Please." Connor nodded and turned to walk to the house, his step heavy. He had rushed Devon through her training, she had broken under the strain. He had been insane to let Duncan be her teacher; he had noticed the strange rivalry between them from the beginning, he had been a fool to ignore it. If anything happened to either, it would be his fault. He had been selfish to bring her here, he had been so anxious to resume the relationship they'd had before the awful scene in New Orleans. Connor browsed the French Market, looking for nothing in particular, except of course the source of the strong buzz that plagued him. Devon was here, he knew it. He could not believe that she had finally ventured from the Highlands, and without even notifying him. He came upon the food section and suddenly she was there, among the various Cajon and Creole spices that she adored. Connor could not help his smile at her obsession with spicy food. "Devon." She did not turn around, she had sensed him long before now. "How would you like some chicken jambalaya tonight, Connor? Or perhaps... alligator?" She eyed the sign advertising alligator tail hungrily. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming, lass? Not that I'm not glad you're here..." Devon faced him. "Howard is here. I followed him." Connor searched her face. "I know. He is the reason I came to New Orleans. Why did you follow?" She shrugged, but her nonchalance did not fool Connor. "I had to. He threatened us both. I felt that I should be there when you faced him." Connor knew better than to argue with her. Besides, he was truly glad that she had come. She knew the rules; she would not interfere with his fight. Two hours later, after an unusual but delicious dinner, Devon and Connor sat in front of his fireplace. "I'm glad you kept this apartment, Connor. I always loved this place, well as much as I could from just pictures, and the food you brought back." She stood abruptly. "Let's go to Bourbon Street! I'm in the mood to dance!" Connor groaned. "Devon, I do hate it there. How could you want to go after all the things I've told you?" She grinned impishly. "That's why I want to go, you silly man." Devon won out and soon they were strolling the teeming Bourbon Street. Devon was facinated by the noise, the interesting smells, and the bawdy burlesque houses. The buzz reached Connor first and he stopped, his hand on Devon's arm. She felt it then and turned her nose to the sky as if trying to sniff the immortal out. A tall man in a long duster approached them slowly. "Let's take this elsewhere, shall we?" Moments later, they stood in the empty courtyard of a long abandoned restaurant on Chartes Street. "Which head shall I take first, hmmm? Father or daughter?" He looked like he had stepped out of an old painting, with a full gray beard, small spectacles, and decidedly old-fashioned clothes beneath his modern coat. 'Funny,' Devon thought, 'he looks more like Santa Claus than some bloodthirsty killer. Maybe that's why he's managed to stay alive so long.' "Who do you think, Howard? Let's get on with it." Connor pulled his sword from beneath his coat. Devon was forced to watch while they fought, Connor gaining the upper hand several times, only to lose it just as quickly. At one point, Devon had to stifle a scream as Connor went down on one knee. He recovered fast, but the mistake cost him. Howard swung at Connor's head, barely missing his neck. Just then, another buzz assaulted her senses. Another man emerged from the shadows, stealthily stalking his prey- Devon. She was quick though, and pulled her sword in enough time to block his thrust. Both fights continued until Connor finally managed to knock Howard's sword from his grasp. Without a second's hesitation, Connor severed his head. The unknown immortal was distracted for a second, but that was all the time Devon needed to press her attack. Within moments, his head too toppled from his shoulders. There was a brief period of silence, then the quickenings began. But something was wrong. Connor stood, waiting for the familiar, exalting pain to strike him, but nothing happened. Yet, the air tingled with the first threads of electricity. Devon gave a hoarse shout as the blue fire of the combined quickenings entered her body. Her flaming hair took on an ethereal quality as the lightning illuminated her, causing her body to jerk spasmodically. Connor could only watch helplessly as his daughter's body convulsed from the brilliant, deafening storm. Then it was over. And Devon was utterly still. On the hill, Devon stopped crying. She lifted her ravaged face to Duncan's and as if pushed by an unseen force, he lowered his mouth to hers. She whimpered, her hands first against his chest, then up to tangle in the hair that had come loose from his ponitail. He forced her lips apart, drawing in her breath as if it were his own and pulled her tiny body against his. He could not remember ever feeling this way, not even with Tessa; it was like he had lost all control. Perhaps it was the passions unleashed by the fight- he wished he could believe that, but he knew it was something much deeper. Devon was utterly lost. Duncan's lips and tongue and hands scorched her very soul, she could not think or breathe, only feel and react. It was like the whirlwind similar to half-remembered quickenings, but so much more intense. Duncan broke the kiss suddenly and set her away from him. The look in his eyes shamed her, she could not bear to see the regret and repulsion she knew was there. Shakily she got to her feet, took her sword, and stumbled to the house. Duncan let her go and remained on the hill, letting the rain clense his fevered face and body. But the water could not possibly cool his heated blood, nor slake his thirst for the one woman he should never have touched. End of Part 8 =========================================================================