Date: Sat, 11 Mar 1995 12:44:49 -0700 Reply-To: Greg Palmer Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Greg Palmer Subject: "Life's Blood" Part 7 (Conclusion) "Life's Blood" Part 7 (Conclusion) by Greg Palmer, Copyright (C) 1995 (Buckets o' blood.) Greg watched the dark freeway slowly recede. The bus seemed to almost trundle towards its destination, but that could have been his imagination. In any case, the bus steadily ate asphalt and brought him closer to his destiny. Not fast enough, his mind murmured. "Stop it!" he shouted, startling the few other travelers: an old man and his wife, a dirty young woman and her two wide- eyed children. A bearded man snoozed in the back seat, and wasn't distracted from his dreams by Greg's shout. The other passengers slowly resumed whatever they were doing before Greg interrupted them. Ignore the madman, and maybe he'll go away. Greg's subconscious started bringing up even more disturbing questions, despite his efforts to stop it. What if Duncan's dead? What if Richie's dead? Anne, who never was a part of our world, what if *she* dies? And what if it's your fault. "Stop it," he hissed. "Just, stop it. Nobody's going to die, this time..." The memory of the other time played itself through over and over again, until the bus stopped at the station. He hopped off the bus, seeing the sun just start to break over Seattle, washing away the darkness. Only a mile or so to the dojo. He tossed the rank coat into a garbage can so the cold gusts of wind could bite through his thin shirt. Somehow it seemed that if he suffered enough, he would atone for his mistakes, and everyone would still be alive. He passed the church where he and Duncan had their last face to face conversation. He remembered how badly it had gone; MacLeod's sorrowful face directly beneath that of Christ's as Greg walked out on him. He quickened his pace. Soon, he came to the dojo; the door was locked. He let himself in and took the lift up to the apartment. The lift clanked and creaked rhythmically; the sound was like hollow laughing in his ears. He got off the lift and peered into the dark, unable to see a thing. Fumbling for the lamp, he turned the knob on it. He let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding when he saw that Duncan's apartment had not been blasted by the release of a Quickening. In fact, the apartment was its usual cleanly self. A knife sat on the kitchen counter, next to a plate with an orange peel on it. One of Duncan's innumerable trenchcoats hung on a hook by the lift. Greg got a glass of cold water from the tap and went over to the couch to wait for Duncan. He would wait for as long as it took. Sipping on the water, he thought he might watch a little television to pass the time. Something about Duncan's flat had always seemed a bit odd, and now he realized what: Duncan had no TV in his apartment. "Rots your brain, anyway," Greg muttered as he walked over to Duncan's book shelf. The Vampire Lestat, the first hardcover printing. Autographed, of course. He plucked the book off the shelf and went to sit again. Just the act of focusing his eyes on the first few lines of the book made Greg realize how tired he was. His eyes felt grainy and sore, and he was having trouble concentrating on the book. Now that the suspense and fear-produced epinephrine in his system was gone, his body was making him pay for the few hours of intense wakefulness. He put the book down on the table and closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply and let the breath out. Spending two days dead ought to have let him catch up on his sleep; but somehow it wasn't so. He leaned back on the comfortable old couch and was asleep in an instant. ************** The Quickening in his head. Hand on his shoulder. "Greg. Greg, wake up." Duncan's voice. Greg's eyes opened; he blinked the sleep away. Instead of feeling rested, he felt worse than when he'd gone to sleep. He looked at MacLeod and opened his mouth. At first, no words would come, but then the story came out in a rush. "Oh God. Duncan. Michael...killed me! Said he wanted revenge for his Teacher. Revenge on you." He paused for a moment. "He stabbed me and I jumped off a cliff, to get away! After I washed up on the beach, I tried to call--" "I was at Anne's," Duncan said; he didn't need to elaborate. "What about Richie? Is he all right?" "Richie's out of this," Duncan said. "Don't worry about--" "What did Barnes mean? Did you take his Teacher's head? Why didn't you tell me?" The implications of the thought hit Greg like a hard kick to the stomach. "I thought it was over. He came for me, and we fought. He had me, and didn't take my head," Duncan explained. "I thought it was over." ************ SEATTLE, December 1992 A half-finished vase sat on the potter's wheel. Tessa Noel was washing the bits of clay off her hands at the sink next to it when Duncan walked in. His hair was in disarray, hanging loose from its customary Celtic clasp. A long gash in his trenchcoat caused it to flap oddly as he walked into the room. He shrugged it off and put his sword in its rack on a wall. "What's the matter, Duncan?" Tessa asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost!" Her French heritage gave the words a musical, flowing quality. She looked at Duncan with concern. "One of Grayson's students caught up with me tonight," MacLeod said as he sat on the couch, letting his tired muscles relax into the cushions. "Name of Michael Barnes. He almost took my head." He shuddered. "He *could* have taken my head, but changed his mind at the last moment." "Oh, Duncan..." Tessa whispered. She sat next to Duncan on the couch, very close, and put her arm around him. "Will he be back?" she asked, undoing the clasp and combing her fingers through his messy hair. "I doubt it," MacLeod murmured. "I know him, from Grayson's... memories. He had his chance to take revenge, but didn't take it. He has a sense of honor, unlike his Teacher. He knows I was only *defending* myself against Grayson. I don't think he'll change his mind." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Tessa looked thoughtful. "You know all this, about a man whom you've met just tonight?" "I know everything Grayson's ever seen him do, and what a few others have seen," MacLeod explained. "Grayson and Barnes spent eighty years together; I've got a fairly good idea of what makes him tick. He won't be back." Now he sounded as if he had completely convinced himself. "Good," Tessa whispered in his ear. "I'd hate for him to come barging in here with a sword, interrupting the surprise I've planned for us." She stroked the little knob of bone on the back of his neck. "What sur--" Duncan started to ask. "Oh," he said sheepishly as Tessa's lips grazed his ear. ************ SEATTLE, March 1995 "It's definitely *not* over, Duncan!" Greg shouted. He got up off the couch and walked to the window. "The guy ran me through with his sword!" He looked out the window and into the street. "It's not over," he whispered. Greg turned away from the window and looked back at Duncan. There was an air of finality to his speech. "Anyway, I've come back to ask you if I can borrow one of your swords." Duncan started to protest but Greg continued. "I know I don't stand a chance against Barnes, but I'm not going out without a fight. Because I'm not running. I'll never run again," he said, more to himself than to Duncan. "Don't be ridiculous," Duncan said. "I'm not sending you to your death. This was my fight long before it was yours. It's an age old trick: kill the Student to draw out the Teacher." He looked Greg in the eye. "Except you got away, didn't you? But I don't think that'll alter Barnes' new plans. He'll be coming for *me*. He'll only fight *you* if you get in his way." "Then I'll get in his way," Greg said brusquely. MacLeod sighed. "I can't stop you; I'm not your Teacher anymore." His voice took on a stern Teacher-like tone, anyway. "But *I* fight him first. If he takes my head, *then* you can go commit suicide." "That's fine with me," Greg said. "He betrayed my trust. I only want to see him die; I don't care who does it," he explained grimly. Something gave Duncan's heart a squeeze. So many young ones, killed so soon... He didn't dispute what Greg said, however. "Go and get cleaned up. You're a mess," he said, referring to Greg's torn shirt, faded blood stains on his clothes, and the bits of sand in his long hair. The young Immortal nodded and walked away, towards his old room. He quickly emerged with an armful of clothes, and headed for the bathroom. Duncan waited until he heard the water running in the shower before he picked up the cordless phone. He sat in a chair and punched a number into the phone, recalling it from memory. It was answered immediately. "Hello?" a clipped British voice answered. "Let me speak to Barnes," Duncan said, without preamble. "And whom may I tell him is calling, sir?" "MacLeod." ************* Hot water sprayed down from the showerhead, kneading his sore muscles. Greg was doing his best to shampoo the sand out of his hair, but he wasn't getting it all. Particles of sand scratched his scalp as he lathered the shampoo on his head. He did remove a piece of kelp stuck to the back of his head. Deciding that he'd gotten enough sand out, he rinsed his hair and quickly soaped his body, feeling infinitely better now that he was getting clean. He rinsed off and turned off the water. After getting out of the shower, he dried himself thoroughly with a towel, combed his hair, and got dressed. He avoided looking in the mirror the whole time. Then he looked at his reflected image, wondering if he really meant all the things he'd said to Duncan earlier. Was he really willing to die? He looked into his own eyes in the mirror. Yes, he thought. I am willing. He left the bathroom, smelling the aroma of freshly brewed coffee from the living room. Duncan had a pot brewed, and was sipping at a cup while he scanned the paper. He looked cool as ice. Whatever fear he's hiding, he's doing it well, Greg thought. Another cup of coffee sat there next to Duncan's saucer. Greg walked over and picked up the other coffee cup. Taking a drink, he sat down. "What are we going to do?" he asked MacLeod. "Barnes is going to be at a condemned warehouse on the riverfront," Duncan said. "Tonight, at eight. In the meantime, we should get some training in." "Tonight?" Greg asked. The confrontation had somehow seemed far-off. "It's what you wanted." "Yeah, I guess it is," Greg said. "I've got something for you," MacLeod said, after a brief pause. He set his coffee down and went into his room. He came out with a sheathed katana, similar to his own, but without the dragon's head on the pommel. "I was going to give you this, but you left before I could. You're still not ready for a real sword, but if you have to fight tonight, you'd best have something other than your bokken." He let go of the sword when Greg took it into his hand. "It's one of my practice blades, but it's sharp enough and it'll serve you well." "Thanks," Greg said. It was the only word he could think of to say. "Well, let's not waste time. We've only got eight hours." Maybe the last eight hours for both of us, he thought. They got on the lift and went down to the dojo. Fortunately, the dojo was closed on Sunday so there were no other people training. They trained lightly for the better part of the eight hours, taking care not to overdo it. Sword katas, then light sparring on the mat. His new katana felt like a living thing in Greg's hand, so light yet incredibly strong. Their swords flashed like liquid silver, flowing back and forth between them. They practiced all they could, mostly for Greg's benefit, but Duncan needed the warm-up as well. After, they sat in the dojo office, Greg smoking a cigarette in silence. The time came. "Let's go," Duncan said, glancing at his watch. They got into the classic black T-bird sitting outside. Because of the chill, the top was up. They drove to the meeting place, arriving exactly as the clock on the radio blinked "8:00". They entered the warehouse, a huge, empty place, supported by the occasional concrete column. On the side of the building facing the water, a long row of windows was set into the wall, allowing a bit of light to enter the otherwise dark enclosure. Shadows seemed to move and twist in front of their eyes. They walked a few meters into the building when a powerful Quickening entered into their range. Michael Barnes slipped out of the shadows and stood about a dozen meters in front of them, his longsword in hand, pointed at the floor. Barnes fixed Duncan with a cool gaze and then let his eyes pass over Greg briefly, unsurprised at his presence. "An old friend is here, Greg," he said. "I *know* he'll be glad to see you again." What is he talking about, Duncan thought furiously. A trap? Another form came out of the shadows behind Barnes. Short and squat, with short greasy dark hair, and a wide, ugly face... "I told you I'd be back, remember?" Malik said. "This time, you don't have MacLeod to protect you. This time, I'm going to destroy you, just like I killed your woman. In fact--" "Shut up, you fool," Barnes snapped. "I allowed you here, but you are trying my patience." Malik shut up. Whatever deal he'd made with Barnes, he obviously still regarded him with much fear. Greg just stared in shock as the face which pursued him through countries and years was suddenly there, threatening him, once again. It leered at him, a mask of pure hate. Then, Malik walked away from Barnes, closer to the windows. The point of his scimitar touched the concrete floor of the warehouse, and he leaned on it, as if to say `Come on, I don't have all day'. The shock dissipated and a scream rose in Greg's throat as all the rage that Duncan had helped him to suppress for so long came rushing back. He raised his katana and charged at the murderer, sword raised high above his head. And received a shallow gash across his chest to show for it, before he could check his attack. The sharp pain cut through the fury and brought him back to his senses. He warily backed off and circled around the Asian Immortal, trying to plan his strategy. ************* In the meantime, MacLeod and Barnes approached each other, and without words between them, began to duel. No words were necessary. They were both calm and collected, both accomplished fighters. They circled each other like barely controlled wild animals, and then their swords crossed with a clang as they both swung at the same time. The incredible power of the strokes caused a bright blue spark leap from the point where their swords struck each other. The swords slid down to the hilts and Duncan shoved Barnes back. Barnes attacked again, feinting left but at the last moment changing the direction of his stroke, catching Duncan on his left shoulder. The point of Barnes' blade pricked Duncan's flesh. Duncan leaped back and sent his katana in a whistling arc towards Barnes' unprotected right side. Barnes managed to bring his sword across and parry the blow, and return one of his own to Duncan's head, which the Highlander ducked. They stopped fighting for a moment, and stared into each other's eyes. They were just getting started. ************* Malik grew weary of watching Greg circle around him and went for an attack, swinging his scimitar with a crude yet powerful arm towards Greg's neck. Inexperienced, but knowing just enough to foresee such a move, Greg ducked under it and lunged forward, sword extended. Though it was primarily a slashing weapon, the katana penetrated Malik's body, and he fell to his knees. Greg pulled up on the katana to release it from Malik's quivering form. The katana was red and wet and streaked with blood and Greg flicked it with his wrist to send the droplets flying away from the metal. ************* MacLeod and Barnes were trading blow for blow in an ever- increasing tempo. The strikes went back and forth, always being caught on the other's blade. They were no longer consciously thinking about their moves, but relying on the instincts of their arms and minds to guide their attacks and parries. ************* Greg looked down at the helpless Immortal. Malik's head was lowered; his sword lay on the floor beside him. He raised his head ever so slightly. The katana came down, the razor-sharp blade parting the neck without any resistance. The head dropped to the floor with a muffled thud and the body fell forward upon it. Blood spurted from the severed arteries and veins and poured in rivulets over the concrete, creating a growing dark pool. ************ MacLeod's katana and Barnes' longsword were moving almost faster than they could keep track of. Despite Barnes' greater age and experience, Duncan was fighting like a man possessed, forcing the older Immortal to give up ground. Sweat beaded Duncan's brow and he was breathing through his mouth with exertion, but he showed no signs of losing his strength. Barnes, on the other hand, was being beaten back towards the wall, but he showed no signs of fatigue. ************* Malik's body begin to glow white, and Greg watched it with fear. Duncan and Richie's words hadn't prepared him for the actual experience of taking another Immortal's Quickening. The glow traveled up Malik's body and collected at his severed neck. Without warning, a bolt of white electricity leapt from the stump and shot directly into Greg's chest. Despite the speed of the bolt, it had no force; Greg felt it enter his body and spread out, like the ripples of water in a lake, disturbed by the impact of a stone. More bolts of energy lanced out of Malik's body and surrounded Greg. The energy ran over his body, as if to find the best place to enter it. The rest of the Quickening hovering around Greg suddenly collapsed in on his body, a constricting net of energy. The burning sensation consumed him, driving him to roar in a strange mixture of pain and victory. Faces swam before his eyes, a dozen or so young Immortals, some much like himself. Names, dates, and experiences entered his mind and were collated into his consciousness. Malik was dead, but all he ever knew lived on in Greg. He almost collapsed from the weakness after absorbing so many lives, so much knowledge. He managed to stay on his feet throughout it all, and as the power of the Quickening faded away, he saw that Duncan's fight still continued. ************ The first discharge of Malik's Quickening was noted by both of the other Immortals but they did not pay any attention to it. To have done so would have meant death from the other. With two fighters of such great skill, one minute error or distraction on either side would finish the fight. And then it came. Barnes misjudged his position in relation to the wall behind him and his heel touched it, momentarily throwing him off balance. Barnes' eyes had a split second to register fear before Duncan's ancient katana split the skin of his neck and passed all the way through to the other side in an instant. The head tilted and fell to the floor. Barnes' body fell back and slid down the wall, where it collapsed bonelessly to the floor, looking as if he'd become bored with the fight and sat down for a rest. Fountains of bright red shot into the air, droplets pattering down onto the corpse and running down the wall behind it. The flow then slowed to a trickle as the pressure was released. MacLeod had been almost sure he was going to die in the warehouse tonight. He stared at the corpse for a moment, and the brilliant white glow beginning to consume it. He turned away from the corpse and towards the windows, arms raised in supplication. The upraised katana clattered to the floor. Massive bolts of energy knocked Duncan to his knees and seemed to entwine throughout his body, charging him with all of Barnes' millenium of power and memories. All the experience and Quickenings of eleven hundred years were transferred to the victorious Immortal in the space of seconds. Electricity crackled and arched around Duncan's screaming, writhing form. The windows exploded inwards in sequence, showering everything with shards of gleaming glass. They sliced into Duncan but the wounds healed in seconds. Greg was able to take cover behind a concrete column and shield himself from the shower of sharp fragments. The violent explosion burned itself out quickly, and everything became still. The whine of sirens in the distance became audible. Duncan realized Greg was shaking his arm. "We've got to get out of here, Duncan! Do you hear me?" MacLeod suppressed the memories still flowing into his mind and landed himself back in reality. He climbed to his feet and bent down to pick up his sword. They ran out of the warehouse, fragments of glass crunching beneath their shoes. Greg and Duncan jumped into the T-Bird waiting outside. Duncan started it quickly and put it in gear, acrid smoke rising from the burning tires as he peeled out onto the street. **************** Duncan, Richie, and Greg sat around a table at Joe's later that night, Duncan nursing a single-malt, Greg a beer, and Richie glaring at the glass of milk Joe had personally brought to him. They'd laughed uproariously at Richie's expression when he saw the milk, not just because it was amusing, but because laughter was the best thing for the stress they were all feeling. Inevitably, the topic of conversation soon grew more serious as Richie pressed for information about the events in the warehouse. "It was so...easy," Greg said. "I was surprised; my fight lasted about a minute. But you should have seen old Duncan here fight Barnes. I've never seen two people move so fast. And then, it was all over. Barnes slipped up and Duncan took his head." Duncan spoke up. "It wasn't exactly like that--" "Yeah, yeah," Richie said. "Listen to this guy, he's as modest as...well...he's *really* modest," he finished lamely, bringing a laugh from the other two. "You know, Greg," Duncan said, "It's custom for an Immortal who's just taken his first Quickening to go off on his own for a while, start to experience life as an Immortal." "I know," Greg said. "I already know where I'm going: back to Paris." He ran his thumb over the inside of the emerald ring on his little finger. He took the ring off and set it on the table. "I've got to go...visit someone. Give this back. I don't want it anymore." He sighed. "After that, who knows?" Richie and Duncan both understood. "There's no hurry," Duncan said. "You still don't know a lot of things, and I still have a lot of things to teach." Greg realized what Duncan was saying and smiled. He felt good, like he was just starting out on a whole new chapter of his life. He was an Immortal, with maybe centuries of life ahead of him, and he intended to use that time to the best of his ability. All the old ghosts were gone, and there was only him, now. He was content, for perhaps the first time in his life; content, to feel the life's blood coursing through his veins. [The end] +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ The Vampire Chronicles Home Page -- fanfics, gifs+sounds, Anne Rice stuff ***http://www.xroads.com/pages/gpalmer/gpalmer.html*** +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ =========================================================================