Highlander: Shadow of Obsession

by Rebecca Neason

  Again Violane laughed. “Go to America,” she sneered. “Start a new life—as what, a farmer’s wife? Be some man’s property, you mean, his beast of burden. Let him beat me because I cannot bear him children. No, Duncan MacLeod—I don’t want your money. I want your head.”

  She raised her sword and swung at him. Duncan knocked it away easily.

  “Violane—stop,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be like this. You could have a good life in America. I’ll help you.”

  “I don’t want your help—just your Quickening,” she answered. She swung her sword again. “You’re right about one thing,” she said. “I know who I am now; I know about how Immortals stay alive. Darius sent me to a good teacher.”

  Her lunge was sudden and well-aimed. It almost caught Duncan off guard. Almost. He quickly sidestepped and parried.

  “Violane,” he almost pleaded. “Stop—I don’t want to fight you.”

  “Then die for me,” she answered.

  Her movements were quick and practiced, but her aim was only for primary targets. She did not try to weaken her opponent by striking at the easier targets of arms or legs. That might have granted her some advantage. But Violane was too eager, and she tried to kill. It was easy for Duncan, who had learned from masters, to counter her moves. He trapped her blade with his own, circled and flicked. Her sword went flying, then clattered to the ground. MacLeod stepped, brought his foot behind her ankles, and swept backward. Violane fell—helpless and now weaponless.

  MacLeod stepped back. “Violane.” he said, “I will be with Father Darius. If you change your mind, come there. I meant it when I said I’d help you.”

  He turned on his heel and walked away. As he stopped to pick up the bread and wine he had left near the alleyway, he heard her rise. There came the sound of running feet and the cry erupting from her throat.

  Duncan’s instincts, his training for survival, took over. Sword again in hand, he spun around. Violane was nearly on him. Her sword was raised to strike; her face was twisted in murderous rage.

  No time for thought—MacLeod swung his katana. Its polished blade caught the light and flashed like an arching silver rainbow as it descended, connected, sliced through.

  Violane’s body fell forward, carried by her own momentum. Duncan wanted to scream with the pain this action had caused him, but her Quickening caught him. It seared and twisted through him, squeezed the breath from him in its passing, until he was left limp and wrung, on his knees in the Paris streets.

  Duncan’s only thought now was to reach Darius. His legs felt almost too weak to bear his weight but he forced himself to rise and start to walk, knowing that the weakness would soon pass. But the other feelings—the sorrow, the remorse, the guilt at Violane’s death—these would stay with him.

  Darius answered Duncan’s knock, but the joy on the priest’s face quickly faded. “What has happened?” he asked as he ushered MacLeod into his familiar parlor.

  “I met Violane,” MacLeod answered dully. “I killed her.”

  For a moment, Darius hung his head in sorrow. Then he looked into Duncan’s face, and MacLeod saw the fathomless depths of compassion in his eyes. He felt a little of his own sorrow heal.

  “Tell me,” Darius said.

  Duncan dropped heavily into a chair and began to speak. Darius did not move as he listened. He stood in utter stillness until Duncan had finished.

  “What happened, Darius? Tell me that,” Duncan said at last, hearing the sound of desperation in his own voice. It had felt so right to help Violane. In the last quarter century, MacLeod had often thought of her here with Darius, happy and well, or wondered into what life Darius’s teachings had taken her. The memory of Violane’s soft smile and the look of peace on her face when he had last seen her had stayed with MacLeod through many a dark and lonely hour.

  Now he had killed her: MacLeod felt as if his soul was bleeding to death.

  Darius heard the pain in Duncan’s voice. He sighed deeply. “Do not blame yourself, my friend,” he said, coming over to take the chair next to Duncan’s. “Some people choose the path of their own destruction and nothing we do can turn them from it. Violane was such a one.

  “But what happened after I left?” Duncan asked again. “She seemed so happy here.”

  Darius nodded. “For a time she was,” he said, “a few months. Then she began to grow restless. But if she was going to leave holy ground, I knew she had to learn the ways of our kind. I arranged for her to go live with Marie Guilliard and her husband and to learn from them. Hubert is mortal, but he knows the truth about Marie and he is an ex-solider. They are good people, and I knew that they would train Violane in the skills she needed to stay alive. Marie and Hubert have a farm a few miles south of Paris. Marie often acts as healer and midwife to the others in the area. She said she would be happy to continue teaching Violane in those skills also.

  “Violane stayed with them for two years. Marie came here often with news of how Violane was doing—everything seemed to be well. Then one night Violane disappeared. She stole what money Marie and Hubert had and went off with a young man who had been working on a neighboring farm since shortly after Napoleon’s defeat. Marie and Hubert were heartbroken. They had come to look on Violane as a daughter. They searched the countryside for her, but without success. They even came here, to Paris, but there was still no sign of Violane. She did not want to be found by them, just as she did not want to be helped by you. It is a difficult thing to learn. my friend,” Darius concluded, “but you cannot save them all. No one can.”

  “Not even you?” Duncan asked softly.

  “Not even me,” Darius answered with infinite sadness. “But come, let us have some tea and put this business behind us. Violane now has the peace she would not let herself find in life.”

  Darius’s words, like his presence, were soothing. Duncan let them wash over him. He knew what Darius said was true—people did choose the path of their own lives, mortal and Immortal alike; victor or victim, you claimed your own role by the choices you made along the way.

  “Tomorrow I will say a Mass for Violane’s soul,” Darius said as he set the pot of tea on the table. Duncan smelled the well-remembered scent of flowers and herbs.

  “Aye,” he said, “I’d like to attend.”

  Darius smiled his gentle, understanding smile. “I thought you would,” he said as he sat down. “Now, tell me all you have done since we last met. It has been how long?”

  “Twenty-six years,” Duncan replied.

  “So long as that?” Darius said. “I’m afraid I no longer notice time as I once did. But from all I hear, much has happened to that small country since its beginnings. It is not so small anymore, yes?

  “Oh, do not look so surprised, Duncan MacLeod,” Darius said in answer to the look on MacLeod’s face. “I am not so cut off here as you might think. I have many visitors—most of whom visit me far more often than you do.”

  Duncan smiled as he took a sip from his tea, conscious again of the healing effect of Darius’s presence. Yes, it was good to be back here. He did not know how long he would stay in Paris this time, but he knew here was one place he could always call home, one man he could always call friend.

  That was the choice he made for his life.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Seacouver, present day

  Duncan stood at the park watching the play of the city lights across the water. It should have been a restful scene, but Duncan MacLeod felt no peace, no silence in his soul. A part of him wanted to hold on to the hope that this day would end without bloodshed. Another part of him, the greater part of him still whispered a warning.

  Where is your wisdom when I need it, Darius? His thoughts sent the question into the ether. Would you know what to say to Cynthia when she arrives? Will I?

  Then there was no more time to wonder. The familiar sense of an approaching Immortal announced her presence several long seconds before the sound of her footsteps reached his ears.

&nbs
p; She walked past him without a greeting, over to the hanging sculpture that adorned this part of the park. It was modern, shaped like a great circle, yet somehow reminiscent of the ancient mysteries of the East. Duncan had always found himself attracted to it, yet now he shivered as Cynthia ran a finger down its outer rim.

  “You met him here once, didn’t you?” she said, still not turning to face MacLeod. “You started to fight, but you were interrupted.”

  “Who?” Duncan asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear Cynthia say it.

  Cynthia turned around slowly. “Oh, don’t be coy, MacLeod,” she said. “It doesn’t suit you. I know all about you—you’re rather famous among our kind. Let’s see, what are some of the words I’ve heard to describe you? Chivalrous, certainly, though that seems to mean different things to different people. I’ve also heard you called a bloody nuisance and someone who lets his heart get in the way of his judgment. Do you think those are fair assessments, MacLeod?”

  “What do you want, Cynthia?”

  “Just to come to an understanding Is that too much to ask?”

  It was a cat-and-mouse game; Duncan knew it, but right now he had to play along. He needed to know her real intentions.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “It’s very simple,” she continued. “A deal—you leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone. For now, anyway.”

  MacLeod could almost hear Grayson’s voice in her words. “I’m prepared to offer you a deal, Duncan MacLeod.… All you have to do is nothing.…”

  Grayson had been after Paulus—also?

  “And if I don’t?” MacLeod asked.

  Cynthia sighed. “Then this,” she said as with a swift motion she pulled her sword from beneath her coat. MacLeod recognized it at once. It was a Kris broadsword, the same type of sword Grayson had carried.

  Cynthia saw the recognition on his face and she smiled. “Yes,” she said, “he was my teacher. But then, you knew that, didn’t you?”

  MacLeod did not bother to answer. He drew his katana and faced her. Neither of them moved for a moment as Cynthia went on smiling. Her eyes raked him up and down, assessing him in a manner that had nothing to do with swordplay.

  “You know, Grayson always said you had great potential. It seems such a shame to waste you. Why don’t you accept my offer, Duncan MacLeod?”

  Once more, Duncan had a flash of déjà vu; Grayson had used almost those same words. Did Cynthia know she was echoing him? Just what did Cynthia know?

  As she spoke, Cynthia was inching around to his right. Her voice was low and melodic and oh, so feminine. Here was an enemy, immensely dangerous; a tigress poised to strike.

  “Victor said you came to see him today,” Cynthia continued, still slowly circling, “to warn him about me. That wasn’t very chivalrous, was it, Duncan? And what a waste of effort. Of course, he didn’t believe you. He’s mine, body and soul, for as long as I want him—the poor bloody fool. But then, he is mortal. Don’t you think these mortals are fools, MacLeod? Oh, wait—I forgot. You like these pitiful creatures, don’t you?”

  “Why are you here. Cynthia?” Duncan asked again. “What is it you want with Paulus?”

  Cynthia chuckled low in her throat. “So impatient for an Immortal,” she chided. “What’s your hurry—is the world waiting for you to save it? Oh. all right, Duncan MacLeod. I’m here to finish something, work that was started centuries ago.”

  “Darius is dead. “ MacLeod answered her. “You can’t hurt him now. It’s over.”

  “No,” Cynthia snapped, but she reined in her anger as quickly as it had flashed. “It’s not over. It won’t be over until everything he loved is destroyed.

  “That was quite a pretty story I told Victor, wasn’t it?” she said more calmly. “Of course, none of it was true—but you know that. Do you want to know the truth, Duncan MacLeod? Can you stand to hear the truth about your precious Darius?”

  Duncan said nothing. Into what shape had her hatred, her obsession, bent and twisted the past?

  “Darius was a liar,” she said. “He lied with his words and he lied with his body. Oh, I can see you don’t believe me. but there is so much about him you never knew. But I knew him—before he put on that brown robe and began the greatest lie of all.

  “I was Darius’s lover,” she said almost proudly. “He was the greatest of us. I know—over the centuries I’ve been with so many. But none of them was as great as Darius. Warrior, leader, lover—no one else ever equaled him. He took me to his bed and, after I had given him my heart, he tossed me away like a broken plaything that no longer amused him. He used me and then betrayed me, and not even death can absolve him of that.”

  “You said yourself, it was centuries ago—” MacLeod began.

  “What do the centuries matter?” Cynthia snapped again. “He betrayed us all. He could have created the greatest kingdom the world had ever seen. He let us believe in him, in who he was and what he could do, and then he abandoned us. He left us with nothing.”

  “No,” Duncan said softly. “What he gave, what he taught, was so much more.”

  Cynthia laughed. “Well, you believe that, Duncan MacLeod. I do not.”

  With that, Cynthia lunged. She darted in, slashed her sword quickly across his left biceps and darted out again. MacLeod had time to do no more than gasp before she was out of reach. She was quick and well-trained—deadly, if he was not very, very careful.

  He knew her voice had lulled him. It was a weapon and she used it well. MacLeod steeled himself against it, against all of her charms. May Ling had taught him centuries ago that a woman could be as deadly as any man.

  She saw the emotions on his face, the set of his chin that announced his resolve, and she laughed. “It is a good Game we play, is it not, Duncan MacLeod? Do you feel your heart pumping warrior’s blood, feel the heat surging through your veins? Is it not almost as good as making love, to feel this alive? This is what Darius would have denied us all, as he denied it to himself.”

  Once more Cynthia darted, but this time MacLeod was ready for her. As she thrust her blade forward, he spun outside her guard and brought the pommel of his hilt down on her wrist, deadening the nerves. Her sword dropped uselessly away.

  Cynthia dropped with it, rolled, and picked up the sword in her other hand. Then she laughed once more.

  “Very good, Duncan,” she said. “I’d heard you were impressive. Oh, why are we wasting time on this. Come with me and I’ll show you delights such as no woman has ever shown you. I’ve had centuries to learn them, and we have time to enjoy them all.”

  “And Victor Paulus?” MacLeod asked.

  “Oh, why should his little life matter? Mortal men die every day and the world goes on without them. Ours are the only great lives; ours is the only Game that matters. Come play it with me.”

  Cynthia attacked, this time with her left hand. MacLeod had met few left-handed swordsmen in his time, but he had met them and he had trained against them. As her sword narrowly missed plunging between his ribs, slicing instead through flesh and muscle, he silently thanked the many teachers who had graced his past. The cut Cynthia’s blade had left was deep and it was painful, but it would heal—and he still had his head.

  This time MacLeod spun inside her circle of defense. Again he used the pommel of his sword as a weapon. He drove it back into her solar plexus, knocking the wind from her body and sending her lungs and diaphragm into a spasm that denied her air.

  She doubled over with the force of the blow, instinctively taking a step backward. But MacLeod was not done yet. He brought his elbow up into her face, knocking her head back and robbing her of balance. His leg whipped out and caught her ankle. Cynthia fell. By the time she hit the ground, MacLeod had turned and had his sword at her throat.

  He could not miss the sudden fear in her eyes as she stared up at him. They were blue eyes, framed in dark lashes, and they looked as deep as any ocean MacLeod had ever sailed. For a moment, MacLeod glimpsed the girl she must have bee
n, the woman she might have been once—gentle, trusting, full of laughter, wanting love.

  All that was the chieftain’s son in MacLeod rose up, filling him with the urge, the need, to protect the weak and the helpless. Wordlessly, Cynthia’s eyes seemed to plead with him for mercy; just as silently, the MacLeod of four hundred years ago longed to reach out, raise her to her feet and into the safety of an encircling arm.

  Duncan fought the urge; she was no weak and helpless victim. He kept his sword at her throat.

  Suddenly he heard Darius’s voice as clearly as if the priest had been standing next to him. “Stop,” it shouted within the silence. “Don’t kill her. Let her go. ”

  I can’t, Duncan’s soul replied as he inched the blade higher toward the final stroke.

  “Let her go. Put your blade down, Duncan MacLeod. The killing must stop.” He heard Darius’s voice again, speaking words he had heard from the priest in a hundred different discussions. If he was here, he would repeat them now—especially now.

  Slowly, MacLeod lowered his sword. “That’s enough, Cynthia,” he said. “It’s over—all of it. No more revenge, no more death. You’ll leave Paulus—or I’ll take your head now.”

  The air was finally coming back to Cynthia’s lungs. She breathed it in with great gulps and she nodded, as she continued to stare up at him with those luminous blue eyes.

  ‘Tomorrow,” she said between gasps. “He has a speech. I’ll leave while he’s gone.”

  MacLeod hesitated. Did he dare believe her? One soul at a time, he heard Darius’s voice again. One soul at a time…

  “Would you rather I left Victor tonight?” Cynthia asked. “Do you want me to explain that if I don’t leave, you’ll kill me?”

  “All right,” MacLeod said, backing up a step so she could rise. “But if you harm him, I swear to you that nothing will stop me until I have your head.”

  Cynthia stood, her face only inches from his own. Silently, she stood there, their eyes locked for long, measuring seconds. Then she nodded.