Disclaimers:  Original characters and concept of  Highlander and  Highlander: The Series are property of a host of people, none of whom, unfortunately, are  me.  Original characters and the story herein, however,  are exclusively mine and cannot be used or posted without my permission.  So if you want to expand on this idea or character, please let me know first.  Thanks.
Rating:  PG-14.

Debts

© 1997, 2000, Grace Macy

Sioux City, 1963

Marisa Daikin, née Amalia Delacorte, fished in her purse for her car-keys and froze as the buzz hit her.  She looked up, hazel eyes scanning the dark streets for the other Immortal.  "Shit," she muttered under her breath.  It had been a long, hard day; she wasn't in the mood for a Challenge.  Her eyes finally spotted the intruder as he stepped underneath the halo of light of a street-lamp, light sliding down his sword's blade.

"I am Diego Calivar," he announced.

"Amalia Delacorte," she replied slowly, reaching a hand towards the sheathe of her sword.  "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather skip this; it's been a long day."  He smiled, and twirled the sword idly.  Amalia sighed.  "I'll take that as a no."  She set down her purse and unsheathed her own sword -- and froze again as another buzz started.  Her eyes flicked towards the shadow that detached itself from a wall and stepped forward, a naked blade in its grip.  She whirled back to Calivar.  "You can't do this! It's against the rules!"

Calivar laughed.  "Not as long as there's no interference in the fight."

Amalia's eyes narrowed.  "But if I win, the other takes my head?"

The other figure laughed, stepping into enough light for her to make out his face.  He was even bigger than Calivar, at least 6'1" and a good 200 pounds, not all of it muscle.  Amalia didn't make the mistake of assuming that would make him move slower.   Still, if I win against him, it might make Calivar back off for a bit, maybe long enough for . . .

For what?, another part of her asked dryly.   Help?  At this hour?  Even if someone called the cops, they wouldn't get here soon enough . . .

She nodded inwardly, facing the facts.   Okay, so I'm dead either way.  It's been a good life, all 300 years of it; I can accept death.  So -- who do I want to take with me?   She looked from one to the other and her eyes slowly went back to the big one.   I've got a bad feeling about him . . .

Amalia extended her sword, the blade pointing at the larger man.  "You."

He grinned at her, his gaze flicking to Calivar briefly.  "As you wish, little one."

Oddly accented voice, resonant.  Amalia raised an eyebrow.  Maybe it was the suicidal side of her, but she couldn't resist saying, "Thank you, Genie."

He frowned.  "Shalizar Cortozan."

Her lips formed a thin smile as she headed for the alley beside him.  "Whatever.  Let's go."

*

Duncan MacLeod had spent a pleasant evening listening to a new band and was headed home -- regretfully alone.  He stopped however, halfway through the door of the pub, as a familiar sound reached his ears.   Swords.  He stepped outside fully and turned, scanning the streets.  From the mouth of an alley two blocks away came tiny flickers of light and the sound that had caught his attention.  Too far away for him to sense the Immortals involved, but the clanging sound carried well in the empty streets.

He frowned, curiosity warring with the rule about leaving two Immortals to their own fight.  Then his eyes saw something else and another concept won: fairness.  A third figure waited by the mouth of the alley, light gleaming on the half-seen sword.

They're double-teaming!  If the other Immortal loses, that one takes the winner's head.  Without a second thought, he started for the alley.  First and foremost, Duncan MacLeod was a chieftain's son -- foul play sat ill with him, regardless of who was involved.

*

Amalia danced away from a sweep of steel and countered it with a thrust that almost got through Cortozan's defenses before the big man turned it.  His answering blow, caught on the edge of her blade, sent a jolt all the way up her arm, almost numbing her from the shoulder down.  She kept hold of her sword through sheer determination, chest heaving with breaths that were equally hard won, and threw herself to the side to duck under Cortozan's next swing.

She hit the ground in a roll, sword sweeping out to slash across his calves, and then was back on her feet again, still crouched.  He roared a curse at her in a language she didn't recognize, and swung his blade down.  But she was no longer there.  Instead, her foot lashed out, catching him squarely in the kidney.  He tumbled forward with a grunt and straightened slowly, but fast enough to catch her next blow with his sword.  But not quite at the right angle.  The blow loosened his grip and threw him off balance so that he landed on one knee, his free hand splayed on the ground.

Amalia looked up to see Calivar's startled, angry look, and almost didn't notice the third buzz starting.  She raised her sword and swept it down before he could do more than take a step forward.  She took a breath, swallowing hard to manage the words, then said clearly as the Quickening started to form, "Next?"

*

The man at the mouth of the alley whirled to look at MacLeod as he sensed him.  MacLeod paused, katana already out and ready, and his gaze flicked to the woman who stood above what had once been an Immortal.  From the look on the other man's face, MacLeod doubted she was part of the team.  He heard her say only one word, and it was all he needed to know his guess was right.  He looked at the second man and shook his head.  "Leave now and you can mourn," he offered.

The man curled a lip at him and raised his sword as the Quickening of his partner started, light-laden mist curling about the woman.  "One doesn't mourn a business decision," he answered, then smiled and lowered the blade.  "Another time."

Then he was gone, walking quickly out the alley and down the street.  MacLeod watched him, then turned back to the woman to see the Quickening lift her half-off her feet.  Lightning danced around her, then dove into and through her, so that she screamed with the pleasure/pain of it.  It went on for what MacLeod knew would seem like an eternity to her, but was actually barely over a minute.  When it was over, she sank down like a puppet whose strings had been cut, landing on her hands and knees, her head hanging down and chest heaving.

MacLeod took a step forward and she looked up quickly, her hand reaching for her sword, still shaking.  "It's all right," MacLeod said quickly, sheathing the katana.  "I'm not here for you."

She laughed lightly and eyed him, still a little wary.  "I'd say it was exactly the opposite," she said, catching her breath and leaning back on her heels.  "You saved my life."

MacLeod shrugged with a small smile.  "I have a thing for fair play."

She smiled back, her gaze warming, and stood slowly, leaning a bit on her sword.  "A man after my own heart.  Though, thankfully, not my head.  I don't think I could handle that right now."  She tilted her head, looking at him appraisingly.  "Do you have a name, O Knight in Shining Armor?"

He laughed.  "Duncan MacLeod.  And yours, milady?"

"Amalia Delacorte," she replied, taking a careful step towards him.  Finding herself not too shaky, she took another and came closer.  "Better known as Marisa Daikin, at the moment."

"Nice to meet you," MacLeod said, extending a hand as she reached him.

Amalia chuckled and shook it, her grasp not as steady as it would have been otherwise.  "The feeling's mutual, believe me."  She looked up at him and smiled softly, her gaze becoming serious.  "I owe you, Duncan MacLeod.  Anything, anytime."

MacLeod smiled down at her, admiring, and said, "For now, how about a drink?"

Amalia grinned up at him, the Quickening tingling all along her body, and centering low in her belly.  She could feel his body heat, smell the slight musk of his cologne . . . and she found that she was craving a lot more than a drink.  He saw it in her eyes; she knew it.  "For now," she agreed huskily, and they started back out of the alley.

It was the beginning of a long night . . . and an even longer friendship.

--end--

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