Josepha Sherman - Highlander: The Captive Soul

WARNER BOOKS EDITION

Copyright 1998 by Warner Books, Inc.

All rights reserved.

Highlander is a protected trademark of Gaumont Television. 1994 by Gaumont Television & Davis Panzer Productions, Inc. 1985.

Aspect is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.

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First eBook Edition: November 2009

ISBN: 978-0-446-56561-5

MacLeod froze, feeling yes. Another Immortal was nearby.

And he has to be aware of me, too.

He hurried around the corner, to see a tall, shadowy figure tense, head up, looking this way and that, trying to locate the enemy.

That has to be Khyan!

Just then, a second, smaller man nearly collided with Khyan, presumably apologized, then began unlocking a door. Khyan grabbed him and all but hurled his captive inside. MacLeod raced forward, reached the slammed door, and threw it openonly to be confronted by a wall of nearly total darkness.

There! The thinnest trace of light they were moving up an elevator heading for the roof. MacLeod took a hasty step forward and nearly fell over a body just inside the doorway: a security guard, uniform sticky with blood and throat quickly cut by Khyan.

He wasnt going to get to the roof before Khyan.

HIGHLANDER: THE ELEMENT OF FIRE

HIGHLANDER: SCIMITAR

HIGHLANDER: SCOTLAND THE BRAVE

HIGHLANDER: MEASURE OF A MAN

HIGHLANDER: THE PATH

HIGHLANDER: ZEALOT

HIGHLANDER: SHADOW OF OBSESSION

Available from

WARNER ASPECT

Thanks go to: Betsy Mitchell, Editor-in-Chief of Warner Aspect, for letting me play in the HIGHLANDER world; Eleanor Wood, Agent Deluxe, for understanding why wanted to play in the HIGHLANDER world; the HIGHLANDER staff and writers, for creating the wonderfully complex character that is Methos; actor Peter Wingfield, for so beautifully bringing Methos to life; and Admiral Ahmose of Egypts Eighteenth Dynasty, for leaving first-hand accounts of crucial battle scenes that made this writers job a good deal easier.

All night he wandered the streets of the garish, noisy is land the natives called Manhattan, not sure exactly where he was, what streets, what neighborhoods, save that he was moving ever nearer to the Great River, that which the natives named the Hudson, hunting as he had hunted for many nights.

Again and yet again, he was dazzled by the brightness of the artificial lights turning the good, proper darkness to a never-natural mockery of daylight. Again and yet again, he was stunned by the never-ending flow of traffic. So many lives crowded in together on this island, so many souls.

The hunt was hopeless.

No, and no again! He would not let himself despair. Despair was the refuge of the weak, the commoner. His brother had told him that many years ago, and he believed it, believed his brother

His brother, whom he would find and rescue. No matter how long it took. No matter how many sacrifices must be made. (But how long had he been hunting? There were large gaps in his memory when he must have been doing something living somehow yet he could not remember.)

No matter. Prior sacrifices had told him to search here within this vast city; they had brought him here, up through a tortuous route involving many false words and docu ments. But now

There. That man, walking alone into the park caught between the river and the wild way, the West Side Highway, the man walking with music blaring and earphones blocking out sounds of the world around him: foolish, foolish. His race, his appearance meant nothing. But the man was so young, so full of careless lifeperfect.

He stalked the young prey through garishly lit fields growing ever less crowded, glad of the fact because he knew the hunt must be made in private. He knew that these common lives must not know who walked in their midst, not yet.

He stalked, seeing a perfect place shrouded with trees and bushes, half hidden in shadow, a shortcut the young man had decided to take, no doubt confident in his youth and strength, never knowing he was being followed, never knowing that the one who followed was battle-trained and hardened.

Now.

He struck, catching the prey around the throat, cutting off any outcry. Now, now, the first part of the Triple Sacrifice, the rope looped about the neck, all but strangling the Chosen One.

Then, even as life began leaving the choking body, he performed the second ritual, his knife stabbing swiftly up to the Chosen Ones heart. Deftly avoiding the spurting blood, he let the dying sacrifice slide to the ground. The earphones had fallen free, and faint, tinny music accompanied him.

Now, yes, now for the third, the final ritual of slaying. His blade rose, fell, severing the victims head with one swift blow. More blood spurted, coppery-sharp in his nostrils as he knelt by the body. His hands shaking with hope, he tore and cut aside clothing till the body lay uncovered to the night.

He forced himself to calmness, murmuring the proper prayers. But all the time he was thinking, yes, yes, this time the prayers would be granted. Knife in hand, he neatly sliced flesh open, ignoring the new reeks, warily examining organ after organ, reciting:

Open to me, oh Light, open to me.

Let me see truth, let me see truly.

Let me see

Nothing! There was nothing to be read in the size or shape of the organs, not the slightest hint of an omen to be had! The sacrifice had failed once more!

Staggering to his feet, dimly aware of the tinny music continuing, incongruously cheerful, he stumbled blindly away, wiping his hands clean on a scrap of cloth. He must not be found with the sacrifice, he knew that much, or even leave the cloth behind, not in this strange, strange city where such things as sacrifices were not allowed and clues could be taken from a mere drop of blood.

He must not be taken. He would not let himself be cast into captivity like some hopeless slave!

Hopeless. As soon as he was at a safe distance, away from the park and its too-bright lights, hidden in the shadows of an alleyway, he sank once more to his knees. Of course the ritual had not worked. He was no priest or sorcerer!

Burying his face in his hands, he huddled there, weeping for his lost, lost brother.

But this was not safe, either. Predators prowled this city, those who hunted any weakness, predators who just might chance on the one true way of slaying. He could not die before his goal was reached, could not lose his soul until his brothers soul was freed.

So be it. The sacrifice had not worked because it was not meant to work. The gods had not forsaken him; they merely tested him, as they had done and done and done

He must not question. He must try again, closer this time to the water, the sacred, flowing water. He would try again, and yet again, as often as he must. There were endless victims to be found in this teeming New York City. And at last, at last, he vowed, he would succeed.