The shadows on the calm of the water reflected a beautifully executed ballet. Or at least a choreographed dance. Two figures with swords held high battled it out in that arcane dance. A dance that had been the same through out the ages, a fight for life. The fight of one immortal against another. The winner would take his opponent’s head, and with it his power. That was the way it was. No second chances.

Mike Sheppard knew this, as he battled he opponent on the bridge that night. He knew that if he failed, or even faltered it would be all over. He knew that too many times it had been close. At the last moment he was victorious, because his opponent faltered. It could have been his mistake and then all would have been over. He knew this, but still he kept taking chances, letting his opponent get close. Letting his opponent have the upper hand. It was a game to the stalky man with flaming red hair. Then just at the right moment when he tired of the sport, he would thrust, then slice. His opponent would fall to the ground, head severed. That was the case tonight. His opponent dropped from a single cut of his sword.

The Quickening, the lightening, the surge of adrenaline, the shear euphoria of it. This never really was enough for Sheppard. He always wanted something more. To him, the Quickening was anticlimactic. He always wished that it would last longer, or something. He could not understand why it just wasn’t satisfying. The Quickening too, was a dance, one that he would never have the lead. Unless, he was the one left at the end. Maybe the Prize would satisfy him.

Unfortunately, after living for over 300 years, the fight for the Prize held little interest. He had killed many men as an Officer in His Majesties Army. In the Colonial Revolt, in the Battle of Culladen, anywhere the Empire needed him. Until one day he grew bored with the thanklessness of the military and staged his own death. He fled to America in the 1880’s.

Mike Sheppard had been in the United States for nearly 100 years. And like most immortals he took up History as a profession. He was granted a full professorship at the University of Chicago, and was very surprised when he was offered a chance to visit Seacouver College and teach for a year. He had been to the Pacific Northwest during the Alaskan Gold Rush in 1889 and looked forward to seeing how the area had changed. At that time he was not particularly interested in the sights, just the gold. He was a better solider than a miner and by 1890 he was elected Sheriff of Dawson Creek. The "jumping off place" for the miners going to Alaska. Sheppard liked the challenge of law enforcement it gave him purpose. Unfortunately, when the Gold Rush was over, the City Fathers decided they did not need a Sheriff with as much gusto as Sheppard, so he was requested to leave. He changed his name and moved to Chicago, where he had stayed until this opportunity arose.

******

Richie Ryan sat in the back row of the class trying to pay attention to the instructor droning on and on about 17^th Century England. Richie stifled a yawn as he glanced at the clock on the wall. Still 30 minutes left, he thought. Why did I even think I could go to college? Then his eyes lit upon a woman two rows down from him in the big lecture hall. Her auburn hair curled gently about her shoulders and her deep blue eyes sparkled as she concentrated on the lecture. Richie envied the way she wrote down every word that was uttered. He secretly wondered if she really understood what was being said.

"The mid-term will be Friday," said Professor Mike Sheppard, "tomorrow will be the review. I expect everyone here with questions. Class dismissed."

"At last," sighed Richie as he hurried to catch up with the woman. "Boy" he said nonchalantly, "that was a heck of a lecture."

"Yes," said the woman, "it was exceptional, wasn’t it?" She smiled at Richie, but her eyes were on Sheppard.

Richie shrugged. "Yeah, right."

"You’re Richard Ryan, aren’t you?" She said finally looking at him.

"Yes," he said, "but I go by Richie."

"I’m Carla Doolittle." She said. Her smile was even more beautiful than Richie had first thought. Now all of its warmth was directed at him.

He stood there with his mouth open looking for the right words to say. "Haaa." Was all that came out.

"It was nice meeting you Richie," she said politely turning to leave.

"Are you busy tonight?" He was finally able to squeeze out.

"I was going to study."

"Maybe we could study together."

"I’d like that," she said.

"Great," he said relaxing now, "umm, here’s the number where I work." He handed her a card that read: Pine Street Antiques, 243 Pine Street, Duncan MacLeod, Owner, 206-555-3554.

"You work in an Antique store?"

"It’s a job. I get off at 6, we can leave from there and get a bite to eat before we hit the books."

"That will be fine." She said.

Richie smiled broadly and gazed deeply into her amazing blue eyes. He sighed. They stood there in silence for a moment, just looking at each other. Suddenly, a horn sounded behind them. Richie jumped and spun around.

Duncan MacLeod sat behind the wheel of his 1960 Thunderbird and motioned to Richie to come on.

"I have to go." Richie said with a frown. "See you at 6?"

"Yes, Richie, I will see you at 6. Books in hand." Said Carla. Neither of them moved.

"Richie," shouted MacLeod now leaning on the dashboard, his head over the windshield so as to be heard better. "Let’s go! Tessa is by herself."

"Okay, Mac." He said shaking his head. "I’m sorry Carla, I have to go now."

"It’s okay Richie, I’ll see you tonight." She watched as he opened the door of the vintage Thunderbird and climbed in. "Good bye Richie." She said as the two men drove away.

"Who were you talking to?" Said Sheppard coming up behind her.

"The Ryan boy." She said putting her hand in his. "We’re going to study tonight."

"You don’t need to study." He said, kissing her gently on the cheek.

"No, but Mr. Ryan does."

Sheppard nodded. "Do you know who the chap was with him?"

The girl shook her head. "Do you?"

Sheppard shrugged. "I thought he looked familiar."

******

Culladen Township, Scotland, June 1746AD.

The heath was shrouded in a dense cloud of fog and smoke. English troops raced through the fog, shooting at anything that moved. Highland Scots scattered into the foothills and hid behind rocks.

"Duncan," shouted a bedraggled Scot, running toward the foothills. "We mus’ ge. Stinkin’ Billy and his murderers ere a comin’."

Three men in kilts ran across the heath.

Bang. One man fell to the ground.

Duncan knelt at his side. "Thomas," he said, "ye mus’ ge oop."

The fallen man shook his head. "Nay," he said, "ge on. Sae yerself Duncan. Leave me ‘ere."

"I canna do that. Yer me clansman. I canna leave ya ‘ere."

"Hurry," shouted the third of their party from behind a lichen incrusted rock, "those murderin’ Brits are right there."

"I canna leave a clansman." Shouted MacLeod.

The man shrugged and disappeared into the thick under brush.

"Ge on Duncan," said Thomas.

"Nay, Thomas, I canna leave ye ‘ere ta be slaughtered like cattle. Like our other clansmen. I canna do it."

Thomas struggled to his feet. Duncan placed himself under his arm to support him. Soon they were both standing.

Bang.

Thomas slumped onto Duncan’s shoulder and became as a dead weight. " ‘old on Thomas." He murmured as he made his way toward the small outcropping of rocks. In the background he could still hear gunshots and the cries of his clansmen. If only he could get Thomas to the forest, he might be safe.

Bang.

Duncan felt the heavy lead ball penetrate his left arm. Then another in his right leg. As he stumbled and tried to regain his balance, Thomas’s limp body fell to the ground.

Bang.

The next bullet pierced Duncan’s rib cage, just below his heart. He slumped to a sitting position against a large rock. He looked up at a red-haired man on a white horse. The man raised his saber over his head and Duncan passed out from loss of blood.

"Move your bloomin’ arse, Sheppard." Shouted the British Sargent. "This one’s dead. There’s more of them in those hills. Now move."

Reluctantly, Sheppard sheathed his saber and rode toward the rocky foothills.

******

"So, MacLeod, you know Professor Sheppard?" Said Richie at dinner that night. "I thought he taught history like he was there."

"He was," MacLeod said under his breath, trying to hide his hatred of the man who helped slaughter so many of the Clan MacLeod and the other Highlanders during the Battle of Culladen. It was the bloodiest battle in the history of the British Isles. William of Orange and his troops attempted to drive the Catholic Highlanders from Scotland. The Highlanders with their Claymore swords proved no challenge to the Orangemen armed with black powder muskets. They were able to kill a man from a distance, rather than up close like the sword. Mac shivered at the memory. The carnage. The technological superiority of the British troops.

"Are you alright, Duncan?" Said Tessa, frowning across the table at him.

Mac blinked and smiled nonchalantly at her. Then he turned to the woman on his right, "Richie tells me you are quite a historian yourself, Carla." He said.

"Yes, thank you." She blushed. "History is my major. I’m Professor Sheppard’s teaching assistant."

Richie’s mouth flew open. "I didn’t know." He muttered. "Honest, I didn’t know."

"What" said Mac, "is your specialty?"

"Eighteenth Century England and Scotland. Specifically the Battle of Culladen, I find it fascinating." She said with a gleam in her eye.

Mac winced in pain, as if someone had stuck a knife in him.

"I don’t understand," she continued, "why the Highlanders didn’t arm themselves appropriately. Their swords were just no match for the muskets of the British troops."

Mac bit his lower lip to try to keep from saying anything he might regret, and finally was able to say, "I don’t understand that either."

"You know," Carla said leaning closer to Mac, "I think…"

"I think we should get to the library." Interrupted Richie.

"Okay." Said Carla standing to follow him out the door. "It was nice to meet you Mr. MacLeod, Tessa. Thank you for the wonderful meal."

"Good bye, Carla." Said Tessa as the two youngsters ran out the door. After they were out of sight, she turned to MacLeod. "Are you going after him?" She asked him sincerely.

MacLeod sighed. "Eventually he will come after me."

"I know." Said Tessa putting her arms around Duncan’s neck. "Just be careful." She kissed his cheek and handed him his sword.

He said nothing as the door closed behind him.

******

The red-haired college professor stood at the threshold of the building that housed the History Department at Seacouver College. The college campus was all on a single story, spread out across several terraced acres. The History building was nestled near the center of the campus almost completely surrounded by buildings on higher ground. Sheppard took a deep breath and walked slowly toward the door with his name emblazoned upon it. His long black trench coat, flowing around his knees. He paused outside the door and withdrew the 18^th Century Cavalry Saber from his coat. It’s silver quillens and ornate twisted hilt glistened in the fluorescent light of the hallway.

The silhouette of a man was visible through the window. He stood as Sheppard opened the door. "I knew you would come." Said the anonymous man.

"I had to." Said Sheppard.

"Then," said the man, "let’s dance." He raised his long broadsword to the ready.

Sheppard nodded.

******

As MacLeod ran around the corner of a building into the stone courtyard of Seacouver College he saw the telltale lightening flashes of the Quickening above the History building. He hoped the victim was no one he knew. He slowed his pace across the courtyard. In the shadows he saw two figures moving slightly. Duncan drew closer and realized that the figures were Richie and Carla. Richie held her tightly in his arms.

"Richie," she whispered, "I hate thunderstorms."

"I’m here." He said soothingly.

Tears streamed from her frightened eyes. "Just walk me home," she said.

"Okay, but why are you afraid of thunder?"

"Well," she sniffed, "you see, every time there is thunder and lightening, someone dies."

"Oh," said Richie, "that’s nonsense." He tried to hide the fact that he knew exactly what she was talking about.

They turned from the shadows; in time to see Duncan making his way across the courtyard.

"Mac." Richie sighed.

"What’s he doing here?" Carla whispered.

Richie shrugged.

******

The door to the History Department flew open and Mike Sheppard stood in the doorway looking disheveled and tired. Mac felt his presence and moved to meet him. The two met in the middle of the courtyard, swords at the ready.

"Mike!" Screamed Carla, as she ran toward the professor.

He spun around, concealing the sword inside his trench coat.

"Carla?" He said.

"Oh, Mike," she sobbed running into his arms.

He put his arms around her and held her comfortingly. "Next time MacLeod," he said quietly over her shoulder. "Next time."

"Count on it Sheppard." He said, as the Professor escorted the woman toward the dormitory where she lived.

*******

Duncan MacLeod sat on the marble bench that surrounded the fountain at the center of the courtyard. He thought about his clansmen that were ruthlessly murdered at Culladen. His anger boiled as he awaited the return of the butcher responsible.

The first rays of sunlight filtered through the trees and made their mark on the courtyard where Mac waited. Noting that it would be daylight soon he rose from the bench and stretched, squinting into the new day. As his eyes adjusted to the light, MacLeod saw the figure of a man approaching out the shadows. He felt the twinge that told him the approaching man was an immortal. He reached inside his raincoat for his sword. He found it in its usual place and held it just out of sight.

"MacLeod," said Sheppard.

"Sheppard," said Mac through clenched teeth.

"Let’s get this over with," said Sheppard drawing his sword. "I have a class in an hour."

Duncan drew his sword and they began to fight. Swords clanked and sparks flew. Both men fought well, their training and practice took over and they fought flawlessly. But, as any fight with two masters, it was over all too soon. Mac’s sword sliced deftly through Sheppard’s body from the right shoulder to the left hip, leaving a wide gash. Sheppard’s sword wavered in his right hand, so he switched hands and continued to fight.

Duncan dropped to one knee and thrust hard into Sheppards stomach. As the man doubled over involuntarily in response to the pain, MacLeod raised his sword above his head. Brining it down in a swift diagonal motion. "There can be only one." He said, as his sword sliced off Sheppards head.

The lightening flashed and Duncan felt the shaking, tingling rush of the Quickening. The overall euphoric feeling settled in upon him as the spirits of his clansmen so long dead now, were finally avenged.

MacLeod heaved a great sigh of relief as he drove back to the shop. Finally, the butcher of Culladen, Mike Sheppard was gone. That chapter of Duncan MacLeod’s life was over.

The sunrise over Puget Sound was especially beautiful. Duncan smiled as he drove into the orange shadows and off into the distance.