Highlander:

Dark Genesis

PROLOGUE

"Murder by Moonlight."

October 22, 2006 A.D.

Paris, France

Grant watched.

From his position across the street, the young Watcher could hear the sounds of revelry literally pouring out from within the small, smoky tavern. In the dim illumination cast by the flickering street lights, Grant appeared entirely average: a young man of twenty-five or thirty, with short-cropped brown hair and a pair of green eyes that never seemed to miss any detail, regardless of how small or seemingly inconsequential. He pulled his black leather jacket tighter around him as a strange chill that had nothing to do with the autumn cold crept up his spine.

Tonight, something just felt… wrong.

Grant reached into his front pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes, instantly slipping one into his mouth and lighting it with a match that appeared seemingly out of nowhere. As he placed the cigarettes back into his pocket, the green-eyed Watcher pulled something else out: a small digital camera with state of the art night-vision and video capabilities. The Watchers obviously spared no expense.

Thank God I'm doing this in the digital age, Grant thought with a slight chuckle. Without warning, the combination of the cold air and his smoke-filled lungs caused the shivering Watcher to cough uncontrollably; he leaned back against the streetlamp and covered his mouth as the fit finally died down. Too bad I'm not immortal. These damn things are gonna kill me! Further introspection was interrupted as the door of the tavern across the street opened suddenly, and a figure very familiar to Grant stepped out into the chill fall evening.

Lucas Quentin… How'd I ever manage to get stuck Watching this guy? What a piece of work…

Quentin, born Lucius Quintus in the year 98 A.D., was considered something of a joke among the other Watchers, which made him a perfect candidate for Grant's first field assignment. Quentin had once been a respected Roman officer during the rule of Emperor Hadrian, but after his "first death" occurred during the Bar Kokhba revolt in 132 A.D., the newly-immortal soldier turned to a life of eternal gambling, womanizing, and drinking.

It was a life style that Quentin had maintained with near-religious fervor for almost two-thousand years now.

It's unbelievable that no one's taken this guy's head yet, Grant thought as he sauntered down the street, staying in the shadows as he attempted to follow Quentin through the dark back-alleys of Paris. As the young Watcher tracked his quarry through the cold evening, he periodically stopped to snap a quick shot with his digital camera, resisting the urge to switch to the small device's video mode. No video, he scolded himself, remembering the few months of intensive field training that he'd undergone back home in the States.

Several yards ahead of him, a staggering drunk Quentin turned a sharp corner, forcing Grant to break out into a slow jog to catch up. It wasn't really very far, but for some reason, each step seemed to slow down the world around the Watcher, and a disconcerting chill began to shoot up and down his spine. He stopped in place, listening intently for the faint sound of shuffling footsteps, of retching, of any indication that Quentin was continuing his drunken meander through the streets of Paris. Grant strained his ears, closing his eyes to shut out any other distractions. Just one sound…

There!

Cautiously, Grant turned the corner, only to be confronted by a sight that filled him with an irrational sense of dread.

The alleyway had turned into an almost-entirely enclosed dead-end, with the only way in or out—besides the one Grant and Quentin had entered from—being a narrow, pitch-black space between two large, dark stone buildings. In the center of this small urban clearing, Lucas Quentin was hunched over, vomiting out the scant contents of his stomach. He slowly stood up and staggered toward the far corner, only to continue his horrid retching. Just then, a hint of movement caught the young Watcher's attention, from within the shadowy, narrow passageway.

There's someone there…

Slowly, menacingly, a tall form stepped silently out from the darkened divide, his steps purposeful and confident. Clothed as he was from head to toe in an all-concealing, jet-black hooded robe, Grant was unable to make out any of the broad-shouldered, hulking man's features. The mysterious newcomer took several more steps, until he stood directly behind the nauseated Quentin. The drunk immortal showed no signs that he even realized the immense stranger was there, engrossed as he was in his own suffering. Before Grant could react, the tall figure reached inside his cloak…

And pulled out a wicked looking, massive broadsword.

Another immortal! Grant thought frantically, kneeling down to stop the shaking of his legs as he readied his camera. Just after the initial shock of finding his assigned target being stalked by another swordsman, Grant was hit with a sudden realization. No, not an immortal… Drunk or not, Quentin would have sensed his approach! Is this some kind of joke? A mortal hunting for the head of an immortal

Finally, after wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, Lucas Quentin must have sensed something, or heard some slight sound from behind him. As he spun around on legs of rubber, Quentin caught sight of the massive figure that stood ready to challenge him. From within his long, dark brown trench-coat, Quentin drew his own blade, a slender, razor-sharp rapier that had no chance of blocking a direct hit from the stranger's broadsword.

Quentin would have to rely on the two things that his intoxication had robbed him of: speed and coordination. The mysterious, broadsword-wielding warrior took a single step forward, forcing Quentin to leap back drunkenly as he held his rapier tightly in his trembling hand.

For a moment, nothing happened, and Grant found himself holding his breath as, for reasons he didn't entirely understand, the young Watcher slowly switched his camera to video mode. A sinister laugh, emanating from the shrouded stranger, brought the green-eyed young man back to his senses. A brief moment of silence followed, until Quentin shouted something at his mysterious adversary, his words too slurred for Grant, who had wisely kept his distance, to understand. The Roman's frenzied cry echoed ominously throughout the dead-end alleyway.

Then, the stranger spoke.

"You think me a mortal?" his strong voice carried all the way to Grant's distant ears. He spoke in perfect, completely unaccented French, a language that, despite his intensive training, Grant still had some trouble understanding.

Instinctively, the Watcher began recording, ignoring the nagging voice in the back of his head that pleaded incessantly with him to remember his training. He knew, for it had been ingrained within his mind, that recording an immortal's conflict on any sort of video device was strictly prohibited within the Watchers' organization. Despite his fact, though, Grant had a strange feeling that what he was seeing now would undoubtedly change the Game forever.

"Oh, how truly far our kind have fallen," the deep-voiced stranger continued, readying his formidable blade for what was sure to be a killing strike. Seeing the look of undisguised confusion that must have played across Quentin's drunken features, the black-cloaked man let loose with another chilling laugh. "Very well then, allow me to show you the power of a true immortal…"

Before the words could register in Grant's mind, the air around him seemed to grow thick. A quiet gasp escaped the Watcher's lips as the LCD screen of his digital camera suddenly became obscured with static. From further down the darkened alley, Quentin could be heard crying out in disbelief, and the unmistakable sound of steel striking concrete heralded the fall of the Roman's rapier from his uncontrollably shaking hand. With widened eyes, Quentin fell to his knees before his soon-to-be-executioner.

"What had you hoped to accomplish with this toy of yours?" the mysterious figure asked, bending down to pick Quentin's fallen rapier up with his black-gloved left hand. All the while, the atmosphere of the shadowy alleyway continued to grow heavy as the black-clad stranger sustained his unearthly aura. With one swift movement, the hooded warrior swung his left had with all his might, striking the nearby wall of an abandoned building with Quentin's weapon, shattering the sword into hundreds of pieces that made a hypnotizing sound as they fell musically to the ground around their former master.

Throughout all of this, Lucas Quentin remained on his knees, his features frozen into a mask of unmistakable shock.

Grant shrunk back further into the shadows, keeping his still-recording camera pointed in the direction of the two combatants despite the obvious interference that the stranger's aura was causing. I have to get out of here… I have to run, Grant kept telling himself as the cold sweat of fear trickled slowly down his spine. He'll… He'll kill me. Yet, despite the mind-numbing terror that had gripped him, Grant continued to record the macabre events that were unfolding before him.

The stranger spoke again.

"And now, my brother," he said slowly, menacingly, "now is the time for our most ancient and sacred of rules." With torturously slow movements, the black-robed, massive man raised his frightening blade high above his head.

Quentin didn't move.

Grant's breath caught in his throat.

"There can be only one."

The blade fell.

To be continued…