Holy Ground

This fan fiction is the perfect merge of Highlander: the series (a Davis/Panzer Production.)and Forever Knight (Parriott/Sloan Prduction in Canada.) Katrina Macleaod and her co-workers are my creations only.

Warning:1 cuss word. The Deacan in this chapter wasn't injured. There is no scorn intended toward the Christian community.

With a quick change to clean-bloodless- clothes, Katrina stepped into St. Andrew's large domain; Toronto's nineteenth century cathedral.

The stone walls invited her into a cool, isolated world where the air smelled of pine and old masonry. Long banners made of felt and bright ribbons hung from the wooden archways. They each bestowed a token phrase from scripture; 'faith, charity' and 'longsuffering'.

Holy ground. Whispering parishioners, some in prayer, hunched in various pews. Panic settled in her stomach with the conflicting solitude of the church. This was a hallowed place.

The Quickening of another immortal grew as Katrina walked past the stone slabs of entrance way. To her right, on the edge of the furthest row of pews, was the immortal standing by a table of lit candles.

The dark haired, green-eyed man walked to a pew and leaned over it with white knuckled fists. Katrina recognized him then in the candle light she was traditionally accustomed to. And why not, Katrina hadn't seen him for ages, before electric lighting.

With the fire light and his vexing, anguished glare, Katrina knew why this man bothered her so. Instantly her mind was flooded with the far off memory of Russia. He was once a farmer from the Steppes. But what mattered then was how his settlement blocked her path to the eastern tundra. He was nothing, his people where nothing.

"Lady Davalen, you're late." he said with a slight bow. His words still snapped with a Russian accent.

"Those men with the tattoo," Katrina held out her wrists to illustrate her own statement to revile him, "They won't bother me anymore."

"The Watchers!" He spat. "They die like us. Flowers in the field or scum in ship yards." His face contorted with disgust, just as it did while he was her slave after the second raid. 'Chyorny Sabaka'- 'My black dog.' She remembered with fond regret.

"It's been a long time, Juri." Katrina spoke confirming caution, to put a distance between them.

"Too long," Then he shoved his accusing finger at her, "And you're a tricky one to find."

"What do you want?" Katrina keeping guarded pleasantries intacked.

"Your head, of course." Juri said with a toothy grin.

Why, she thought. Her black dog joined her ranks, and rode in the carnage by her side. He was a lusty fighter. He was her only friend. Katrina put her hands on her hips. "Five hundred years is a long time for a mood swing. This Lady Davalen you want is dead and gone--"

Juri cut in. "And yet here you are, unfit to breathe in front of me…I never forgave you for that!"

"Butchery was my playground.—Look, Juri, I grew up! There's no forgiveness for what I did. But I can help you move one."

"No more lessons!" Juri erupted, his voice echoing around the church. He took a hymnal from the nearest pew and threw it at table of candles. "How dare you play God and wash your hands of me!" he hissed, and continued, "Only /I/will send you to Hell!... His posture hardened. "You come to Pier 9 at the Wilson's tool factory, by 10pm.-- Be late again" he bit "and you can be sure I'll slice through more friends, including that blond pet of your outside." With that said, Juri stormed out of the church nearly knocking a deacon off his feet.