Higher Karma

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: Katrina's foul mouth/Language. Incest is spoken of, but no detail, just the idea that (?) was violated by (?).

Katrina got into Nicholas' Cadillac convertible and flopped down in the passenger seat.

"Was that him?" Nicholas asked with punctuated curiosity. "Was that Juri Damir?"

"Yes," she answered, now looking away in a distant frown. Katrina shifted in her seat and watched St. Andrew's sink back into the city block.

"What does he want?" He questioned further then demanded, "Talk to me."

"He didn't send those tattooed jerks— 'The Watchers'-- he called them." Katrina had begun in a pessimistic tone, but improved with the new information. "He killed the one you found at the shipping yard."

"And the shareholders?" Katrina saw his mind at work as he arrived to the next conclusion.

"Also Juri's doing."

Much like her town of Detroit; Toronto was an active cluster of the esthetic and metropolitan. The city lights streaked by, changing from the solemn blue around the church to the orange and florescent glare of commercial boulevards and street lights.

Katrina thought of Juri shoving his way through the innocent crowds lashing out to anyone connected to her.

"He'll come for you too, Nick." She informed him.

Nicholas' eyes darted sternly at her as the car made a left turn. "Is that what he said?"

"If I don't speak to him again. Yes." Melancholy fogged over her mind. 'Why did Juri bother with Holy Ground just to challenge me? There was more he should've said.' The pang of regret stung again. By her hands, she delivered Juri into the Game: her slave, her student, her child. Missing for five centuries and /now/it was time to collect? 'No Juri. Not good enough.'

Three blocks from the church was a younger, however neglected part of the city. Fewer street lights marked the way. Dull brick- turn of the twentieth century- buildings lined the street. At one dark industrial looking complex, Nicholas turned left into a wide cluttered ally, passing garage doors. He grabbed a remote from between the seats as the Cadillac made another left turn. A garage door opened upward.

"Where are we?" Till then, Katrina vaguely took in the rout of the car ride. She expected to be back at the little motel.

"My place." He answered. "You're in my protective custody now."

Once parked in his garage, Nicholas stepped out of the Cadillac as second plans sped his movements. "This has gone too quickly out of hand and-" He turned back.

Katrina stood at the passenger side door, her arms folded over the canvas hood. "He's immortal." She curtly reminded him. "This is out of your jurisdiction- detective." Her turquoise eyes smoldered even in the dim garage.

Nicholas looked away and bit into a scowl. That comment offended him. "I know what you're doing, Katrina. I've played those games too." He made it known. "This is my job, and I can be just as stubborn as you."

Nicholas was firmly resolved in what he said. Katrina decided not to challenge his warning glares. There was a stalemate of joined silence as they rode the garage elevator up to his home.

Katrina walked in first. Just after stepping down into the main living area, Katrina saw Nicholas walk over and take up a remote from a side table.

A unique mixture of scents greeted her. The air was cool and dry and smelled of Nicholas' Ralf Loren's Polo musk. But a sharp sent of acrylic and the smoky taste of wood fire and candle wax lingered.

Electronically activated window shades lifted open. Large pane glass windows to her left along the outer wall let in the twinkling Toronto city-scape.

He lived in an open two level loft. The space was in concert with leisure function and urban attitude. It was a collaboration of old structure with brick walls, and concrete floor. A black baby grand piano, with a dripping candelabra, stood in the center living space on a red afghan.

The modern accents were the red iron railing up the stairs and along the private rooms' walkway. There was a modestly sized black and white kitchen to her close left. The black leather furniture complimented both past and present design.

Behind and to her immediately right, stood a '47 vintage Harley Davidson. She chuckled softly as it reminded her of her '82 Heritage Soft Tail' Harley at home.

After the Harley, a polished iron table at hip height. On it was a busy clutter of paints, brushes, papers with sketches, unfinished ceramics, stencils and multicolored clothes crumpled and tossed aside. This was the source of the acrylic smells.

Katrina ran her hand along the top of the leather couch and on the coffee table where the Tibetan Eternity masks were displayed. She touched the wood carved dragon on the mantel over the fire place. It was fine work, smooth like marble. Life like, the dragon appeared it was able to slither off the mantle to greet or attack.

She looked behind her to the right side of the loft. Under the flight of stairs was an alcove. "So when did you start painting?" Katrina asked in mused curiosity.

"I studied under Hieronymous Bosch himself." There was pride in his voice.

She saw paintings of people resembling the methods of Bosch and early Picasso. There were moons, and dark-angry abstracts almost unique to each other in mood, but mastered by the same hand in chalks, oils, or coals. Most were paintings of… the sun, in different medias, styles and techniques. Katrina saw a sun theme almost every where, in brass, or clay fixtures too, positioned like ornaments around the loft.

One painting casually sat up on the floor, caught her eye. Katrina respectfully lift the tarp that covered half way. On a 2X5 deep orange canvas, a giant sunflower burst in full bloom. Or so she thought at first. The flower had no seed disk. It was open. The sunflower petals fanned out in a solar array of fair golds, yellows, peach, and rouge. Fire. And closer still, the petals were actually feathers, but no, just painted to look the texture.

All others paled in comparison to /this/ painting. It was fertile and soaring. It's inviting warmth encourage her. There was no mourning, or resentment there. Nicholas captured the life source and friendly poetry of the sun…

Katrina sighed out loud. "Oh bless me… Nicholas, this is beyond anything I can describe."

Nicholas walked behind her. The look on his face was so sober, that Katrina straightened and left her smile. "I need to know, Katrina." It was the underlying expression he had since they talked at the dance studio lounge. "During the American Civil War you were different."

"What do you mean? We've know each other off and on after that." Katrina felt another interrogation coming on.

"Over three hundred years before that…in France… when we found you-"

"Oh no Nicholas, don't you dare!" Katrina had almost forgotten her fresh confrontation with Juri earlier. She wanted more time to think about dealing with him, not some awkward adolescence from hell. She put her hands on her hips. "I was pretty fucked up back then. I don't kill like that anymore, damn you!"

"Enough, Katrina!" Nicholas watched her for a moment, then He whispered when the angst has passed. "What happened?"

"Fuck you!" she snapped. She strode for the door, but Nicholas blocked her path.

"No you don't! Not now! Not again!" He reached for her, touched her arm, then he lead her to a couch. "Between 1500 and 1860, you became more…"

"Human?" she knew what he was leading to. It is now wonder he was out of syncopation with her. All Nicholas knew was that first she was stacking broken bodies like firewood and the next in 1863 nursing soldiers and sheltering slaves.

"In a word, yes. I want to know." He wasn't going to beg it was in his voice, because she refused to look at him. Katrina realized the genuine curiosity. Nicholas had validated trepidation that needed an explanation and more convincing from a long time friend. It was time for another connection that seemed so long ago.

Katrina sunk back on the couch. "It was because of the worst betrayal of my life." She took a cleansing breath before she began her story. "After leaving La Croix, I was still empowered by rage. I traveled to Russia where I found 'The Kurgan."

"The Kurgan." The title confused him.

"The Kurgan was the strongest of all the immortals, the perfect warrior, and those who met him didn't live long enough to regret it… We were like a two edged sword. No one could stop us…" Her words drifted back in time. "Their screams- they sounded like bleating sheep in the slaughter."

Nicholas touched her hand, gently prompting her to continue.

Katrina had to continue now. "He-Viktor- was my mate." She stated with doomed conviction. "He, who worshiped the ram's head, years before we met, made a pact with his god. V…Viktor was promised two offspring, one immortal and one not. After the death of his son, her performed the ritual again in the Highlands of Scotland, then raped a woman there."

Katrina stood suddenly with a sob, her arms clung around herself, "His dark god would not be trifled with and cursed Viktor with-"Katrina's eyes met with Nicholas'- "a daughter."

Nicholas straightened from his couch in stark revelation. Now more than ever he seemed convinced then, as she imagined the color from his face drain away. His eyes glazed with shock. Was it the dark magic she showed him centuries before, that finally connected his belief. 'Conceived by sorcery,' he whispered more to his own amazement. How could she conjure her dignity now?

Katrina tore away once again, her hand on her mouth, stifling a cry as if slapped by her own blasphemy.

"Oh God!" Nicholas found his voice. "I never knew." He babbled. Then he stood and slowly put his arms around her shoulders. Katrina turned, allowing herself to be pulled into a full embrace. His cool and conditioned body was warmed by hers.

She swore up at the skylight above them. "When I found out, that was the end of it!" Sob. "I ran… I ran like hell!" She was crying in breathy sob as Nicholas held onto her.

"Uh-hmm!"

Nicholas looked up. The outside stairwell door was open. Dr. Lambert and his partner had let themselves in. Schanke bore an imposing smirk.

Katrina saw Nicholas frown at his partner then retuned to her. He held her hands and led her to the piano. Katrina remembered herself. She suddenly felt dizzy with fear. "No-no-no, what have I done? If LaCroix finds out I'd-"

Nicholas wiped her blood tears with his fingers speaking boldly to focus her, "It's okay- it's okay- listen to me, Katrina. It's all right." Their eyes met. "No one's going to know about this. No one." She watched him meekly in small faith. His expression crushed with sorrow and desperation. "Don't push me away. Don't spare me, trust me."

Nicholas drew Katrina to him—

"Nick!"

Schanke intervened. Sheltering a witness was procedure- kissing them was not.