The character of Adam Pierson is the creation and property of Panzer/Davis of Highlander fame. No copyright infringement is intended or implied. Larc belongs to herself and to Rain (me). This story takes place autumn 1994, before Adam/Methos meets Duncan MacLeod in "Methos" (March 1995) or Alexa Bond in "Timeless" (November 1995).

Thank you to all my beta readers: Kim, Mary, Jenny, Tansy, Harlene, Miss T., and my mother as always . . .

One More Note...This story is actually being seriously re-written. Go ahead and read this version though while we all wait...

Nearly Safe From You
By Rain Pierson
June 28, 2000
Revised through August 20, 2000

I am Larc. I am a relatively young made-vampyre, a huntress, small and lithe, built for the chase and the pounce. The vampyre who made me, Chancy, my lover and a man who was like a father to me, is dead. Skewered and burnt by mortal vampyre hunters in Dallas. Being a coward, I hid and ran. I've been running in the shadows across America and Europe for a full cycle of the moon. Tonight I stalk Paris.

I am starving. I have not taken a victim since Chancy left me. Blood-tinged tears fall down my cheeks with the wrenching pains inside of me. I wipe them away, barely noticing the red stain the wetness leaves on the sleeve of my fitted blouse. Finally, I see a person, a man, walking down the next street. I take up his trail, gaining slowly. He is thin and lanky, with an extremely smooth, not quite hurried, gait. From what I can see of his face, he is about thirty, maybe older, bookish with pale skin. The scent of his blood invigorates me, and I feel my teeth growing heated against my gums. I want to take him down now, in the darkness, before he gets home or to a crowd.

The man abruptly halts beneath a streetlight. He turns around slowly as I blend easily into a doorway. His arm rises to touch the breast of his long brown coat, but he does not reach inside. I do not plan to mug him if it is his wallet he checks. I am hungry. I will be swift and thorough in my attack.

The man takes off running, and I choose this moment to swoop upon him. I land squarely on his shoulders, my legs wrapping around his waist. I place my palm against his temple and wrench his head back for a clear shot at his neck. Before I can bite the man throws us both to the ground. He lands on top of me, and we roll across the pavement. He struggles to his knees with my arms still enfolding him. His short-lived frantic flailing halts as he silently relinquishes control over to me.

My sharp canine teeth rip open his throat and I partake of the sweet crimson blood that flows out of him. Instantly I feel the familiar sensation between a vampyre and its victim, the merging of two souls, the tendrils of each reaching for the other. I intuitively hold my tendrils back and try to block the thoughts coming from the man's head, but images are being thrown at me. I concentrate harder to ignore him and only feed, but his thoughts are overpowering. They are ice cold and ferocious. He has tasted blood himself, this man. He has bathed in blood--killed tens of thousands and watched so many more die at the hands of others.

How does his panicked, dying brain lie to me in this way? This man is not a murderer. His mind also tells me he is an observer, an historian. He wants only to be at home in his small dark apartment surrounded by ancient manuscripts reading aloud in the otherwise dead languages. He has a phone call to make. To the northwestern corner of America, where it always rains. He personally detests the constant downpours, and is glad he has never traveled there. He's forgotten to buy another six pack of that strange dark brew he liked last week at the bar.

Why doesn't this man think instead of challenging me, of escaping my monstrous grasp? I am confused with this mental checklist of things to do. No human has ever appeared this calm before. They have always been afraid. Afraid to die, afraid to realize their childhood fairy tale demons are real and draining their life force.

This man is different. He does not wish to die, but he is not alarmed. He is perhaps even curious of ME. He wishes to write about me in ancient Greek. I would not be able to read it. I am not that old, probably only as old as this man is, though I look roughly seventeen.

I am full of blood now. Still feeding. His once vigorous heartbeat has been slowing as I tried to make this meal last. I didn't want to kill, but I think I have.

I drop the man to the street, his eyes closed. He doesn't breathe. I should move on, but for some strange reason I can't. His blood is hot and pumps furiously through my arms and legs as I continue to kneel over his body. He looks even younger and paler now, a finely chiseled face, his nose a little too large, but not taking away from his beauty in the least. His brown hair is short and feathers with a strange swirling pattern. I run my hand through it. It is as soft and fine as his skin felt against my lips moments ago.

I remember the man had started to reach inside his coat earlier. What had he been searching for? I take my hand and plunge it between his coat and sweater. My fingers feel something cold, hard, and sharp. I use my other hand to gently tug the coat away from his chest, but before I can reveal the weapon, the man breathes; sudden and deep. But he is dead. I killed him. I heard his heart stop not a minute before.

His eyes fly open to stare at me, horrified. His hand shoots up to grab a hold of my wrist, still attached to his coat. I am so astounded I do not even think to wrench away. I want to run. But the desire to know how he has tricked me supercedes anything else.

Is he the demon, and not I? Has he truly killed tens of thousands? Am I next?

"What are you?" I hiss.

The man twists himself to a sitting position, still keeping ahold of my wrist. His dark eyes never leave mine. Can they see his blood still on my teeth? Before he speaks, he reaches with his free hand to brush his neck, the spot I had torn open as my fount to drain him. I follow his hand and see the two wounds have disappeared. He is a demon, or a witch controlling my mind. Yes, that is it. I am really still feeding and he is sending me these images making me believe I've killed him and watched him live again.

Now I do wrench myself away from him and try to stand. He will not let go. For a slender man he is very strong.

"Let go of me, now!" I say, barely audible.

"Not until you tell me who you are," he answers. He is not French, but British.

I let my eyes reveal more of their intense preternatural power. "I am no one. And neither are you. Now LET ME GO."

"I can't do that. You know my secret. And I don't know yours."

"No. I know nothing," I tell him. "And I'll be on my way." For some reason my mind control is not registering. The man's face remains cold and calm, dark hazel eyes penetrating me. He is definitely a witch. A witch with a sword in his coat.

My Chancy was killed with a sword. But this man was not there; I would recognize him.

I swallow, still tasting the elixir of his blood. He said he wants to know my secret. If I tell him, will he cut out my heart with his blade? Maybe that would be for the best. Look at how I've handled my first victim alone. It is hard to imagine how ridiculous the rest of my existence could get.

I give up struggling, even though I probably could have gotten away, my strength renewed by my meal. I let myself sit back on the pavement.

The man also lowers his guard a bit and even scoots back against the wall of the building a couple of feet behind him. His legs are thin, in black denim, and on his feet he wears worn brown rubber-soled boots. When he opens his mouth to speak to me again, his voice is inviting and soothing and only slightly tired. The intense, silky British accent nearly knocks me over.

"I'm, uh, Adam Pierson. I only live a block from here. I was nearly safe from you."

I find myself smiling at him. What is wrong with me? "Nearly," I agree. "I'm Larc."

"You're particularly beautiful for a predator," Adam says next, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

"You're particularly handsome for a predator hunter," I return, letting my body relax in an almost cat-like way.

He appears mildly impressed by my advance. "I am not a hunter."

"Could have fooled me. Why do you carry a sword?" I ask.

"Umm," Adam stammers. "It's a hobby of mine. I was just bringing this Ivanhoe back home after a get-together of sorts."

"You don't lie very well, Mr. Adam Pierson. I killed you. And now you're here talking to me. How?" I get to the point. The sooner he tells me the truth, the sooner I can look for a lair to take my shelter in at dawn.

"Oh, you wouldn't believe the lies I've had to tell over the years, Miss Larc. I'm quite the ac-tor," he embellishes the last word theatrically.

"Just start explaining," I bare my fangs to remind him of who he is speaking with. "Or I will kill you again, as many times as it takes to make you tell me."

"I've heard that before," Adam chuckles. I glare at him and he finally agrees with my terms. "Alright, alright. I'm an Immortal. No super human powers besides the fact that I can't stay dead. There are a bunch of us running around. I carry this sword to protect myself from the others. I've done a pretty good job of it so far. What?" Adam cocks his head at me, his eyebrows raised. "Don't believe this story either? Too far-fetched? Well, at least I don't have to drink blood to stay alive. Bacon and eggs work just as well for me," he smirks.

"And imported beer," I add.

"You stole that thought from me."

"You threw it at me," I say and suddenly remember the other things I had seen in Adam's head. The blood he thinks he has spilled would make him a creature far more evil than even I was embraced to be, as a vampyre. I feel an unwelcome shiver rack my frame. Adam sees it too.

"You're not cold are you, Larc?" he scoffs playfully as if he knows what I relive behind my eyes.

"No," I reply plainly, and look away. I know Adam hasn't told me everything about these Immortals yet. "So, you're this Immortal man. Running from the only people, people like you, who CAN kill you?"

"Not running exactly, more like avoiding, staying out of their way where I can."

"Yet you're telling me all about yourself? Aren't you afraid I'll rat you out?"

"Not at all. I don't believe you know any other Immortals besides those like yourself--the undead variety."

"Watch it," I warn. I let my fingers run along the toe of his boot near me. I touch his ankle and then slip my hand inside his pant leg. He doesn't stop me. "Do you mind if I take a little look at your sword? You did manage to stop me the first time."

With olive-green irises never leaving my eyes, Adam peels back the breast of his overcoat. Even from where we recline in the scant light, my vampyre eyes discern the weapon's ornate craftsmanship immediately. I know nothing of swords, but this Ivanhoe, as he identified it, displays more aesthetic qualities than I have ever seen in a hilt. It was cast of antiqued bronze with two slender lions, each creeping toward a central crest. The grip is wrapped in golden strips of leather leaving maroon-colored leather diamonds showing from underneath. It makes is look like a lattice crusted cherry pie. The extremity of the hilt is rounded, and in it is set a large, round green gem. All in all, the sword reminds me of late Medieval England. I believe it is genuine and not a replica because it simply radiates ancient energy.

I set my gaze back on Adam. "So, how old are you really? You're not thirty like you look."

"No, I'm not. But it doesn't really matter how old I actually am. What does matter, is that I'm far older than you. No, you can't pretend. You're still new at this game."

He makes me angry, my dinner talking down to me. But his face is more than pleasant and already my brain, deceiving my instincts, is beginning to churn out ways to keep his face near me for a long future. My former lover may have been recently murdered, but I can not dwell on that for very long and survive, either emotionally or as a successful vampyre.

"Does that mean you have things to teach me?" I coo.

Adam frowns. "Larc, are you flirting with me?"

"Only because I'm beginning to regret killing you. But since you seem to be taking that in stride, I suppose my flirting wouldn't seem relevant after all."

"I wouldn't say that," Adam hints. "So, you, you are a vampyre? Am I mistaken? Will you have a coffin for this morning?"

I huff. "I don't sleep in a coffin. But I am quite new to the area . . . and all alone," I pause, waiting for this incredible man to suggest his place.

Adam stands up. So do I. It is still only one a.m. at the latest.

"Well," he begins. "If you don't mind the mess, you are welcome to stay with me tomorrow. I'm in research. Books, ink wells, mildew everywhere. I usually keep the shades drawn all day."

"Thank you, Adam Pierson. I certainly will consider that offer," I say, taking his outstretched hand.

Adam grins, his face scrunching up, the lines at the corners of his mouth multiplying exponentially. "Promise you're not going to call all your vampyre friends over for a blood feast on my behalf?"

"I promise," I tell him slyly, the thought now crossing my mind. But I do not have any friends here besides Adam.

"Oh, and another thing. The only furniture I have is my bed. We'll have to share."

"Not a problem."

"Well, then," Adam says, taking a few steps opposite the direction he had originally been heading when I'd attacked him. "Would you mind swinging through the pub for a beer first? Do you...? Can you...?"

"Yes, if you insist on the delay," I reply, evasively, leaning to follow where ever he leads me tonight.

FIN

© 2000 Rain Pierson
first penned June 28, 2000
revised through August 2000