I

Rachel Ellinstein traipsed heavily through the sidewalk of Hudson Street. The new shoes were killing her feet but her face gave away nothing. In her hands she held the bags with the Christmas presents for Connor and for Duncan, who had called in all of a sudden from Paris. She had bought a paper knife for Connor. She had been uncertain as to what to buy for Duncan. She did not know him that well. Given he lived in a boat, she had opted for one of those little boats inside a bottle.

Her eyes caught the glimpse of a man on the opposite street, looking at her. She halted and tried to spot him. He was gone. She wondered. Whoever the young man was, he reminded her of a boyfriend she had had. She had not thought of him in years. The last time had been in the New Year's Eve before 1985. Then the madness took over New York, impersonated by the Kurgan and her mind busied with the thought of losing Connor to that savage. In the end, Connor left anyway to Scotland after defeating the Kurgan and she was left on her own.

She had never liked using heels, but Connor insisted that a beautiful lady like her looked more beautiful in heels. She liked his flirts, and she regretted not having stayed in shape after his departure. Left by herself, she had gained some weight. Her skin had wrinkled in excess. She was on her late fifties, but she felt in her late seventies. Shortly ago, she had realised age had approached when one of her incisors stayed in the veal cutlet she had bitten. Connor had noticed she had aged when he returned, but had said nothing. His wife, Brenda, had died in a car accident. His face had looked even more anguished when he saw her. He had silenced but she knew him too well.

Rachel tittered, wondering why she had agreed to put on those heeled shoes. She had always hated them and he knew it. She reached the door of their house, and glanced at the sides. She spotted a bald man, standing by a headlight. He was wearing a black long coat and a black hat. She thought he might be a fan of Michael Jackson, that black singer with the high voice that had changed his skin to white. She smiled, containing a laughter that wanted to break out.

The man grinned in return. Rachel felt a shudder all over her. The grin was evil, and what panicked her most was the fact that he seemed to know her. His eyes were cold. She noticed a white line in his neck, among the black. The man was a Catholic priest. That made her chill. She had grown disgusted of religion, and avoided its followers, especially the Catholics. The death of her parents to the Nazis was a reason enough. She stared away and returned her eyes to the door. She put the key in the hole, and surprised when the door bounced open.

"Connor! Connor!" she called. She closed the door and locked it. She went to the elevator that led to the loft. She got off and climbed down the stairs, her ears perceiving a dim melodic tingle. She looked around and noticed a music box that was open over a table. Her eyes moved to her left and she saw the TV was on. On the screen, there were old images of her and Connor: his giving her that box for a birthday when she was a child, and his graduation. .

She smiled mirthfully, but only for a second. It was not like Connor to put the videocassette in the player and see those images. Technology was not an appeal to him. Duncan had been there on both occasions, so it was something disturbing. Why the video was being played?

The phone ring startled her. No one would be calling for an antique on Christmas Eve. It was another strange event in the chain of peculiarities the day seemed engulfed in. She looked at a side, realising the video was over. The phone rang again. It was almost defying her to pick the tube. She approached, and picked it up.

As she heard a beep, another and then another, coming from somewhere in the house, she remembered the man in the black clothes, the one that had made her afraid, and wondered if he would not have anything to do with it. Then suddenly all turned orange, and pain embraced her.

-----

Connor MacLeod was moving briskly back home. He had delivered the Christmas tree to the church as he did every year. He had nearly forgotten, and had sent Duncan away in order to be able to do it. He had called his friend to have a talk and chat about the old times, something that was not common in him. Poor Duncan, he thought. Well, they would meet at the bar at 8. Connor had said he would pay, but he knew he could bargain his way out of it.

He began to cross to the opposite street, where the antique shop he owned with Rachel was. For a second, he thought he had sensed another immortal around. It's Christmas Eve, darn it. Go elsewhere looking for a head. Then he heard the explosion and a massive wave of hot air pushed him back and down to the floor. He landed roughly and stared at what had been his antique shop, and where he had lived with... Rachel? Was she inside? In response to his thoughts, something that resembled a shoe landed near him. It was burnt, but he recognised the shoes she seldom wore, but had put on today.

"Rachel!" he shrieked painfully at the blaze of fire before him.

-----

"I'm sorry, Connor."

Inside the New York City Morgue, in front of a metal table, over which was a body beneath a white sheet, Connor and Duncan MacLeod were sitting. Connor dejectedly, Duncan sympathetically. He had been lured by the fire and found his mentor and friend weeping in the curb. He had stayed with him and born all the ineffectual enquiries that peeving cop Garfield had asked. Connor had remained blankly, enduring the abusive words the cop directed at him. In the end, they had released them.

"It's... I never thought..." Connor stammered, his voice broken.

"We never want them to. But we can't protect them all the time." Duncan consoled him softly.

"I should have protected her!" Connor snapped as tears began to stream down his cheeks.

"You couldn't have done anything."

Connor did not reply. He just let out a low lamentation and hid his face in his hands. Duncan breathed deeply. He knew what Rachel meant to his friend. Connor had found her amid the ruins in World War II. Her parents had been taken to a concentration camp. Connor took her in and raised her as his daughter. He had seen how she grew into a mature woman and he hoped she would die at old age. He was not prepared for her murder.

"Will you help me, Duncan?"

"Of course, my friend."

They felt a dim buzz in the back of their heads. Connor exchanged glances with Duncan.

"I don't know how I..."

"I think it will be best if you let me." Duncan stood up and patted Connor amicably.

"Will you take care of it for me?"

"Of course. I remember what a pain in the a you were as a teacher."

Connor smiled darkly. Duncan turned his eyes to the corpse, as did Connor. The shape stirred and suddenly it rose up, sitting in the table. Both immortals contained the horror and remained cold as statues.

There were two big lumps in the face, two pieces of burnt skin, one nestled below the right eye, the other below the mouth, both resembling pieces of dry dough. Her shoulders and extremities were devoid of any skin, and her breasts were hideously shrivelled. The part of her body that had got through it without serious injuries was the area from her stomach to her sex, where the trace of a small burn could be seen near the navel.

"What... what...?" Rachel asked, shivering like a child.

Connor opened his mouth but Duncan raised his hand, motioning him to stop.

"You are one of us, Rachel. You are immortal."