I was being stalked.

By an immortal.

I was being stalked by an immortal.

Why was I being stalked by an immortal? It didn't make any sense. It could be a headhunter after Duncan, but then why would he be sending me cryptic messages? And why now? If someone was watching Duncan he would know he was out of town. It could be a joke, but who would pull such a joke? Who would know to pull such a joke? Richie? But this sure didn't seem like his style. It had to be a joke, though. Who…

"What did you get?" My mother's sudden interruption of my thoughts made jump about a foot into the air and the photograph slipped from my fingers. I tried to grab it, but it was too late. "Oh, it's a photo of you, and that Duncan Macleod." She picked it up, and her eyes narrowed slightly, most likely worried about the gormish look on my face. She hadn't given up worrying that I was getting in over my head with Duncan. "You look very pretty. Where'd you get the dress?"

"I bought it for Thanksgiving," I said while silently willing her not to turn over the photograph. "That was at the exhibit I told you about. Can I have it back…" but it was too late. She turned it over.

"What is this? What does this mean? Are you in danger? I told you that this would happen. Does Joe Dawson know?"

"Mom, it's nothing. It's just a private joke. Really. It's not serious." I took the photograph from her unresisting fingers and gave her my most reassuring smile. "It's just a joke." She was slightly mollified, and left me alone. She also gave me an idea. I'd call Joe! He'd know at least what other immortals are in the area, and why they'd be sending me creepy mail.

I ran to my room and dug through my purse until I found his card. Thankfully it had his cell phone number on it, so if he were wherever Duncan is, which is likely, I could still reach him. I was halfway through dialing the number when I changed my mind. If I told Joe what happened, he'd tell Duncan, and Duncan would come rushing back to rescue me.

Or worse, he wouldn't. What if he just didn't care enough to worry about me?

No, he would, but he's busy rescuing that stupid Cassandra, or whatever, and I wouldn't want to cause him unnecessary stress. And it was probably nothing, just a joke, maybe from one of his friends. School was starting soon, he'd be back, and I could show it to him, and we'd laugh about it.

Two days later I got another letter.

This time it was just a plain sheet of paper, with cut out words and letters, like a ransom note from an old movie. It was more lyrics:

Every breath you take

Every move you make

Every vow you break

I'll be watching you.

I was getting seriously pissed off at Sting.

Oddly enough this letter bothered me less than the photograph. It seemed so silly and childish, so cliché I just couldn't take it seriously. I just put the letter with the photograph, and resolved once again to worry about it later.

I had too many other things going on, anyway. The winter break was ending and I had another flurry of seeing friends before we all went our separate ways, and that effectively took my mind of any possible stalker.

Pretty soon all goodbyes were said and my mom and my future step dad took me to the airport, and before I knew it I was headed back to Seacouver, and, hopefully, Duncan.

Anne and Maggie were already in the room when I arrived, jet-lagged and weary, and immediately dragged me to a party at the frat house of Maggie's boyfriend Lord Byron Marcus. The next day was devoted to unpacking and getting ready for our second semester classes, and all thoughts of creepy stalkers went right out of my mind, and anyway I'd pretty much convinced myself that it was some kind of silly joke that Duncan would explain away when he got back.

The semester, however, didn't start out so well. My first bit of bad news was that Maggie and I weren't going to have English Lit 2 with her mom, as we planned. Because there was a scheduling change we were stuck with Professor Leville again. I was a bit annoyed. I mean he wasn't a bad teacher, but he sure wasn't what I had in mind when I signed up for the class. I wanted exciting discourse on famous poems. He gives us boring facts about what Coleridge ate for breakfast.

The second piece of bad news was far worse. "Hey, Moll," Maggie said as we walked back from the school store, our arms laden with books, "My mom said that Professor Hottie isn't going to be back until probably the middle of the semester. How come?"

I almost dropped my books, but I managed to rally and say as offhandedly as I could, "Oh, he's dealing with some family thing in Europe. It's just taking more time then he thought."

"It must be killing you," Anne said.

"You've no idea."

I lay awake that night, long after Anne and Maggie were asleep, wondering what was happening with Duncan. Why wouldn't he tell me that he wasn't coming back? Did he really care so little for me that contacting me was the last thing on his mind? But what if he was hurt, or dead? Where could he be? What on earth could he be doing that would keep him completely out of touch with any modern form of communication.

My tortured thoughts were interrupted by the loud baying of the fire alarm, and, with much grumbling and cursing, we all filed out into the cold in various states of undress, to wait until the alarm could be reset. This happened once a month, either because someone tried cooking something in her room, or because someone wanted to see who would come running out of whose room, or just because it was an old building, and it happened sometimes. We were used to it.

Fifteen minutes later, we got the all clear, and we headed, grumbling, back to our beds. We'd just gotten into the lobby when Mr. Jackson, our Resident Advisor, came up to us flanked by a couple of firemen and a cop. "Miss Lewis, can you step this way, please?"

I nodded, surprised, and followed Mr. Jackson into the deserted lounge, Anne and Maggie following closely behind. "What's going on?"

The policeman spoke up. "Miss Lewis, can you think of anyone who might be your enemy?"

"My enemy? Why would I have enemies?"

"Rival for a boyfriend, maybe? You beat someone out for a sorority house?"

I stared at him. "No," I said as scathingly as I could. Rival for a boyfriend, indeed. "Why?"

For answer he pointed to something in the middle of the lounge. It was the smoldering remains of what looked, at first, to be a person, but then I realized it was just one of those CPR dummies that had been burned up. It was still creepy, though. "What does this have to do..." I began, and then I saw it. Written on the wall in red crayon was my name, and underneath were more lyrics.

Quiet fills the room
And your love flows through me
Though I lie here so still
I burn for you, I burn for you

Bloody Sting again.

"There was this note, too," the policeman handed me a plastic baggy with a note inside, with the same pasted on letters that read: "I will burn in his Quickening, for you."

I looked up at the policeman's grave face, then at Anne and Maggie, who were staring at me with wide, frightened eyes.

I really, really missed Duncan.