Author's Note: The name 'Malfoy' has absolutely nothing to do with J.K. Rowling's character. I didn't even know such a characters existed when I wrote this story. Thanks!

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Chapter 2

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"So, apparently, he got angry that his canvas knife had been moved—he was quite the neat freak—and while he was raving angrily, he accidentally sliced off his own ear. And that's how Van Gogh lost his ear."

Methos smiled triumphantly at this airing of his knowledge and experience, under the guise of finding it in his research at Harvard. Of course, he knew it was true; he had been there, Van Gogh had been screaming at him for moving the knife.

Nadya laughed. "That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, Adam!"

Methos raised an eyebrow at her. "Why?"

"Because everyone knows that he was crazy, that's why!" she replied, walking backward so she was still facing him.

They were on their way back from looking at new apartment that Duncan had set up for her. Mac had to work so Methos had taken Nadya over to see it. It was a comfy place, a split-level studio, nice design. She had liked it and thought to accept it to make Duncan happy.

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Hidden amongst the swirling crowd of people on the street, two sharp gray eyes watched them, watched Nadya.

"What a nice choice, MacLeod. She'll make a lovely addition to the Game," he muttered to himself, one finger sliding along the flat of the elegant knife that he carried, "To my game."

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Soon, Methos and Nadya broke from the crowd and turned down a cobblestone alley to make their way back to the dojo. They laughed and smiled together; Methos hadn't laughed like that for a long time and Nadya called him on it.

"You laugh as though it's something you don't get enough of, Adam," she commented, looking up at him.

Another smile dimpled Methos' face as his head lowered for a moment. "Not much to laugh about in the world these days."

Nadya slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, shaking it a bit like a child might. "Oh, that's not true. After all, I find our banter a lot to laugh about."

As they neared, Methos suddenly felt a telltale surge shoot up his spine and bounce around in his head. An Immortal was nearby.

Suddenly, a man slunk from within an open doorway ahead of them. "What a pretty picture, such a shame to spoil it," he sneered as Methos and Nadya stopped. Just then, the sunlight glinted in Methos' eyes, catching the reflection of something metal: a knife!

Oh, great! Methos scowled. "Sorry to disappoint you, but we don't have anything." He knew the Immortal didn't want to rob them but he wouldn't let on to the Game before Nadya.

The stranger twiddled the knife between his fingers menacingly as his oily gaze glided from Methos to Nadya. "Then, perhaps, I shall take something of value from the lady." His implication was clear, his smile lewd.

Methos' arm quickly shot out in front of Nadya, blocking the man's path though he was a good few yards from them. "I don't think so. I don't know who you are, pal, but you'd better just leave."

What am I doing? This guy could take my head! But I can't let him hurt her! If I did, MacLeod would kill me!

The man just continued to stare at Nadya. "Such beauty, immortal beauty." His voice was low, glowering. "Well, perhaps not Immortal yet, but I can make it so. I will make it so."

Methos stepped forward. "Stay away from her!" His hand burned for his sword, hidden within his coat, but something within him made him want to keep MacLeod's resolve to protect Nadya's mortality and innocence.

"Oh, surely, sir. I had no intention of getting any closer." The knife was twirled so that the stranger held the tip of the blade between his fingers.

A shot sparked through Methos' brain. No!

"Nadya, look out!" He suddenly turned his back to the stranger, grabbing Nadya against his chest and covering her.

Everything happened so quickly. A shriek broke from Nadya's throat as a bloody knifepoint stuck out before her eyes, stuck out from Methos' chest!

"ADAM!" She suddenly froze as she heard a sickening gasp come from Methos, his arms loosening from about her.

Her screams grew more frantic and hysterical as he fell to the ground, the knife handle sticking out from the left side of his back! "No, no! Help, please! Someone, help!!"

Not far away, sitting next to his open office window, Duncan heard a faint sound but it was unmistakable: a woman's scream! Leaping from his chair, he swept out the door and down the street towards the cry. He finally found the source; Nadya was on her knees on the ground, Methos lying on the dirty alley street next to her…dead!

"Oh, no!" Duncan muttered and hurried over.

"Duncan! Oh, Duncan! Thank God! We have to help him, call the police, ambulance, something!" Frantic, she rose to find some help but Duncan grabbed her arm and pulled her back down.

"No, stay here."

"Mac, what are you doing?! We have to help him!" she shrieked.

"Calm down, stop screaming. You're going to attract more attention."

Duncan then placed his left hand on Methos' shoulder blade, grasping the knife handle with his right. It took a moment but he finally wrenched the bloody blade from Methos' heart.

Nadya couldn't believe what he was doing. "Are you insane, MacLeod?!"

Duncan didn't reply but just picked Methos up onto his shoulders in a fireman's carry. "Come on."

"Where are we going?!"

"Back to the dojo, before someone comes. Hurry!" he replied and walked off in that direction. Nadya had no choice but to follow.

Duncan grimaced underneath his burden.

Don't you dare wake up, Methos. Not yet. Don't you dare! Or I'll really kill you!

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"Hmmm, not what I intended but this works just as well. Now she will have to know; MacLeod will have no choice but to tell her. And then I'll claim her, my eternal trophy."

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Back at Duncan's loft, he'd placed Methos on the couch and was struggling to keep Nadya calm, but the dark-haired Scot was finding it difficult to control this one petite woman.

As he was trying to get his voice over her hysterical one, there suddenly came a gasp and a curse from the couch in a dead language or two.

Methos was alive!

Duncan went to him and helped him sit up. The old Immortal grimaced in pain. "Oh, man! It never gets easier. Never!" He then looked down at his torn, bloody shirt. "Well, here's one for the rag pack."

Nadya, meanwhile, blanched and backed away, her hands shaking. "You…you were dead, I saw you. I saw the knife." Mac could tell she was going to start screaming again so he rushed over and put his hand over her mouth to stop her.

"Please don't scream, Nadya. I already have a huge headache." He then took his hand away and made her sit down.

"Duncan, what on earth is going on?" Her voice was pinched, confused, and weak.

Methos looked to MacLeod, who leaned on the window and sighed, defeated.

"Nadya, there's something you have to know."

And so the story began.

It wasn't an easy one to tell. Neither Duncan nor Methos had described the Game to a mortal, even a someday-to-be-Immortal, in a long time. So Mac simply started at the beginning. After several hours, Nadya held up her hand for him to stop.

"Stop it, I can't…it's too much! My brain can't hold any more." She stood up, going to the windowsill and sitting down again, her arms crossed over her chest. "400 years old? I never imagined…"

She then looked to Methos, who had been mostly quiet about his own self. "And you? Your name isn't Adam, is it?"

He shook his head. "My name is Methos."

"How many…?"

"5,000 years." He interrupted her. "Give or take a few centuries…not entirely sure, honestly."

Something then cleared in Nadya's face. "So, you were being serious about Van Gogh?"

Methos chuckled, more out of relief than amusement; she seemed to be warming up to the idea of Immortals.

But Duncan still wasn't comfortable; he hadn't told her about her own imminent Immortality. In fact, he was downright avoiding it. He just stared, rather, at the now clean knife that had stabbed Methos. The handle was of pure ivory, the blade long and razor-sharp, curved somewhat like a scimitar. Anglo-Saxon runes ran along the polished, exotic blade. A blade MacLeod well knew.

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England -- 1707

"Oy, wench! More wine! I said, 'more wine', ye filthy…!" A large man stood to strike a young barmaid who failed to move fast enough for his liking.

"Easy now. It's no' polite to threaten a lass." A heavy Scottish accent slurred as a heavy Scottish hand fell on the man's shoulder.

Whirling about, he came face-to-face with another tavern patron. Obviously, this one was a Scot. His long black hair gave him a wild sort of look and his strong jaw was set as he rested his hand upon the hilt of a sword.

Seeing the dangerous edge in Duncan's eyes, the man promptly shut his hole and sat down again, not wanting to incur the wrath of that hard hand that had clamped his shoulder so forcefully. The pretty lass nodded her thanks and hurried about her duties amidst the loud, rowdy tavern.

Suddenly, a tingle in his brain made Duncan's smile fall. Another was nearby. Maintaining a casual air, he let his eyes peruse the tavern, looking for the one who was undoubtedly looking for him.

Finally, the Highlander spotted a courtly gentleman seated in a corner of the room. His clothes alone proved that he was no common riff-raff, and he bore a sickening air of arrogance and pride. Arrogance in his position? Pride in his wealth? No. It was his ability. This man believed himself to be untouchable; Duncan could sense it.

He made no move towards the stranger but merely observed him. Brown hair was pulled back neatly in a silken ribbon, revealing a scar that ran across the man's right cheekbone. Not too deep, not too ugly, just…there. A facial feature that many women might consider dashing, including the one seated next to him at the table. His close-set grey eyes were cold, confident, as he turned his gaze from Duncan to attend his lady-friend once more, speaking through thin pale lips that turned up in a mocking smile.

Satisfied with the momentary mental draw, Duncan wandered off to find some food for himself. If there was to be a confrontation it would come later on, when he had a full belly.

Later on that evening, Duncan was making his way to an inn when he heard voices wafting from a nearby alleyway. He paused to listen.

"This way, my dear."

"Why have we stopped, sir?" a sweetly voice asked.

Duncan heard the familiar sound of a dagger being unsheathed.

"What are you doing?" Fright melted the honey.

"You are to be part of my collection, my sweet."

"Collection?!"

"The finest in all the world, so full of fine talent and beauty. You shall make a wonderful addition indeed."

"This is outrageous, Malfoy! Stay away!"

Duncan sighed and quickly stepped out of the shadows, his proximity causing his senses—and those of Malfoy—to spur. "I dinnae believe I hafta say this twice in one day, but it's no' polite to threaten a lass. Even less so a lady."

The gentleman's face frowned, the knife still held in his hand. Duncan's sharp eyes perceived it, a magnificent piece of craftsmanship. It was obviously saved for particular uses.

"You are intruding upon a private interview, sir." Malfoy spoke.

"And you are intruding upon the bounds of decency, sir. Meh lady, if you please." Duncan held his left hand out to the lady, his sword poised in his right.

"I thank you, sir," she breathed into his ear before disappearing into the night.

Malfoy was not pleased. "Might I have the pleasure of your name, my most impertinent friend?"

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."

"Well, then, MacLeod. We shall settle this score another time." Malfoy's arrogance and anger exuded. "Until then!" With a sweep of his cape, he was gone into the darkness.

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Duncan sighed as he rose from the couch. "You're staying here tonight, Nadya. No questions asked." The knife was then placed inside his coat as he headed for the elevator.

"Mac, where are you going?!" Nadya leapt up to follow.

"I'm going to see someone. Stay here! Methos, stay with her." He then pulled the elevator doors closed and pushed the button.

"Aye-aye, Captain." Methos gave a lazy mock salute and sprawled on the couch again.

Sighing, Nadya took a seat again next to him and looked at his shirt. The hole torn by the knife was quite large, unbroken white skin showing through. She then, for a reason unexplainable, reached out and touched the skin through the hole. It was as though she did it to convince herself that it had indeed happened.

"Adam…Methos. Did it…?"

"…like fury!" he answered her unfinished question, wincing a little.

Nadya knit her brows together sympathetically as he looked at him. Finally, she laid her head on his shoulder, a simple gesture of human comfort.

Methos seemed a little taken aback by this but was even more so by her words, "It all seems so pointless."

With that, he slipped his arm around her comfortingly. "I know; it does."

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—Joe's Bar—

"Malfoy, huh? Well, I'll see what I can find, Mac. But why would he go after your friend? She's not Immortal." Joe seemed genuinely confused.

Duncan shrugged. "No. Not yet, anyway."

"What?"

"She's an Immortal-in-waiting, Joe. Malfoy wants to make her his pet, his trophy. He's a collector and I'm thinking that he wants to add a new Immortal to his collection. He tried to kill her, Joe! Methos said he called her his 'immortal beauty'."

Joe shook his head and hobbled out from behind the bar counter. Duncan had become used to—and even comforted by—the man's uneven walk as he leaned heavily on his cane, having lost both his legs in Vietnam.

"This is heavy stuff, MacLeod."

Duncan nodded. "Tell me about it! This Malfoy is dangerous and he obviously knows that Nadya's my friend. He's a sick man, collecting the most beautiful and talented of women over the centuries. Until he tires of them or they grow too old and die."

"So he's looking for an Immortal that he can keep under his thumb. If he gets his hands on Nadya, he won't teach her and she'll look to him for protection." Joe shook his head gravely. "Forced dependence."

"Yeah."

"Anything I find out, Mac, I'll let you know," the Watcher placed his hand on Duncan's shoulder.

"Thanks, Joe."