Chapter 4

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"So you didn't find him?"

"No. I'll go back tomorrow night and see what I find." Mac slouched on a bar stool at Joe's, sipping the cool bourbon in his glass.

"I hope you get this creature. By the way, where's Nadya?"

"Out with Methos."

Nothing but a chuckle from the other side of the counter.

"What?"

"I didn't say anything, Mac."

"No, Dawson, what is it?"

Joe leaned heavily on his cane, still chuckling. "You sent a vibrant young woman out with an Immortal who has had 68 wives?"

"69." MacLeod echoed Methos' correction without dropping a beat. Then he shrugged and sipped his bourbon. "So?"

"All right." Joe nodded dismissively and continued cleaning the counter. He'd closed up late tonight in anticipation of seeing Duncan.

The Highlander stared into his drink in unsettled quiet for a while before plunking his glass down again. "Do you really think he'd—?"

Again, Joe shrugged. "How should I know? Methos has many layers and we haven't even scratched his surface, I think. I honestly don't know what to expect from him, Mac. But I do know that you can trust him with Nadya's life."

Silence.

Duncan returned to his bourbon, feeling the truth of Dawson's words.

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England -- 1707

A scream pierced the late afternoon and Duncan raced through the cobblestone streets!

He soon found what he was looking for. A woman lay on the street, blood as red as her dress staining the stones. Her golden hair spilled in tangled ringlets and her cloak was torn, also tainted from the gaping knife wound in her side. It was the same lady that Duncan had rescued the night before.

"She trusted you with her life, MacLeod. See what happens when you interfere with others' affairs?" A man stood not afar off, the knife in his hands dripping with blood that was still warm.

"Why?! Why'd you kill her, Malfoy?!" Duncan drew his sword, anger causing his voice to crack.

"Because she did not please me" was all the answer that Malfoy gave and Duncan succumbed to his rage, attacking the noble Immortal.

Swords clanged and crashed in the streets. Malfoy was experienced, Duncan an only 200-year-old Immortal. But Duncan had matched passion for passion, parrying and thrusting. His mind no longer controlled him, only his sword, as though it had life itself.

Malfoy leapt back, avoiding a violent slice at his throat. He had sensed MacLeod's over-developed sense of honor and sought to exploit it in return for his wounded pride and over-turned plans. Sparks flew as blade met blade in the air and cold grey eyes met enraged brown ones, the combatants nose-to-nose.

Suddenly, there came shouts from the street corners. Soldiers! MacLeod would surely get the short end of the stick if caught, for Malfoy was of noble blood.

"Another day, Malfoy!" he growled and quickly made good his escape.

The soldiers coursed past Malfoy as he caught his breath from the battle. "Another day, MacLeod."

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Methos leapt from his seat, the glass of beer shattering beneath his feet! Nadya's body lay still on the dance floor, her arms splayed limply over her head, her eyes closed. Methos' hands hovered over her body, fearing to touch her and disbelieving of what his eyes has just seen.

"Nadya? Nadya!" Desperation and fear broke his voice. He'd failed her, he'd failed MacLeod, and he'd never even seen it coming. Tears sprang to his eyes but he refused to give in to them. She would resurrect soon; he had to get her out of there. But first…

The look Methos lavished on Jacob was one not seen since the Bronze Age—all anger, malice, and danger. His mind raced, thoughts becoming irrational flashes of color, mostly murderous red swimming before his eyes. Methos was ready to kill him, mortal or not! They'd have to find him and Nadya to arrest him, much less convict him. If 5,000 years had taught him anything, it was how to disappear—how to hide. A little corner of Luxembourg perhaps. No one would ever look for them there. Not even MacLeod, and Malfoy would never be able to find them. He would be looking for a defenseless mortal girl, not an Immortal one.

Methos bent over Nadya one last time and then began to rise to his feet, his hand reaching for the sword hidden within his coat.

Just then, there came a laugh from beneath him and Methos was shocked when Nadya's brown eyes darted open.

"Nice ending, huh?"

She was alive! No heart-wrenching intake of breath, air filling collapsed lungs; no scream at the sudden pain of re-fusing bones; no shock of life surging through the body like a 1,000-volt stab. Only a mere laugh, a fully mortal laugh.

Methos' annoyance knew no limit. He rose to his feet, tersely silent, and stalked out of the club. Completely confused, Nadya hurriedly returned Maria's shoes, grabbed her coat, and followed at a run.

"Wait! Methos!"

He grabbed ahold of her, pulling her close, his fingers digging into her arms.

"Don't you EVER call me that out here!" he hissed, sounding furious rather than cautious. He then released her, pushing her away from him.

She was completely taken aback. "What's wrong?"

Methos gestured as though to wring her neck angrily. "You…little tart! What was that stunt in there?! I've died a thousand ways, do you want to add a heart-attack to them, too?!" There was no mistaking it; he was pissed!

"It's how the dance goes, Adam!" Nadya spit out the name disdainfully. "It's all rage, jealousy, and anger—and, apparently, it got to you!"

For a moment, Methos was so angry that he could not speak. She had challenged him, made him feel that he had failed. No! He would not fail another woman that he cared about!

She didn't know why but Nadya was hurt and angered by his rage. "Hey, I didn't ask you to baby-sit me, Adam. You offered! So don't get angry at me because you've lost your sense of humor as well as your mortality. I didn't wish this on you. Remember that!"

That hurt! And Methos could see that he had hurt her, too.

Pulling her coat tight around her, Nadya stalked off in the direction of the dojo. Methos made to follow her but she immediately turned on him, telling him that she was a big girl and didn't need an eternal babysitter. She then ran off, hailing a cab.

Methos made to follow again but a sudden echo of fire in his brain made him stop, along with a sadistic laugh from down a nearby alleyway. He followed the sound until he spotted a figure looming in the moonlight.

"She's got some fire, hasn't she?" Malfoy's voice echoed off the walls. "Imagine how she'll scream when I give her that first bitter taste of Immortality."

Methos stepped into view from the shadows, brandishing his sword. "You won't have her, Malfoy!"

"Ahhh, so the gallant knight knows his adversary." Malfoy smirked, the scar on his face making his features that much more a cruel mask, armed with a frightening charm.

The Ivanhoe felt like a club in Methos' hand and he wanted nothing more than to slice Malfoy to pieces. For once, he felt the rage and passion of hatred, what he had once told MacLeod he did not have.

"Let's get this over with. I have a charge to look after," he growled, taking his stance.

Malfoy strutted a little, his blade cradled in the crook of his arm. "Why do you care so much? MacLeod is closer to her than you are, and I have a score with him. Why isn't he here?"

"He had a prior engagement. Besides, the lady was my date for the evening."

"And what a Casanova you are, from what I could overhear." He was a mocking son of a devil.

"I believe that you and I have the matter of a certain knifepoint to settle." Methos quickly got the subject off of Nadya.

"Ahh, yes. A family heirloom, quite priceless. I shall have to get it back once you and MacLeod are dead."

"Easier said than done, you'll find."

Malfoy took the hilt of his sword, his hand tightening like a vise as his smirk turned to a rueful frown. "You know, I really dislike other people touching my things, Pierson. Oh, yes. I know who you are, and any friend of MacLeod's is the bane of my existence."

Methos gave that little nod of his. "Sorry to disappoint you, Malfoy, but Nadya is not a thing, and definitely not an item for your collection."

"Oh, I beg to differ; she is the perfect item."

The two Immortals circled each other like wolves, clashing blades for seconds-only intervals and then separating, sitting back on their haunches. Methos had long learned from Kronos, if nothing else, how to sniff out his opponents' weaknesses, and he soon found Malfoy to be arrogant in battle style as well as personality. He used cuts and thrusts that brought him close to Methos, trusting in his quickness to get him away before the other Immortal could retaliate. Methos adjusted his use of the Ivanhoe accordingly, matching Malfoy move for move.

White-gold sparks suddenly flew as the tip of Malfoy's sword struck the alley wall! Cursing, he wrenched the blade free of the brick crevice and attacked again. Methos could feel his whole body on fire, blood thundering, breath heavy in his lungs. He would end this fight!