~6 months ago~

He had been alive for three hundred and eighty years. Ever since one of his own people stuck a knife into his chest in the middle of the night. Not just any body either, the one he was grooming to take over the clan after he was too old or dead. Malcolm never had any children of his own, he never even married. There was no woman worthy enough for him. Not that a few of the whores under him tried to catch his eye. Power always did that. No, the closest family he had was his accursed younger brother William and his apprentice. He thought he picked a man after his own heart, somebody he knew in his heart he could trust to run things after he was gone. He never expected that man to be so impatient or ambitious.

He remembered that morning after he came back to life. He swore God gave him the chance to bring his killer to justice, but he didn't know who it was. The bastard wore a hood to cover his identity. So he cleaned himself up, dressed in clean clothes and went out like nothing had happened and waited. Somebody would have to react. Not that he had some idea on who it might have been. If his brother was still there he would have accused him immediately. But Malcolm had him thrown out of the village years ago.

Malcolm remembered his heart breaking when he the man he personally picked to lead them acted like he saw a ghost. "I killed you!", he shouted as he got out of his seat. Everybody looked like he was insane. That's when he decided to change his tactics slightly. Instead of justice he'd make him suffer in a different way.

"You poor bastard," he said sorrowfully. "Obviously the Devil has taken a hold of you. Making you believe you seen and done things you haven't." He turned his attention to the rest of the village present. Obviously they were thinking he was going to banish him, burn him at the stake, something. Inwardly he smiled, "We must save this poor soul." The other looked at him, he knew they would be confused. Why would he choose this save this "poor soul" when he ran his own blood out? "Obviously somebody begged the Devil to do this. We should not punish him for somebody else lack of morals." The sheep fell right in with that line of thinking. The fact he later got the rumors started that his brother William was the one who made the deal only helped the matter.

His former successor was kept under his care in a shelter by the church. There, where nobody was looking, he took his revenge, taught him how wrong it was to be that impatient. Torturing him to his hearts content, but always careful not to leave a visible mark. Warning those who gave him food not to touch him in case what was ever processing him jumped to them. And he ranted too, telling everybody what Malcolm was doing to him. Malcolm smiled and laughed behind everybody backs as they put his ravings down to whatever possessed him. He eventually went mad and died. Malcolm made sure he got a proper burial. Outside of the cemetery of course, didn't want to dead to rise up from the grave and all of that. Besides he never wanted the sanctuary of a cemetery to be sullied by such superstitious nonsense.

Not that even he understood his obsession with cemeteries. Even in his younger days he would walk among the dead for hours at a time. He explained it away by telling the others that he paying his respect to those he came before. Most believed him, but a few had still had their doubts. Especially after he was given charge over them. Those like his younger brother William, he always questioned everything he did, from the crib to adulthood it felt like at times. After awhile he started hearing whispers about those who would rather follow the younger brother. So he put things in motion to take care of it. For the first time he tried to disguise himself and sat in the darkest corner of any place that had a large group of people and talked. He was surprised at how little it took to get the people against his brother. Eventually they got riled up enough that all he had to do was publicly kick him out and they did the rest. Sometimes he felt sorry about what he did, but his brother never knew his place.

Of course after he found out the truth about that faithful night and what he really was he stayed in the cemeteries more and more. That was his only safe haven after all. The rumors started against him. Malcolm was forced to leave before they attacked him. After all he'd done for them they had the gall to turn on him. But he returned years later, after anybody who knew him was already gone. Just to see how they were doing, and he grew more and more disappointed each time he went back. Many times he almost dropped the name McAllister completely just out of embarrassment.

But returned he did over the centuries. No matter where he went, no matter what identity he took he always returned home. Growing more and more despondent at how much his village was changing over the years. At least the cemetery was left untouched, there was still some decency left in the world. He was leaving again in a couple of day for the States. But he probably wouldn't stay there long, he always came home to Scotland

Walking around and lost in thought he felt the buzz. "Still expecting the dead to talk to you?", said a voice with a east London accent from behind him. Moaning silently he turned around to see a boy who looked no older than nineteen lying on top on a family mausoleum, his head hanging down over the side and his mop of long blond hair moving with the breeze. As usual he was wearing boots, drainpipe jeans, a white button up shirt with the top couple buttons undone and a dark coat. He had annoying knack of showing up when he wanted to be alone, ever since he found him during WW1 after a bombing attack by the Germans. Those grey eyes of his still had that mischievous twinkle to them but the rest of his face had a different expression.

"Why are you frowning Harris?", he felt he was going to regret the answer but had to ask any way.

"I'm not frowning I'm smiling," he answered. "My heads upside down so a frown should look like I'm smiling." Giving him a big grin he continued, "See, now it should look like I'm frowning to somebody right side up."

He was right, he regretted asking. Harris always tried to get a rise out of him. "And I here I thought you finally realized you were looking like a women with that mascara around your eyes."

He looked hurt, "It's Egyptian. Don't you know your history? You would think somebody as old as you would know something like that." Harris sat up, spun around and dangled his legs over the side of the mausoleum, quickly going back to his previous expression. "I hear you're leaving soon. Getting tired of the highlands already?"

"That is the one thing I can never get tired of, unlike certain people I could mention at the moment."

The young immortal tilted his head slightly, if he was offended he didn't show it. "So where are you going? Japan, Russia, Timbuktu? I hear that place is great this time of year, very colorful."

"There are times I swear that bomb scrambled your brains permanently," Malcolm said before walking away.

"Maybe it did, maybe it didn't. Who can really say?" Harris jumped done, put his heads behind his head and caught up with him. "Word is your heading for the colonies. I was there once back in the sixties. Now that was a great time, people killing brain cells with any drug they could get a hold and screwing the closest piece of tail they could find. Yeah there was all the stuff about social change and all that shit, but I just ignored it until the good stuff started."

"Yes I am if you must know," Malcolm said in hopes he would go away. No such luck as he continued to walk along aside him. "So what are you doing in Scotland any way? In a cemetery no less."

"Just wandering here, there and everywhere," was his response. "Seeing the world and all that. I got time to do that now. I don't see how you other guys can stay in one place for years at a time. It would drive me mad."He stopped, looking like he thought of something. Malcolm kept on walking, increasing his pace slightly. He got a few yards before Harris called out, "Say hello to your family for me when you get there."

Malcolm stopped against his better judgment, "I have no immediate family around anymore. Haven't for a few centuries now. You have more family than I do at this point."

"Of course you do, everybody has family. Got the buzz from him and everything." Malcolm slowly turned around curious about what he was babbling about. He walked back to Harris who had his sword out, a pirate cutlass with a jewel encrusted hilt, and was balancing it on the tip of two of his fingers.

"Who was it?", he asked.

"Who was what?," Harris acted like he didn't know what he was talking about.

Trying hard not to lose his temper he evenly said, "You said I had a family member who was immortal."

"Did I?", he thought about it for a moment. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. McAllister could be like Smith for all I know."

"So his last name was McAllister," Malcolm said mainly to himself. Why had he never run across this person before, or even heard about him. This would take some investigating. "Where did you meet this McAllister?"

"In the colonies back in the sixties," he said. He tossed the sword up, caught it by the handle and placed it back in his coat. "Looked like a boring guy to me, pretty straight laced. He saved a priest so he couldn't be all that bad."

"Did you happen to catch a name?"

"I told you already, McAllister."

"A first name," irritation edged his voice.

Harris smiled, Malcolm realized he just gave the young immortal what he wanted and quietly chastised himself for it. "Oh that," he said, "nope, sorry didn't catch that. Left after it was over. I think he's still living there In Chicago. Great city by the way, not as exciting as London mind you but still a great city"

"Thank you Scott," he said, even though it pained him to say it. "That information was… most enlightening. I'll be sure to look into it after I arrive."

"Maybe I'll head over in a few months and see how things are going," Harris told him. "I always loved family reunions."

"That won't be necessary Scott," Malcolm quickly said. "Besides, more than likely this won't be a pleasant reunion."

As he walked away he heard Harris say, "That just makes thing all the more interesting."

He didn't particularly care what that twit found interesting. His mind was racing about this family of his. Taking out his cell phone he called his travel agent, "Hello David, it Randal. No everything fine. I hate to do this to you at the last minute but I had a change in plans. I need to go to Boston instead of Los Angeles." This other McAllister might have been in Chicago but Michel was there last he heard. And he had no plans on sullying his hands on somebody who probably a couple of generation removed.