(I am sorry it has taken me so long to post. I know I am a nerd but sometimes I have a tendency to chaff at that label—pretending that I am not obsessed with the Buffy & etc universe… not writing but thinking about writing—while still reading others' fiction. If everyone who read crossover fiction wrote crossover fiction.. this site would be overflowing. In the name of giving back to the genre which has given me reasons for hours of procrastination as well as the same hours of enjoyment… I continue my story)

Duncan looked downward at the artistically yellowed paper in his right hand.

He wondered for a moment why people were so desperate to surround themselves with age and emblems of the past. Buying antiques, giving fiancés their great-grandmothers rings… even yellowing perfectly new paper. Here he was over 400 and running an antique shop. Age. People are obsessed with cultural history whether they know it or not. Duncan knew he was just obsessed with advancing and declining civilization. Duncan knew the only reason why he was thinking so much was because he didn't' want to open the prematurely aged note. Duncan knew he sometimes felt everyone of his years… especially the painful memories.

Surry, England, The Watchers Academy

Mid 1960's

Duncan strolled the halls of the Watchers Academy. The school was housed in a multistory castle on the outskirts of London. From what he could see the Academy was a converted mansion. It was a standard extravagant three story castle. Instead of herds of servants milling about polishing this or polishing that while chattering incessantly. One or two servants walked about completing their tasks chin on chest and eyes to the ground. Neither servant seemed infected with enough curiosity to even raise their eyes in question at Duncan's presence in the school. To be truthful the fact of their disinterest was pleasing to Duncan. While he was far from undercover he did like to be considered a somewhat ordinary fixture. He was sure the servants considered him a parent coming to visit a child or something of the like.

In truth he had not knocked but instead had entered through a side door. He had come into through a garden door that had almost been completely obscured by ivy. The door had opened into a basement and he had made his way up the stairs of the basement and to his current place strolling the halls. Duncan had seen small pockets of children working in small groups at round tables covered with obviously ancient books. The children were all ages—starting from 10 or so. Very strange. It made no sense for children to be advanced enough to do research using such ancient books. If the books were really as ancient as they appeared it also made no sense that the Academy (housed in such a place that screamed Old Money) couldn't afford newer books.

While these thought went through his head he kept his feet moving. While he was wandering somewhat aimlessly he really knew where he was heading. He was looking for an instructor at the Academy, Alfred Travers. Travers was an immortal head hunter and if all went as designed his time would soon be up. Duncan planned to issue a challenge and then walk out the front door. He knew he would find him when his head would buzz in alarm.

Duncan kept walking—he had begun to attract a little attention. One of the older students had noticed him walking by one of the study rooms. This boy seemed a bit more aware than the other students. Duncan had noticed the boy as well. Not only did the boy seem a little bit more alert than the other students but he was also a trite fearless. When the boy noticed Duncan he paused in puzzlement in his work and stood up. As he began walking towards the door as Duncan walked by Duncan stopped moving. This boy, had a slight buzz—his presence gave Duncan a slight hum of recognition. Duncan had felt this feeling before. This boy would be an immortal one day—but not today. The boy's fearless would serve him well one day.

The boy approached Duncan. The first words out of his mouth were, "Sir? Did you check in with the office? You need to sign in at the front office. Let me lead you there".

Duncan almost smiled. This boy would make a good immortal one day—he was already protecting his own—that is if he considered the other students as his own Hopefully he wasn't just protecting himself.

Duncan replied, "I must have missed the office. I am here to see Mr. Alfred Travers. Perhaps you can lead me to him?"

"Mr. Travers? Sure. I can do that. Before you leave you should really sign in and sign out." Mr. Travers' room is two doors down.

The boy stood still and pointed with his left hand.

Duncan inclined his head downward and upward in thanks and began moving off to Travers' room. What would this boy think if he knew his teacher was actually the former right hand murderer in the employ of William the

Conqueror and current inveterate killer of immortals, pre-immortals and frankly anyone who crossed him. Duncan wondered if Mr. Travers' history would thrill or horrify this pre-immortal.

As Duncan headed in the direction of the classroom, he pivoted and paused, he called out, "Boy—what is your name?"

"Giles, sir, Rupert Giles".

"Thank you Giles." Duncan said as he continued on. The boy had good instincts and a good name. Maybe he could be a friend in a generation or two.

Duncan found Travers' door and didn't knock. He simply turned the handle and entered. It wouldn't have mattered if he had knocked—Travers' knew an immortal had entered because of the tell tale buzz Duncan was sure he had felt.

Travers was sitting behind his desk. His hands gripping his desk. He had not leapt upwards to find a weapon or to pick up anything. The only thing about him that seamed even vaguely worth recording in Duncan's brain was the fact that Travers' lips held the smirk of a man who did not care about anyone or anything or even about his own existence.

Travers parted his lips and spoke directly Duncan. "Have you come for my head? Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, is it? "

"Yes", Duncan replied. There was a certain menace in his tone that Travers would have to have been a fool not to notice.

Travers spoke quickly, a cowards' words. "We are all foundlings—and yet you identify yourself as if you have a family! Who are you here to avenge? You know the words… There can be only one? So what! These lives are useless! Each life must be snuffed out for this to be over so just what crime are you avenging? "

Duncan could see Travers' wanted to convince him that he was in the right, that his violence was controlled violence. The killing of any number of pre-immortals and young immortals was 'right'.

Duncan looked Travers straight in the eye and said, "Stephan."

"Stephan? Humph! He was hardly worth it!"

Duncan said the words—tonight, at the warehouse district, near St. Katherine's Dock by Fleet Street. I will be waiting.

Duncan turned to leave. As he walked he heard mutters from Travers. Travers clearly said the words—"what a waste of time."

Duncan opened the office door to find the boy Giles standing guiltily. It was obvious he had been listening in on the conversation. The boy had to be 15 or so. Duncan realized Travers must have been a role model to him. Duncan felt even more resolve that he would have to prevail in this battle. Surely, Travers had intentions to help Giles along into his immortal life and then snatching his quickening as a vampire feeds.

The Note

D.M.

I do not know why or care why you are here. I am watching you.

Your kind belongs in dark corners and abandoned warehouses.

Step lightly in this town.

R.G.

Duncan had to smile. Yes that Rupert Giles would make a fine friend one day—he was still protecting his own.

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