Title: Desiderium
Rating: PG-13
Legal: I don't own 'em. I wish I did.
Spoilers: Slot this right in between "Periculum" & "Thantopsis"
Thanks to my beta-reader Donna. She is fab. All mistakes, therefore, are mine.
*****
Sara Pezzini, New York City homicide detective, headed back to her seat from sneaking into the first class bathroom. It was a small coup, but one that made her feel good. Making her way through the six rows of first class, she stopped suddenly. A familiar face sat in the last row. She walked the last few feet and stopped, tapping her foot.
"Where's Irons?" she asked Ian Nottingham, the bodyguard and hired killer of one of the world's richest men.
"Mr. Irons isn't traveling with me, Sara," Nottingham said, closing the book he had been reading, holding his place with a finger.
"How'd you manage to slip the traces, then?" Sara asked. "Isn't it a little hard to keep an eye on him when you're not there?"
"I am attending to some business for Mr. Irons. I'll be sure to tell him you were concerned for his safety," Nottingham said, then cocked his head to the side. "Would you like to join me? I have both seats."
She was tempted, if only for the fact that she had never flown first class before. There was a more pressing reason, though: she was fairly sure that she'd seen someone follow and get onto the plane with her. She was going to Chicago to testify in a case she had been involved in as a rookie. The defendant, a big time Chicago mobster, Bruce "Hands" McQuain, had picked her up when she'd been working as an "escort" in a vice sting. He'd bragged to her, thinking she was nothing more than a piece of tail, about killing an FBI agent. Her testimony was one of the most important parts of the trial.
She'd expected some attempt at intimidation at least, to deter her from testifying, but nothing suspicious had happened until now. The guy who had followed her onto the plane wore wingtips, a black suit, white shirt, and white tie. He might as well have been wearing a little nametag that said "Hi, I'm Bob, and I'm a mobster."
She brought her attention back to the man in front of her. Billionaire Kenneth Irons had a control over Ian Nottingham that Sara didn't understand. This walking lethal weapon followed Irons around like some sort of viscous puppy. It was obvious that their relationship was not just that of employer and employee, but she didn't know what it was. At first, she had suspected a family relationship. Nottingham, though a trained killer, acted enough like a victim of domestic violence to give her good reason to think that. But she didn't think that now; their relationship was much more warped than even the worst family.
Nottingham'd never actually tried to hurt her, though. Hell, he'd helped her try to save her lover, Conchobar, from the Irish bastards who'd kidnapped and then killed him. And she knew that he had been following her. She saw him at the most unexpected moments of her days: when she was getting a cup of coffee, parking her bike, or coming home after a long night. Half the time she wanted to think that he was an illusion, but she knew he was really there, shadowing her.
As evils went, he was a relatively known quantity. She'd risk enduring his company for the hour and a half to Chicago if it gave her the opportunity to lose the mobster in the rush to get off the plane.
"I'll be right back," Sara told Nottingham, and went to collect her carry-on bag.
*****
Ian Nottingham hadn't really expected Sara to say yes to his offer. It was a pleasant surprise. That would remind him not to underestimate her.
He'd noted Sara's seat on the plane in economy class. It was several rows back from the wall dividing his first class seat from the rest of the plane. Irons had only required him to attempt to remain unseen by Sara, so he felt justified in sitting in the aisle seat of his two seats. Should she accidentally see him, it wouldn't be Nottingham's fault. She was, after all, the "business" Irons had sent him to attend to.
Nottingham knew that, by inviting Sara to join him, he was skirting the very limits of Irons' orders. In this case, however, he could justify it. To protect the Witchblade, a mystical gauntlet, and it's Wielder, Sara Pezzini, he needed to remove her from danger. Nottingham had already dealt with two attempts to keep her from testifying in this federal court case. One man Nottingham had easily bought off, and the other had been sent back to his mobster employer in a rather soggy paper bag. Sara had been trailed onto the plane by yet another Chicago mobster. If Nottingham could remove Sara from that surveillance, he would be doing his job properly.
Though Irons had given him that task to protect the Witchblade, it had grown to more than that for Nottingham: he was also attracted to Sara in the normal way of a man to a woman.
These sorts of thoughts were new to him, and confusing. He had read psychology and biology texts, so he knew the mechanical and biochemical reasons for his reactions to her. That didn't seem to help much, however, when he was near her. He even found his thoughts straying to her when he should be attending to other duties, and he knew that Irons had begun to notice his divided loyalties.
*****
When Sara returned, Nottingham stood in the aisle, his large, black-clad frame totally filling the space. He motioned her into the window seat. Sitting next to her and pulling out his book, he resumed his reading. Retrieving her own book from her carry-on, she surreptitiously studied the man next to her while she pretended to read.
As usual, he was dressed in black: black shirt, black pants, black coat, even the black gloves she had never seen him without. His dark chin-length hair was pulled back in an attempt at a ponytail, but curls were escaping anyway. His beard was as neat as his hair was untidy.
She couldn't see what book he was reading. She couldn't imagine what kind of book would so engross Ian Nottingham. "Assassination for Dummies," perhaps. No, she decided. He would have written that one.
Finally giving up, she asked, "What are you reading?"
Without lifting his head, he responded, "Words, words, words."
Sara raised an eyebrow, then got it. "Shakespeare," she said. "Hamlet?"
He nodded, still seemingly absorbed in the book.
Sara had played Ophelia in high school for about three weeks of rehearsals before she'd gotten kicked off the cast for smoking. Her best friend, Maria, had been Gertrude and gotten kicked off, too. She wondered if she could remember any of the lines.
"My lord, I have remembrances of yours,/ That I have longed long to re-deliver;/ I pray you, now receive them," Sara said, after a moment of concentration.
Nottingham's head snapped up and looked at her, his hazel eyes narrowing.
After a pause, he replied with Hamlet's line, "No, not I;/ I never gave you aught."
Closing her eyes, she recalled Ophelia's reply.
"My honour'd lord, you know right well you did;" Sara said, "And, with them, words of so sweet breath compos'd/ As made the things more rich: their perfume lost,/ Take these again; for to the noble mind/ Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind." She paused, searching for the next line, but didn't find it.
Opening her eyes, she looked at Nottingham. His eyes were already back on his reading. Oh well. So much for culture.
*****
Nottingham stared unseeing at the book in front of him. He even turned the page occasionally, to keep up the pretense. He'd read Hamlet many times before. Sometimes, Irons assigned him things to read, and for this trip it had been Hamlet. There was always a reason for whatever was chosen. Nottingham had assumed this time it was for the themes of the folly of ambition and the consequences of shirking of one's duty. That would be appropriate, considering how he'd been disobeying lately. He hadn't considered the plight of Hamlet and Ophelia.
Ophelia was the pawn of nearly everyone in the play: Hamlet repudiated her love, her father used her as bait, she was abandoned by her beloved brother. When her father died and Hamlet left, she went insane from grief. She drowned, confused, alone, and unaware of her own impending death.
Was Sara to be Ophelia, her father murdered, her lover leaving her in the most permanent way, abandoned -- mostly -- by her dead partner? Was she to die, too, alone and unknowing that rescue was on the way? Or was Nottingham Hamlet, fighting a battle that was unable to be won, abandoning and destroying all that mattered to him in pursuit of worthless vengeance?
No, that couldn't be what Irons intended. Rarely were his lessons so convoluted. Nottingham had been trained as a thinker as well as fighter, and these assignments were as much training as his daily workout. His master, however, mostly valued his physical skills and tended to discount his intellectual ones.
It was his mental skills that truly made him valuable, though. If he had been an unthinking drone, he wouldn't know when to disobey orders like he was going to do now.
*****
"Where are you staying?" Nottingham asked as the plane stood at the gate, the passengers ready to disembark.
"A hotel," Sara said.
She had no intention of telling this hired thug where she was staying. She didn't doubt that he would quickly find out, if he didn't know already, but she didn't have to make it easy for him. Hell, he'd probably be there before her, sitting in some dark corner of the lobby, watching her check in.
"Stay with me," he said. "Mr. Irons keeps a home here in Chicago."
"No!" she said. "Are you nuts?"
Nottingham pointedly looked toward the back of the plane. Sara followed his eyes and saw her mobster pushing his way down the aisle, his eyes locked on her. Nottingham turned back to her and waited. She looked suspiciously at him.
She had been wondering why there hadn't been any attempts to stop her from testifying. Could Nottingham have taken care of any others? He certainly had the skill -- he had been militarily trained in a truly disturbing special unit called the Black Dragons. And he had the inclination -- Irons seemed to be willing to go to nearly any lengths to protect her, or more accurately, the Witchblade. What would a few mobsters be to someone who had Nottingham for their own personal assassin?
"What have you been up to, Nottingham?" she asked.
He merely shrugged, and with a final look toward the back of the plane, whirled around, and headed for the now open exit. Sara glanced back and saw her pursuer only a couple people behind her. Sighing, she grabbed her bag and followed after Nottingham. This was probably not the right thing to do.
Nottingham was waiting for her, just outside the exit. He pulled her to a small telephone alcove nearby, and just as Sara caught a glimpse of her tail exiting the plane, turned and pressed her to the wall.
*****
Pressing her hands against his chest, Sara tried to push him off. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, trapping her arms between them. Her upturned face was furious, but Nottingham bent his head close to hers.
"Keep still," he said, his voice low. "We're being watched."
He could indeed see, in the polished metal wall behind Sara, the mobster looking about suspiciously. That wasn't the only reason he had chosen this method of concealment, however. As Sara stopped struggling, Nottingham relaxed his grip. His arms now only encircling her like the lovers they were pretending to be, Nottingham enjoyed the feeling of her body against his. He could feel the tension of her body ease slowly, though she still kept her hands on his chest. Inhaling slowly, he caught her scent, a soft musky odor. He had been taught to take pleasure in his work, and this was definitely pleasurable.
Too quickly, though, he saw Sara's pursuer turn in frustration and move away down the hall. With some disappointment, he released Sara and peered around the alcove. The mobster was striding away quickly, probably trying to catch up with Sara. When he was sufficiently far away, Nottingham stepped out and Sara followed.
"You could have just stood in front of me, you know," she said, annoyance in her voice.
He smiled to himself. She found him to be a source of immense frustration, he knew. He was an enigma, a purveyor of cryptic comments and the servant of a man she despised. But, nonetheless, she had come with him.
"This way," was all he said, though, and led her to the stairs he had spied earlier.
Their taxi ride to the lakeshore building where Irons kept a penthouse apartment was silent, as was their ride up in the elevator.
When they arrived at the penthouse, Sara stood in the front room, a look of amused disgust on her face. Nottingham felt the same way about the décor, which was meant to look like a French palace, all red and gold and mirrors. He had spent one particularly tedious day trailing after his master, looking for exactly the right scarlet flocked wallpaper for this room.
"Looks like a brothel," Sara said and grinned wickedly. "Speaking of: bedrooms?"
He pointed to a wide, dark hallway on the opposite side of the room.
"Take any one you like. But you might like the staff wing better," he said, and she went in the direction he pointed.
He hoped that she would like them better, anyway. All of the rooms Irons used were decorated much like this one, and Nottingham couldn't imagine sleeping in one of them. Nottingham's bedroom was in the staff wing, by his own choice. His master didn't care how the staff lived, as long as they kept quiet and out of the way. No one was at the penthouse, now, though, since the master wasn't here.
Sara could sleep in the housekeeper's room, he decided, thinking about the layout of the penthouse. It was furthest from the three entrances, though right next to his own spartan bedroom. He passed through the stainless steel kitchen to his room.
Like at the other homes Irons kept, it was a small, plain room, with only the necessities, a bed, a dresser, a wardrobe. A katana stood displayed on the top of the wardrobe, but that was there for use, as well as decoration. He dropped his bag on the bed and slipped off his shoes and socks. Irons disapproved of barefootedness, but Nottingham indulged in it at every opportunity. He always felt more stable, being able to feel the world with the surfaces of his soles.
*****
Sara looked at the four bedrooms down the hallway Nottingham had indicated and decided that he was, indeed, right. The rooms were all ornate, red, and creepy and reminded her entirely too much of Irons. The thought of sleeping in one his beds, even when he wasn't there, made her feel like she needed a bath. Turning back, she went to find the "staff wing."
She found Nottingham in the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets. The plain stainless steel was a stark but relaxing contrast to the overdone public rooms. The only thing out of place to her eyes was a set of elevator doors set into one of the kitchen walls. She mentally noted their location -- to her they were a potential escape route, but they were probably there so the staff didn't have to sully the main entrance.
As Nottingham came around the counter to check a pot of boiling water, she noticed he was barefoot. His usual leather gloves were gone, too. Only then did she realize that never seen him with more than his face uncovered before. He looked quizzically at the bag still in her hand.
"You were right," she explained. "There is no possible way that I could ever fall asleep in one of those."
"Last door on the left," he said, nodding at a closed door behind him. He poured a box of dried pasta into the pot. "If you're hungry, dinner will be ready in about ten minutes."
Sara nodded and pushed through the door. She found a surprisingly bright and airy wide white hallway floored in blonde hardwood. They obviously hadn't let the mad decorator into the staff area, and she was grateful. She pushed open the last door on the left and discovered a large, but simple room. She tossed her bag and jacket on the floor and sat down on the bed, bouncing it slightly. Definitely a better mattress than she would have gotten in a hotel.
She got up again. She still felt uneasy about this, but she was committed now. She decided to check out the other rooms. The room next to hers was obviously Nottingham's. His black bag from the plane was on the bed and his shoes and socks were in a heap on the floor. It was a plain room, devoid of ornament except for a curved sword perched atop a tall wardrobe.
Poking her head into the other rooms, Sara found another bedroom, a bathroom that she used gratefully, and an enormous exercise room. The gym was impressive, with a long mirror that reflected the view from the floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the lake. It had weight machines and free weights, plus a large padded area. In a corner, Sara noted a heavy punching bag. Since she'd brought her clothes to work out in the hotel's gym, maybe she'd give it a try later.
Making her way back to the kitchen, Sara wasn't sure which was weirder: that she was voluntarily staying in one of Irons' homes, or that Nottingham was cooking her dinner. She pushed open the door a crack and peeked through.
Her psycho stalker was standing over a small pot, a spice jar in his hand, looking speculatively at it. With a small shrug, he sprinkled some of whatever it was into the pot and stirred. A timer dinged, and, to Sara's horror, he reached into the pot of boiling water with his bare hand. Pulling out a strand of spaghetti, he chewed it thoughtfully, then turned off the heat.
Sara let the door close, the leaned against the wall. She replayed the image in her head. Yes, she had seen him reach into boiling water with no harm done, not even a flinch. What the hell was he?
She took a deep breath and pushed the door open again and went in.
*****
Nottingham had heard Sara open the door slightly behind him. He could see her reflection in the stainless steel, just watching him cook. When the pasta timer went off, he decided on a small demonstration.
Her eyes widened as he reached into the boiling water and plucked out a piece of pasta. It hurt, of course, but that was no reason to react. Using his training, he deadened the nerve endings in his fingertips, pushing the pain away. He tossed the pasta in his mouth, then, deciding it was done, turned off the heat.
The door behind him shut, closing on Sara's disbelieving face. It was only a trick, but an impressive one, he knew. Draining the pasta, he dumped it in the bowl and set it on the kitchen island. He'd set it for two, though he didn't know if Sara would join him now.
She did. Pushing open the door, she looked at Nottingham, then at his hand. Shaking her head, she sat down. Sitting down across from her, he filled her bowl, then passed the sauce. The pleasure on her face as she smelled the food gave him an unexpected feeling of accomplishment. He had never cooked for anyone before, and hadn't expected to feel so gratified at her enjoyment of a simple meal.
"It's good," Sara said eventually. "Thanks."
"You're welcome, Sara," he replied. "I'm sorry it's so plain, but I didn't expect to have a guest."
"Irons didn't tell you to invite me?" she asked, obviously surprised.
"No," Nottingham said, and knew that his master would, in fact, be furious with him. "He wouldn't like " he waved his hand around vaguely, looking for a way to describe what Irons feared if Nottingham were to spend too much time with Sara. He couldn't come up with anything, so he settled for, " this."
"What? The kitchen?" she asked, then comprehension dawned. "Or two people sitting, having dinner in a civilized way, with no guns, no Witchblade visions, and no cryptic comments?"
Nottingham nodded. It wasn't exactly that, but it was close. His master really feared that Nottingham would abandon him for Sara. Though connected to both Sara and the Witchblade in a way that even he didn't totally understand, Nottingham wasn't sure that his years of conditioned devotion to Irons would ever allow that. It gave him hope, though, that Irons feared it. His master had ordered him to stay totally out of sight once in Chicago. Nottingham had disobeyed and would be punished when he confessed, but, for several reasons, it was the right thing to do.
"Well, Irons is one sick puppy, and if this pisses him off, good," Sara said and grinned conspiratorially.
*****
After dinner, Sara helped Nottingham load the dishwasher, and it was possibly the weirdest thing she had ever done. He didn't know how. He could cook, but he'd never loaded a dishwasher. Sara had to explain, to this professional assassin and general tough guy, the finer points of putting the utensils in both up and down so they didn't nest together and not get clean. She'd had to locate the detergent under the sink; he hadn't even known where to start looking. It was surreal.
She had never before pictured Nottingham in a domestic environment, she thought as she lay on her bed. To her, he was just a darker space in the shadows. He came with the Witchblade, like some sort of murderous accessory. To see him, in a kitchen, padding around in his bare feet, without gloves, without that chain he wore like a collar, was really bizarre. It made for some major cognitive dissonance, like hearing Oscar the Grouch talk about physics.
She stared up at the dark. She wished she could sleep, but she couldn't. Her idea for a workout had been abandoned when Nottingham had mentioned he was going to use the gym. She liked best to be alone when she was working out; it was like meditation for her. Plus, she found she had a lot of aggression to get out these days. She didn't feel like showing Irons' pet just how wound up she was.
She must have finally drifted off to sleep because she woke with a jolt. Holding her breath, she tried to hear what had woken her. She heard Nottingham's door open, very quietly. The Witchblade, still in its bracelet form, was whirling madly, feeding her agitation. Nottingham wouldn't come after her, would he? She listened to his barely perceptible movements. No, he was going the other way, toward the kitchen.
Maybe he was just hungry, Sara thought, but didn't really believe it. Surely the Witchblade wouldn't get all worked up just because someone wanted a snack. Sighing, Sara got out of bed.
She wished she'd brought her gun. She could have, but she hadn't felt like going through all of the paperwork to take it across state lines. Now, paperwork seemed like a minor inconvenience.
Quietly, she opened her door and peered around it into the dimly lit hallway. Nottingham, standing near the door to the kitchen, waved for her to go back. Ignoring him, she moved down the hall, her right arm with the Witchblade across her chest. Gesturing more forcefully, Nottingham shook his head at her, but she only stopped when she stood across the hall from him. He took a step toward her, and she could see his face, angry. He pointed a finger at her, then held out his hand, palm facing her. You. Stay. She gave a smart, sarcastic salute, and he took a step closer to her, his face even angrier.
There was a soft thump in the kitchen, and, with a final meaningful look, Nottingham stepped back against the opposite wall. He would be directly in front of the door when it opened; she would be behind it. She let the Witchblade snick into place over her forearm, shivering with a now-familiar pleasure as it did so. Shifting most of her weight onto her back leg, she prepared to kick the door shut when it opened. Nottingham would take down whoever came through first, she knew, though how, she wasn't sure. She was supposed to shut the door and stay put.
She didn't think so.
*****
Nottingham pushed his anger aside. It had been unlikely that she would have remained quietly in her room, but he had hoped so. He didn't want to have to worry about her while he took care of this intrusion. She was well able, with the assistance of the Witchblade, to take care of herself, but it was his job to protect her. Though he knew it was right that he fight beside her as well as protect her, he didn't want her involved if she didn't have to be.
The door opened, and without thinking, he pulled the assailant through it, flipping him back into the hallway, twisting the man's neck as he did so. The intruder hit the floor with a thump and a cracking of vertebrae. He heard Sara slam the door shut, then open it again. Turning, he saw her punch with the Witchblade, dropping another intruder to the floor. Nottingham saw a gun loom out of the shadowed kitchen.
"Down!" he yelled, and she immediately dropped to the floor.
Kicking out over her, he sent the gun sailing across the room. Below him, he heard a knee crunch as Sara's leg shot out. The man fell to the floor and Nottingham stepped around her to slam his bare foot onto the assailant's throat.
"Lights on," Nottingham said loudly, and the kitchen lit up brightly.
He shuddered with pleasure, reveling in the way they fought together. Though it had only been for a few seconds, he knew that this was how it should be, she and he, two halves of the same whole, moving as one to fight their enemies. Never before had he felt such satisfaction, such completeness. His breath deepened as Sara stood and surveyed the scene, as regal as any Wielder had ever been. Finally, he truly understood Irons' fear. If Sara asked him to, right now, Nottingham would be hers in an instant.
The Witchblade, seemingly assured of safety, retracted back into its bracelet form. Moving to stand next to him, Sara looked down. Nottingham finally noticed that the man under his foot, who he recognized as Sara's tail from the plane, was still alive. Gently, Sara rested her hand on Nottingham's arm, and he obediently removed his foot from the man's neck. Normally, he would have simply killed this intruder, but he found he desperately wanted to please her. She took her hand off, and he felt acute disappointment. It was, he realized, the first time she had touched him of her own accord. He would let the intruder live, just for that.
"Hi," she said to the guy lying on the floor. "My friend here would probably really love to crush your throat." They were playing "good cop, bad cop," Nottingham realized. He nodded, making his face as grim as possible. "So I suggest you tell me, quickly, who you're working for and what they want."
"We was just robbing the place!" the guy moaned.
"So you passed up the antiques in the other rooms and came back to the kitchen because you were what -- hungry?" she asked, then looked at Nottingham. "Do you believe him?" Nottingham shook his head and raised his foot as if to put it back on the man's throat. "He doesn't believe you," Sara told the guy, sounding sympathetic, "And he's usually very trusting. Would you like to try again?"
"All right!" the guy on the floor whispered hoarsely. "Keep him off me!"
Sara looked up at Nottingham, and he saw approval and amusement in her eyes. He took a step back, but growled low in his throat as he did so. A smile twitched at the corners of Sara's mouth before she looked down again.
"I'm supposed to keep you from testifying tomorrow," the guy gasped, reaching for his knee.
"I guessed that," Sara said. "Does it surprise you that I'm not intimidated?"
"He never said your boyfriend was Nottingham. If I'd known, I never would have took the job," the intruder said.
Nottingham felt a strange thrill at the word "boyfriend." He had never imagined that it would be applied to him in anyway. It wasn't true, but in his current state, it elated him nonetheless.
"There ain't enough money in the world," the guy continued.
"You two know each other?" Sara asked.
"Everyone knows about him. They say--" he stopped suddenly, his eyes shifting quickly to Nottingham and back to Sara again.
"What do they say?" Sara asked, her voice bright with innocence.
"They say ... he's crazy," the guy stammered.
"Is that all? I guarantee I know that much better than you do," she said, laughing. She became grim again. "I suggest that you go back and tell your boss that I will be testifying." She nudged the unconscious guy on the floor next to her. "And take your buddies with you." She glanced back through the open door, then looked at Nottingham. "You broke one," she told him, in mock-disapproval.
Nottingham dropped his eyes to the floor, afraid that he would smile and ruin everything. After a moment to control himself, he moved past her and easily hefted the dead man onto his shoulder. Passing her again, he reached down and grabbed the foot of the unconscious one and dragged him to the staff elevator. Tossing them in, he waited while Sara's tail from the plane hobbled after him. Nottingham pushed him in, then pushed the down button. Right before the doors closed completely on the kitchen, the mobster from the plane yelled at them.
"I was wrong! You're both crazy!"
*****
As soon as the doors closed, Sara burst out laughing. Holding onto the counter, she laughed until her sides hurt and she could barely breathe. When she finally stopped, gasping for breath, she shook her head at Nottingham.
"I liked the growl," she said. "You were very convincing."
"Thank you," he said solemnly.
"You're welcome," she said, mock-seriously.
She moved over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. Perching on one of the barstools they'd used for dinner, she opened it and took a long drink. She regarded Nottingham. They had worked remarkably well as a team. She hadn't worried, surprisingly, that he wouldn't play along with her questioning of the mobster. She hadn't felt that comfortable working with someone since, well, Danny.
Her former partner, now dead, wasn't really lost to her. She still saw his ghost, but it wasn't the same. When she and Nottingham had been fighting, it had been like dancing. They had moved together. She had known what he was going to do before he even did it, it seemed. It had been, she had to admit, exhilarating. She had never been in a situation before where she didn't worry about her partner getting hurt. Nottingham could more than take care of himself.
His anger was gone now. He seemed to be looking at her with a kind of awe. He hadn't seen her fight since before the periculum, she realized. She and the Witchblade were one, now. She had passed its test of commitment and had been deemed worthy. Actually, she hadn't even used the Blade since the periculum. Maybe that's why she'd been able to anticipate Nottingham's moves so well; it probably would work just as well if it had been Jake.
She shook her head to pull herself out of her musings.
"Do you think they'll try anything else tonight?" she asked him.
"No, I don't," he said, and his eyes dropped to the floor.
Seemingly unconsciously, he took up the stance she always saw him in around Irons: legs spread wide, hands clasped in front of him, with his head bowed. That subservient position always irked her, and now was no exception. It rankled her that Irons treated anyone, even Nottingham, so casually and with such disrespect. To see him do it around her, to her, was insulting.
"Stop standing there like some kind of slave," she snapped at him, slamming her bottled water on the counter. His shoulders stiffened, but he didn't move. "Stop that!"
"What would you like me to do instead, Sara?" he asked finally, but he didn't move.
"What, you want me to give you orders now?" Sara asked. "I am not your master, Nottingham. Don't compare me to Irons."
He flinched at that. On their second meeting, he had said the same thing to her. Obviously, he remembered. But he still didn't move.
"You know what? I don't care." Sara stood and turned away. "I'm going to bed."
*****
Sara stalked out of the room, and after a few seconds, Nottingham heard a door slam. His shoulders slumping, he let his hands fall loosely to his sides.
He hadn't meant to anger her. Exactly the opposite, in fact. He had only been taught one way to show respect, and he had done it. When she had yelled at him he -- froze. He had run through what he knew and found none of his usual acts or phrases that would please her. When he had asked for guidance, she had all but slapped him. His training had not prepared him for being in love.
Sighing, he ensured that the elevator had returned to the penthouse, then turned off the lights. He began a circuit of the apartment, trying to locate the means by which the intruders had entered. He found it quickly; the emergency stairs had been forced open. He sighed and sat down, his back against them. He would call building management in the morning. Enough of Irons' money would have it replaced in a few hours, no questions asked.
He stayed in place the remainder of the night.
Sara left the next morning without speaking to him. He had stood just beyond the door to the kitchen, in the gaudy, oppressive dining room. He could hear her move around, smelling the coffee that she made, but he didn't go in. Only when he heard the elevator doors close did he dare open the door and go back to his room. Quickly, he dressed for outdoors, then ran for the main elevator. He could sense her anywhere, find her no matter where she was, so he wasn't worried about losing her. He just didn't want her out of his sight and protection for longer than necessary. Jumping into the car, he easily found and followed her taxi.
Maybe Irons was right, he thought as he tailed her to the federal building. Perhaps it would be best for Sara not to see him for the rest of her stay in Chicago. All he needed to do was keep an eye on her today until she gave her testimony, then she would be out of danger. He would be free to go if he wanted. He could leave her here alone.
He shook his head at himself. No, he wouldn't -- couldn't -- do that.
*****
Her day at the courthouse was long and dull. She could be called to the stand at any moment, so she couldn't go very far from the room where the prosecutor had parked her. Her lunch consisted of a soggy sandwich and a tepid cup of coffee, both from a vending machine that looked like it hadn't been emptied since the 1970s. After that fine repast, she had called Jake to catch up on some cases. He seemed to be handling everything fine, and she had the impression that he was really too busy to talk. She actually had to suppress a feeling of annoyance that he didn't need her help with anything. It was 4:00 before the federal prosecutor, a particularly greasy example of the breed, came to get her.
His name was Morton Ellis, and he was the stereotypical slimy lawyer. Sara found it strange that he worked for the federal government; she would have pegged him as an ambulance chaser otherwise. He had come to New York a few times for depositions and to discuss her testimony and she hadn't liked him any better then than she did now. In addition to just being creepy, he constantly invaded her personal space, touching her arm and leaning just slightly too close to her. If this trial hadn't been so important to her, she would have decked him by now.
"Finally!" she said, and stood up, smoothing her skirt. Then she caught to look on Ellis' face. "What?" she asked suspiciously.
"We're not going to get to you until tomorrow," he said, smiling in a way that he probably thought was charming, but actually reminded her disturbingly of Kenneth Irons. "Another witness took longer than expected. If you could just be here again tomorrow, we'll have you on the stand first thing." Sara reached down and snagged her bag, then pushed past the lawyer into the hallway. "I'd love to take you out to dinner tonight, Detective Pezzini," he called after her.
Sara shook her head and kept walking. She did not need a date right now, especially with a weasely lawyer. She stopped at the elevator, and pushed the down button angrily. Now she had to stay another night. Great. Plenty of time for McQuain to order another hit on her. And she didn't even have a hotel room. Or a gun. Or any sort of game plan. The elevator dinged open and she pushed her way in.
She didn't even have -- and she hated to admit this was important right now -- Nottingham. She'd wanted to apologize this morning, but he hadn't opened his door when she knocked. Now, she didn't even know how to get in touch with him. He was always just there.
The elevator doors opened. Exiting, she made her way past security to the main doors. It was raining. Of course, she had no umbrella. All she had was her carry on from the plane and it hadn't occurred to her to pack an umbrella in it. Sighing, she pushed through the revolving door and into the rain.
Immediately, she was soaked. The cold rain fell in torrents, easily soaking through the thin material of her going-to-court suit. She aimed herself at the street, and tried to hail a taxi.
"Damn it!" she yelled as the third one passed her.
She was about to give up and start walking when she was suddenly shielded from the rain. Looking up, she saw a large black umbrella over her head. Holding it was Ian Nottingham. She had never thought she would be so glad to see him. Before she could say so, she heard her name called.
She turned to see the defendant, McQuain, striding toward her, surrounded by a forest of umbrellas held by various flunkies. She felt Nottingham tense behind her as one of McQuain's more violent looking companions separated out to flank them.
"Hey, McQuain," she said as the mobster stopped in front of her. "I think I met some friends of yours last night. They couldn't stay too long."
"Friends of mine?" he asked, smiling in a patently false way. "No, I'm sure I don't know anything about that." He nodded at Nottingham. "Irons give you his dog for free or are you renting him by the hour?"
Sara narrowed his eyes at him, then smiled. "Any more of your boys want to come and see him, let me know," she said. "I'm sure we can arrange a play date."
The mobster just laughed. Nodding at his entourage, they left Sara & Nottingham alone. Sara seethed and had to restrain herself from going after the sleazebag. There would be no trial if she skewered the defendant on the Witchblade, she reminded herself. Watching the small crowd get into three black limos, she could feel Nottingham take step closer to her.
"He's going to try again, isn't he?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
"This time they won't just be trying to intimidate you," he said. "We need to move."
*****
Nottingham took her back to the penthouse. The door had been repaired while he had been gone, with the most profuse apologies of the management. Later, he could add his own safety features to the door. Something along the lines of an explosive boobytrap.
Once Sara had changed into dry clothes, he showed her the armory in his wardrobe, carefully explaining that each gun was fully loaded, with a round chambered, safety off. She raised her eyebrows at him, but didn't object. She didn't even complain about the sawed-off shotgun under his bed.
All she had asked was, "Why didn't you use these last night?"
He told her the truth, "I was hoping not to wake you."
She just shook her head when he insisted that she carry a weapon in the apartment. He selected a semiautomatic with a small grip and just held it out, unmoving, until she finally took it. If he found her without it later, then she would get a lesson in how very quickly she could be taken down. He doubted that any attacker would be as skilled as he, but he didn't think that she would realize that when he had a gun at her head.
He would bet that Witchblade wouldn't even activate before it was too late. She had control of it now, but she hadn't had any training. Irons had forbidden it. Nottingham could show her so much, but his master feared what would happen if she gained any more skill. In his darkest hours, Nottingham wished she would somehow learn what she needed to know and turn the Blade against Irons. Nottingham would have to die defending him, but he would die happy knowing that his master would be dead moments later.
Now that Sara's security was taken care of, he need to burn off some extra energy. Right now, his responses were over-amped, and should something happen, he'd be likely to make a mistake. He headed for the gym.
*****
Sara paced her room. She'd tried reading, she'd tried to take a nap, nothing had worked. She was wound up, and watching Nottingham calmly seeing to security didn't help. She hadn't expected him to be frightened, but it was infuriating to see him so damned calm. Her adrenaline was pumping, making her edgy and unable to concentrate. Instinct made her either want to fight or well, she tried not to think of the alternative, considering who her only present partner would be.
Sara forced herself to stand still for a moment. Fight. She could go beat the crap out of the boxing bag. That should calm her down a bit. She headed to the gym.
She stopped in the doorway, her jaw dropping open. Nottingham was at a corner of the room, curling free weights. Shirtless and barefoot with his hair loose and curling around his face, the muscles on his chest and arms stood out as he lifted the heavy weights. Never having seen him without his layers of black clothes, Sara hadn't known how muscular he was. He had to be strong, she knew, to do some of what she'd seen him do, but she hadn't really realized all that those clothes hid. As he lifted the weights up and down, she could see the thick muscles play across his chest and arms. He strained and grunted, repeatedly lifting the incredibly heavy weights to his chest. A sheen of sweat covered his biceps and the patch of black hair on his chest was damp.
When he bent down to drop the weights, Sara saw a tattoo of a giant Chinese dragon spread across his back. Pushing back his hair as he stood, he noticed her standing at the door. Sara shut her mouth so she didn't look like a complete idiot.
She had to admit that she had never thought of Nottingham as a man before, just as either Irons' security, a dispenser of cryptic and annoying comments, or her own personal stalker. But here, now, she couldn't help but see him as male, and very, very much so. If she didn't know who he was and had seen this scene at her local gym, she would have been immediately in lust. She knew that she had a thing for muscular, tattooed, dangerous men, and Ian Nottingham definitely fit that bill.
"Did you need something, Sara?" Nottingham asked and reached for a small towel beside him.
He began slowly rubbing down his chest and arms, looking her straight in the eye. With an involuntary shiver, she tore her eyes away from him. If she didn't know better, she would think that he'd done that on purpose.
"I uh I wanted " She stopped and took a deep breath. "I came to use the " She looked at him again and ended up just pointing wordlessly at the heavy bag.
"Want me to hold it for you?" he asked.
"No!" she exclaimed, then added in a calmer voice, "Thanks, though."
She went over to the bag, grateful it was on the other side of the room. Raising up her fists, she was ready to take a swing when she found herself suddenly flying to the floor. She landed hard on her back and Nottingham was straddling her on his knees, a gun pointed at her face. Belatedly, the Witchblade slid into place, but she didn't move.
"What did I tell you about carrying that gun?" he asked, looking down at her.
Sara swallowed hard. The Witchblade retracted as it didn't sense her fear. No, not fear at all. Far from it, Sara had to admit.
"To do so at all times," she said, trying to keep her voice level. "I'll go get it if you'll let me up."
Nottingham tucked the gun into the back of his pants, but didn't get up. Leaning over her, he put one hand on each side of her shoulders. Sara felt her heart begin to pound in her chest; Nottingham could probably hear it, it was so loud in her own ears. Her breathing quickened and she suddenly felt lightheaded. His face was directly over hers now, just a few more inches Suddenly, he jumped up.
"Do it," he said coldly and walked away.
*****
Once Sara left the room, Nottingham slumped gratefully onto his weight bench. When he had seen Sara standing in the doorway, plainly admiring his body, he'd enjoyed it. He'd never expected to see lust for him written so plainly across Sara's face, and he had felt a rush of power. He'd taunted her, and he'd seen her shiver in pleasure. To hear her stumble over her words, look so helpless in the face of desire -- desire for him -- was more satisfying than he could ever have imagined.
He had no experience of sex; Irons had been very careful about that. It was one of the many ways that his master controlled him. Even as a teenager, his hormones at full tilt, Nottingham had been indoctrinated to sublimate his physical desires to exercise and physical training.
With no knowledge of his own to draw on, he had been overwhelmed when he had first experienced Sara & Conchobar's passion through his connection to her and the Witchblade. He had huddled against a wall, horrified at his body's reactions, but surging with awesome jealousy and intense desire at the same time. It had gotten easier with time, but he'd never expected to have desire like that focused on him.
When he'd bent over her, images raced through his head, vague ideas of what he wanted to do but didn't really know the details of. He could feel her heart racing and hear her heavy breathing. She'd looked at him with no fear, but rather anticipation.
But he couldn't do it. Not like that. In this one thing, he wanted it his way. He wanted Sara to want him, not just his body. He wasn't sure it would ever happen that way, but this was one place where he wouldn't put her happiness above his own. She could use him in any way but this.
He stood quickly as he heard her door close and strode to the window overlooking the lake. His eyes restlessly scanned the darkness as he heard her enter. He felt her move up behind him and hesitate. Nottingham caught a flash of red laser light and with barely a thought, he whirled and threw Sara to the floor behind a weight machine.
He landed on top of her, bringing his hands up to shelter her head from breaking glass. Less than a second later, a rifle shot pinged, somewhere in the room. He saw Sara's eyes swivel up and caught her shock of understanding as the sound of a helicopter buffeted the building.
*****
"Lights out!" Nottingham barked and the room was plunged into darkness. She heard the distinctive thumping of a helicopter and, through the curtain of Nottingham's hair, saw lights hovering outside the window. "Weapon?" Nottingham asked.
"Got it," she said, and with her thumb, checked to make sure the safety was off. "On three?" He nodded. "One, two, three!" she said quickly.
Nottingham sprang off her, and had a gun in each hand before Sara could even bring her one up to aim. The Witchblade tingled on her arm and she saw a flash of the interior of the helicopter, showing a large machine gun being swung toward the room's huge window.
"Down," she yelled, just as she heard the stutter of bullets begin. Nottingham dropped back on top of her, yanking another weight machine in front of them as he fell.
"Hi," she said. "Come here often?"
"This is funny?" he asked her as the window above them exploded in shards of glass.
A cell phone rang, piercing through the roaring of bullets over their heads.
"No," she said, with a short laugh. "That's funny. You want me to get that?"
"Sure," he answered, his voice almost sounding amused. "Left pocket."
She located his pocket. Sticking her hand in, she fished out the phone and brought it to her ear.
"Hello?"
"Sara?" Kenneth Irons' voice asked. "Where's Ian?"
"Irons, we're a bit busy at the moment, but don't worry, he's right on top of the situation," she said, as Nottingham groaned and shook his head. Sara tried not to laugh. "Can I take a message?"
"What is that infernal noise?" Irons demanded.
"Automatic weapon fire," she said simply. "Like I said, we're busy."
"Ah," he said after a pause. "I'll let you get back to it, then."
There was a click and Sara snapped the phone shut. She tucked it back into Nottingham's pocket.
"He'll call back," she told him.
The gunfire stopped before he could respond. He rolled off of her, glass crunching as he moved. Surprisingly, Sara felt a small twinge of disappointment, but she rolled over as well and scanned the room.
The exercise equipment was destroyed, and the long mirror lay in glittering pieces on the floor. The heavy bag she never had gotten to use was sagged on the floor as well, full of hundreds of holes. The route to the door was scattered with glass, but mostly clear. In the shadows, she saw Nottingham nod to the door. Raising herself into a low crouch, she nodded back. Again, she knew just what they were going to do.
Standing and aiming out the glassless window, he opened fire. Sara shot across the floor in a low run. As she slid around the door, she felt air rush past her face, then heard shots hit the wall across from her. Without a thought, the Witchblade snicked into place on her arm, the bright silver metal covering her forearm. She brought it up and heard the sharp sound of a defected bullet.
It went quiet. Standing up and readying her gun in her left hand, she yelled.
"Nottingham!"
There was no response. Risking a glance around the doorframe, she could see why. Pinned between two pieces of mostly destroyed equipment, he crouched unmoving. Somehow, she knew he wasn't hurt, just trying to be invisible. A searchlight shone through the room and Sara pulled her head back. If they sprayed bullets into the room again, Nottingham would be Swiss cheese.
"Damn!" Sara swore, then darted across the hall to Nottingham's bedroom.
She pulled the shotgun from under the bed and yanked open the wardrobe doors, exposing his huge cache of weapons. Willing the Blade to retract, it did, and Sara dropped her 9mm. Pulling out a submachine gun, she noted that it had been converted to full automatic. Under the circumstances, she decided, she wouldn't turn him in for it.
She darted back to the door of the gym. Bringing up the automatic with her right hand and hefting the shotgun up for throwing, she peered around the doorway. A quick glance confirmed that everyone was where she had left them. She'd have to trust that Nottingham was as in tune with her as she seemed to be with him.
She stepped into the doorway and aimed the automatic high through the destroyed window, across from where Nottingham was hiding. Laying down a cover of bullets, she tossed the shotgun toward Nottingham. He popped up to catch it, then advanced toward the window. Raising the shotgun to his shoulder, he fired.
Almost instantly, the sound of the helicopter's motor changed, moving from a deep thrumming to a high whine. It fell away from the window and Sara dropped her gun. Darting to the window, she watched the helicopter pitch into the icy water of the lake.
"Sara," Nottingham said, "We've got to leave."
Shaking herself, she turned.
"Right."
*****
He found them a room in a non-descript suburban motel room. He'd checked in under Mr. and Mrs. Jake McCartey, and she'd only rolled her eyes at him. Once inside the room, they stood silently for a few moments before they both tried to speak at once. Eventually, Sara got to go first.
"Thanks, Nottingham Ian," she said. "I'd be dead without your help."
"It's my pleasure," he said, and meant it.
"What did you want to say?" she asked, cocking her head to the side.
Nothing she wanted to hear, he knew. The moment was gone. But there had been a moment, and that was a start.
"Take a shower," he said, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "You've got glass in your hair."
She looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head, tiny glitters falling to the floor around her. She headed off to the bathroom, taking her gun with her, he noted. Once he heard the shower running, he pulled out his cell phone and pressed one of the preprogrammed numbers.
"Explain," was all his master said when he picked up.
Nottingham recounted what had happened in a dry, clinical voice, mentioning only the bare facts. He did tell him where it had happened, since his master would find out when the management called, if nothing else. Nottingham would rather tell the truth now; he'd learned that it was best to be honest -- mostly -- after he disobeyed.
After a long pause, his master spoke again, this time in a tightly controlled voice.
"I agreed with you that this trial might prove a useful distraction for Sara after her recent loss, and I indulged your desire to deal with any problems arising from this out of her sight. I see now that I was only furthering your misplaced sense of devotion. You will take care of this problem at the root. Am I understood?" Irons asked.
"Understood," Nottingham said and closed his suddenly very hot eyes.
"You will do this immediately, then return to me," his master said. "You will leave Sara alone and return. Am I absolutely clear?"
"Yes, sir," he said obediently.
He hung up. This was one order he could not disobey, he knew. He would leave once Sara slept.
*****
Sara woke, groping for her gun. When she didn't find it, the felt the Witchblade slide into place over her wrist. A phone was ringing, and she finally realized what had woken her up. After a moment, she identified it as her cell phone and found it in her jacket on the floor.
"Pezzini," she gasped, willing her heart to stop racing.
"Hey, Pez, it's Jake," her partner's ever cheerful voice came across the line. "You seen the news yet?"
"What? No," she said, and got up to push the TV power button. "What am I looking for?"
"News," he said.
"Could you be –" she began, then stopped.
The picture panned over the front of a large house. The announcer's voice was hushed.
" reputed mob boss, Bruce McQuain, was found dead in his North Side home this morning, along with three other members of his organization. All four were shot execution style. McQuain was to start the second day of a trial on federal racketeering and murder charges "
Sara turned from the television and scanned the room. Nottingham was gone. Everything of his was gone. She thought he'd seemed odd last night before she'd gone to sleep, but it was impossible to tell with him.
"In an unrelated story," Sara heard in the background, "A helicopter plunged into Lake Michigan late last night "
"So I guess you won't be testifying," Jake asked. Sara had almost forgotten the phone pressed to her ear. "Pez?"
"Yeah," Sara said, and spotted something on the bed.
It was Nottingham's copy of Hamlet, with a page marked. She opened it and read the single highlighted line: "No, not I;/ I never gave you aught."
"Sara?" Jake said, his voice concerned. "What's going on?"
"Betrayal and madness," she said bitterly. She threw the book across the room. "Look, I'll be home soon, OK? I'll call you when I get in."
She hung up the phone and slumped down on the bed. Her phone rang again.
"Pezzini," she said lifelessly. There was no answer. "Hello?" she asked. Still nothing, but then with a flash of the Witchblade, she saw who it was. "Nottingham? Ian?" She heard a sharp in-drawn breath. "I know you did this. Why?" she asked, almost begging. "How could you do this to me? Why? My testimony would have put him away for good!" Still silence. She never should have trusted him. "The next time I see you, I swear I will arrest you," she hissed. "I can and will find something to charge you with." She waited. Nothing. "You had your chance. I almost " She hesitated, thinking of him on top of her in the gym, his eyes staring straight into her, wanting ... "I almost thought you were a human being," she finished.
She slammed the phone shut. She was going home.
*****
Sitting on the edge of the Vorschlag building's roof in New York, Nottingham looked down to the street below. Sara's ragged breath came through the phone, but he still said nothing. What could he say? She wouldn't understand that he sometimes had no choice. She would never forgive him. He had betrayed her.
"You had your chance. I almost " she said, the anger draining from her voice. "I almost thought you were a human being."
Nottingham slapped the phone shut and dropped it over the edge of the building. Watching it spiral down, he knew he was not going to be able to serve them both for much longer. Their worlds were beginning to diverge too sharply for him to have any chance of pleasing them both. Eventually, he would have to make his choice.
His acute vision seeing the phone shatter on the pavement, he thought he knew what that choice was going to be.
*****
Fin.