4/26/02
Rated R: – Not suitable for readers under 18. Contains scenes of violence and strong sexuality.
Time Frame: After time is turned back and Parsegian's assassination – Season 2.
Disclaimer: All rights to Witchblade and its characters belong to Top Cow and TNT. I am just an admirer of the esoteric yet compelling character of Ian Nottingham as portrayed by Eric Etebari.
Synopsis: A young child's life hangs in the balance at the St. Elizabeth Hospital as Ian Nottingham, bodyguard and assassin to eccentric billionaire Kenneth Irons, and NYPD Detectives Sara Pezzini and Danny Woo join forces to find the perpetrator of a heinous crime.
Chapter One – Innocence LostThe young girl's heart leapt into her throat as she heard the key enter the lock on her front door. She raced for the closet to hide. Her mother had asked her to stay overnight with Mrs. Stanley while she took care of some personal business. The precocious eight-year old thought their neighbor smelled like mothballs and had been appalled that her mother had asked her to stay without a good reason. She escaped after Mrs. Stanley dozed off watching Jeopardy. It was now after midnight and she herself had fallen asleep waiting for her mother to return. Now she was afraid her choice had not been a good one.
She peered through the slats in the closet door as a flood of light shown into their dark apartment from the hallway. Her mother's silhouette blocked her view of the large man that had followed her. Setting down her purse and coat, her mother had time to light one table lamp before the man grabbed her, pulling her forcibly to him.
"Wait just a minute…Can I get you a drink?" She asked, hoping to regain her composure and more control of the situation. The man did not stop kissing her face and neck. She tried to pull away but he was much too strong.
Even with the dim lighting, the child could see the fear in her mother's eyes. The man kept his back to her. Standing large and as menacing as a monster, he had grown excited by her mother's fear and desperate struggle.
"Oh Momma…don't let him hurt you, Momma." The little girl pleaded silently. Her heart was pounding, too scared to move. She could not even close her eyes, compelled to watch her mother's fate.
The struggle grew more violent as the young woman tried to beat off her assailant. She was fighting for her life. He started to wildly flail at her, throwing her body brutally across the room. She landed on a glass coffee table that smashed beneath her. Grabbing a butcher's knife from the kitchen counter, he walked slowly back to where she lay bruised and bleeding on the living room floor, relishing the moment.
"No Momma…He's coming…He's coming. Run, Momma…Run!"
"We have to hide Momma…Come with me in the closet. We'll be safe here. Please Momma. The closet will keep us safe. It's dark in here. He won't find us, Momma!"
The small child's breathing had become rapid and shallow. Her skin was clammy to the touch. Her pale, blue eyes now stared at the scene before her, bearing witness to the brutal death, as the monster plunged the knife into her mother's heart time and time again. The sound of the knife tearing into flesh and bone seared into her memory. The strong metallic smell of her mother's blood would never be forgotten.
"Momma…the closet…It's dark and safe in here…Momma? Can you hear me? Momma…I love you."
There was no answer. Time seemed to stop along with her mother's heart. She did not remember the monster leaving, but the apartment door was opened slightly. He was gone. The room was silent again. The beast had crept away, back to the hole from which he had come.
The closet was safe for her now. She would stay in the closet…forever.
*****
The man dressed in black sat alone on the balcony bearing witness to the dawn of a new day. The sky over Paris displayed a gentle radiance in sharp contrast to his dark and introspective mood. There was a chill in the air as the rest of the world awakened. His seclusion was granted by the shroud of darkness, sitting in the shadows only dimly lit from the streets below, he had felt utterly alone there on his balcony, symbolic of the solitary life he had chosen for himself.
Since he had arrived, his only thoughts had been of her.
Ian Nottingham had grown accustomed to making NYPD Detective Sara Pezzini a part of his daily routine. His feelings for Ms. Pezzini had grown more confusing by the day with his mind and his body reacting to her in ways he did not fully understand. It did not seem to matter whether Sara was near him or not. He was sensitive to her every thought and emotion. They were connected in ways beyond his understanding. He could not tell where she ended and he began. At times, they were one and the same, as they had been in many lifetimes before. Dreamlike images of their prior lives together helped answer some of his questions but he was ignorant of the workings between men and women.
Women had not been part of his instruction. Discipline and his training as a warrior had been his life's focus, yet she so thoroughly distracted him. His every waking thought was of the beautiful, green-eyed detective whose courage and sense of justice he had grown to admire. Sleepless nights were a testament to his inability to dispel her from his unconscious thought as well.
His employer, billionaire Kenneth Irons, had commanded Nottingham stalk her every move as the wielder of the Witchblade, an ancient weapon reputed to be worn only by powerful women throughout history. The Witchblade resembled a striking bejeweled bracelet until its wielder or the weapon itself altered its form into medieval armament replete with sword, granting powers to its bearer. It had belonged to Irons until the fateful day when the blade had chosen Sara as its next wielder, leaping from the display case at the Midtown Museum during a police altercation and onto the wrist of the perplexed detective. From that point on, Sara had become the obsession of the ruthless and criminal Kenneth Irons, and by default, his bodyguard and henchman Ian Nottingham.
Head of Vorschlag Industries, Kenneth Irons was obscenely wealthy and eccentric, obsessed with the powers of the Witchblade. His empire contained everything from media holdings to real estate to biotech development and advanced genetics research. As unsavory as it appeared, it was rumored Irons made his money the old fashioned way, by illegal arms trade. He was a collector of people, rare artwork, and ancient weaponry.
Nottingham's thoughts turned to his benefactor. He did not have clear memory of when he had come to belong to Irons who had convinced a very young child that his sole purpose in life was to be trained as a warrior in service to him. Young Nottingham had thought his patron's abusive nature was done out of concern for his safety, to make sure he would survive any hardship and be as tough as he could be. Only recently had he begun to see the cruelty in his eyes and in his heart, making him doubt the truths of his past and his continuing future with Kenneth Irons.
Underneath the cool and detached exterior, Nottingham had to contend with a daily struggle between the commands of his master and his own sense of good and evil, right and wrong. Despite a lifetime of Iron's negative influence to the contrary, Nottingham had quietly defied Irons and developed his own integrity and strength of character in a world where such qualities were admonished and beaten out of a lessor person.
Nottingham reflected on the possible reason for his banishment from hearth and home. Perhaps Irons' sudden order for him to fly to Paris for a series of meetings with the former weapons markets of Parsegian was due in part to Irons' developing concern for Nottingham's independence and his growing closeness to Sara. Parsegian had been Irons' main competition in illegal arms trading. His recent assassination was fortuitous and Irons wanted to take advantage of that, or so he claimed. He demanded Nottingham depart immediately.
It did not matter that Nottingham had been the sniper and Irons had ordered the hit on Parsegian. It was just good business.
Nottingham was flown on the Vorschlag jet the day before yesterday. His internal clock had not yet adjusted to European time. As the sun peeked its way over the horizon on a world far from his own, he decided to take a quick shower before getting some breakfast and departing for the last of his meetings. Nottingham had changed the time of this last meeting so he could leave earlier than expected. He would soon be flying home.
The Hotel Jardins du Trocadero was a 4-star hotel Irons always booked for him. Irons insisted Nottingham use the deluxe accommodations, even if they far exceeded his own taste. The hotel was located in the heart of Paris, overlooking the Trocadero and bordering the Champs-Elysees. The hotel room was large and ostentatious and overlooked the Rue Benjamin Franklin with a panoramic view of the Eiffel Tower and the Seine River. He had used the hotel on other occasions and preferred its familiarity and the discreet nature of its employees.
The room was decorated in dark blue and white coloring, a little more floral than he preferred. The French love their floral prints and ornate decors. The bath was similarly fashioned but had an American style shower which he preferred. As he soaked under the hot shower, he closed his eyes. He could not get Sara out of his mind as the near scalding water streamed down his neck and back, along every sinew and curve of his body. His shoulder length dark hair lay drenched against his bare skin, straightening the waves normally present. The strongly scented French soaps reminded him of a perfume she had worn once. As he lathered his skin, the soft feel of the creamy soap made him think of how her skin must feel to the touch.
Keeping his eyes closed, his thoughts strayed to the curve of her hips and the tender flesh of her breasts. At first, these images tortured him for he had never before had such thoughts of the wielder. Yet, gazing upon Sara in the throes of passion brought joy to his heart. It felt right, connecting to something primal within him.
Hesitantly, he began to touch himself as he imagined moving in rhythm with Sara. How could anything about Sara be wrong? Feeling her warm skin next to his, he could picture making love to her by candlelight in her loft. The sweat glistening on her skin capturing light and reflecting like diamonds. He was not about to stop even though his heart was racing and his breathing had become shallow. His face and chest were growing warm with his excitement. Faster…there was more urgency in his movements. His heightened senses aroused him beyond all reason as he imagined Sara bracing against him in response to his deepening thrusts.
Just a few short hours away, Sara had been having trouble sleeping. She and her partner Danny had been working a very tough couple of cases that had kept her mind active most of the night. She tossed in bed, kicking the sheets off her legs, pulling at her nightshirt. She had not seen Nottingham in days. This bothered her for she had grown accustomed to her shadow. His presence seemed reassuring as she struggled with learning the powers of the Witchblade. With him around, she somehow knew she was not alone.
Her thoughts turned to him.
Taking a deep breath, her mind drifted to his captivating brown eyes the color of her favorite coffee framed by lush, dark lashes. Carnal thoughts of him drifted through her mind. She grew warm in her arousal. As subtly as if the thought had been her own, her mind suddenly filled with images of Nottingham's body lathered in soap as hot water streams down his flesh. As quickly as it had flashed into her mind, the image dissolved away. The Witchblade on her wrist grew a fiery red with dazzling color, projecting the hues on the ceiling and walls of her loft. The gauntlet sharpened the images that had initiated in Sara's mind, but did it now make her a voyeur into Nottingham's innermost thoughts and sexual desires? The reflections appeared and dissolved at will. Was the blade faltering somehow? Perhaps Ian was hesitant? Yes, she could now sense his reluctance. There was an innocent quality to his exploration, yet he was slowly gaining his confidence. She willed the gauntlet to strengthen the connection.
In doing so, images and her sensory perceptions intensified. She no longer wore her nightshirt, but instead lay naked against him. Soon, she could feel the weight of his body on hers. She knew the smell of his skin, could hear his groans of pleasure as he thrust deeply into her. His lips covered her own as their tongues joined. The warmth of his hands could be felt along her neck and on her breasts. Plunging deeply into her, he cupped his hands under her hips to heighten her pleasure.
Oh yes, she could feel him so deep inside her.
Wrapping her legs around him, they moved in unison. Her hands clutched his back as she tilted her hips, trying to intensify the feel of him swelling inside her. Her orgasm rippled through her in powerful waves. Crying out her joy, she imagined Nottingham could feel her pleasure for he could not restrain himself any longer. He screamed his release as he arched his back and shuddered in his exhaustion. They climaxed together in matched urgency, satiated by sheer will and their heightened connection to one another.
Sara sat bolt upright in bed, her nightshirt wet with her own sweat. She gasped for air, her breathing ragged. It was the only sound in the room. What the hell just happened? It had been so real. She looked around her loft apartment in hopes of finding Ian lurking in the shadows. No such luck. The images were so intensely vivid. The flashes of Nottingham in a shower, then in bed with her, left her confused. Had it been her dream or his?
As she reasoned this out, she could easily picture the dream being hers. Yet, there was a voyeuristic quality to it, as if the blade had allowed her a look into an intimate moment of Nottingham's. Wearing the blade sure had its bright spots and this was one of them. No batteries required. She came to the conclusion that it had been a dream accentuated by Ian's obvious telepathic abilities. Why should she doubt his telepathy when she had accepted herself as the wielder of the gauntlet for crying out loud? Why not telepathy, too?
Nottingham had chosen her for his fantasy. Should she be outraged at this? Maybe she would be if she had not initiated such thoughts herself. He had just expressed himself with more…creativity. No, she was flattered and could not keep the smirk off her face. She shook her head and smiled wickedly.
"Thanks for bending my spoon, Nottingham…where ever you are." She knew she could now fall asleep.
Across the world, Nottingham leaned against the cool tile walls of the shower in exhaustion. His legs were no longer willing to support him; he sank slowly to the floor. The experience had left him breathless and weakened. It had not been just the physical aspects of the episode. The intense connection to images of Sara had been so undeniable, so draining. He did not understand what had just happened. It had felt so real…so good. He had never felt anything like this before.
Worn by the vivid encounter, he could not rise from the floor of the shower. He simply reached up to turn off the hot water, finishing his shower with a cold blast. He gasped as the icy cold water braced his skin. These feelings for Sara were mounting day by day. They were getting harder to control. He could not continue in conflict like this. Out of respect for the wielder, he must regain his discipline to serve her. He would not selfishly indulge in his own fantasies again.
Easier said than done. His desire for her was a living, breathing thing. It was as palpable as the softness of her hair or the intense green of her eyes. He could not help himself. He secretly desired her above all else.
Sara slept soundly for another few hours when the phone rudely awakened her.
"This better be good." She demanded groggily.
"Sara? It's me. We got another one."
Her partner, Danny Woo could not hide the disgust and disappointment in his voice. This was the third brutal murder in the past month, similar in MO. They were both afraid to admit this may be the work of a serial killer. The question would be hard to avoid with this third case. Danny gave her the address of the murder scene where they were to meet in a half-hour.
"Tell me anything good, partner?" She pleaded.
"This time, we have a witness."
