Chapter 9 -- Sleepless Night

Ian could not sleep. His confusion over the previous day's events might have been enough to keep him up by itself, but it was compounded by his concern over Cailean. He had not seen her since breakfast, a fact which did not seem to trouble Irons in the least. By the time Irons had taken some fashion model or other to bed for the night, Ian was beginning to grow worried.

Eventually, he acknowledged that sleep was not going to come. With a sigh, he rose from the bed and pulled on a pair of black shorts. Not bothering to put on anything else, he picked up a towel and walked down to the well-equipped gym. Even in his worried state, he knew better than to go into an intense workout without a warm-up. Irons would be furious with him if he injured himself in that way, so he dropped onto the pad and began stretching, his mind very much on his sister.

Cailean had always been better at this than him, he recalled, and had been in the habit of teasing him about his lack of flexibility, in spite of the fact that he was more flexible than many Olympic-class gymnasts. It had never bothered him that Cailean was better at something than he was. They both had strengths. And weaknesses. Cailean's greatest weakness had always been her unwavering desire to please Irons, no matter how loathsome his demands on her might have been. She had openly defied the man only once in her thirty years, refusing to be coerced into donning the Witchblade.

After his muscles were loose, he automatically went through his Kata, only because it was what he always did before a workout. Having accomplished this, he considered going to the swords next, but changed his mind. Tonight, mindless violence and physicality were more called for than the almost philosophic poetry of the blade. He needed only to exhaust his body enough to bring sleep.

He glanced at the exercise bike and treadmill, but instantly dismissed them. They were more there for the convenience of Irons than anything. Ian himself seldom used them, preferring a more physically demanding routine. Often, such a routine involved live opponents, well paid by Irons for their trouble and pains, but tonight, on short notice, he would have to be satisfied to pummel the heavy-bag. It was just as well, he reflected, picking up a pair of gloves. Tonight, with his mind in such a confused state, it was doubtful if he would be focused enough to keep from seriously damaging a human opponent.

He glanced at the boxing gloves for a moment before throwing them aside. He disliked the gloves, wearing them only to keep from injuring lesser opponents. Without the gloves, it was easier to gauge the force and accuracy of his blows. Cailean had often teased him about this dislike, although he suspected that she herself disliked the gloves as well. They never bothered with gloves against each other. Years of training under Irons made it seem almost an insult to cushion their blows against each other, even if they wore gloves and pulled punches in their dealings with others.

Against the bag, Ian did not have to bother to pull his punches. As he weaved and bounced around the bag, his blows landed in rapid succession, each time creating a satisfying 'thunk' and diffusing a little more tension. His body slowly relaxed as he continued raining blows on the bag. His breathing remained slow, but deepened to allow him to draw more oxygen into his lungs. The bag was secured firmly to the ground since almost every one of his blows was sufficiently powerful to send it skidding across the room. Most people would have tired quickly at the pace that he set himself, but Ian continued pounding the bag, ignoring the sweat that burned at his eyes and streamed down his bare chest and back, caused his shorts to cling to his body.

Frustrated by his inability to force thoughts of Cailean and the Lady Sara from his head, Ian redoubled his attack on the bag, ignoring his own discomfort. His breathing became rapid and shallow as he pushed himself to the breaking-point. Stitches on his back tore, and blood mingled with the sweat which saturated his shorts, but still he pounded the bag until the skin on three of the knuckles on his right hand split from a poorly-aimed blow.

He stopped then, but not because of the pain. The rush of endorphins that the grueling workout had produced masked most of the pain. He stopped because he was injured, and you always stopped when you were injured. That was the rule. If you were injured, you stopped, because you did not want to injure the master's property any further. He stared down at his right hand thoughtfully, flexing the fingers. He was lucky not to have broken anything, he realized, walking over to the sink and running cool water over his bleeding knuckles.

As he rinsed the wounds, he glanced up at the clock, surprised to see that it was almost four in the morning. He had been pounding on the bag for hours. He picked up the towel and walked into the shower-room, tossing his shorts in the washer before climbing under the shower. He rested his head against the wall as the cool water streamed over him, washing away not only his blood and his sweat, but also the tears that came to his eyes as his mind once more allowed him to think about the two beloved women in his life. He had long since accepted that he would never have Sara, but to see Cailean once more suffering at the hands of Irons was almost unbearable to him.

Once he and his clothes were clean and dry, he left the gym and started for his bedroom. As he walked past Cailean's room, he heard sobbing inside. Taking a deep breath, he slid inside, closing the door behind him. Cailean never cried, not since she had been five years old. Whatever had her troubled must have been a great problem indeed. He hated himself for his inability to make her life easier, or, at the very least, more pleasant.

Cailean? he asked mentally, looking around. He heard her in the bathroom, throwing up, so he went to her. What's wrong? What has happened? He was afraid for her. He could not recall her ever having gotten sick as a child, so whatever was wrong with her now must have been serious.

It hurts... Cailean moaned, throwing up again.

Ian knelt next to her and pulled her hair back and held it for her until she had emptied her stomach, then he rose and poured her a glass of cold water. As she cleaned her mouth, he asked, What hurts? What has happened?

She looked up at him with wide eyes. Please don't hate me.

Ian gathered her into his arms and held her close, rocking her on the cold floor. Whatever was wrong with her, he realized from the horrified look in her eyes, had nothing to do with illness. Behind all that pain, there was guilt in that gaze. He tightened his grasp on her, reassuring her with actions as well as with his thoughts. I could never hate you, Cailean. Why are you in pain? What has happened?

Instead of answering, she reached up and touched his cheek with her left hand. Ian stared at the Witchblade on her wrist with wide eyes. He knew full well that the only way to remove the Witchblade from Sara now that she had passed the Periculum would be to kill or seriously injure her.

How could you? he demanded of her, knowing full well that there was only one thing that could have driven her to such an act, but still furious with her for it. She had stood up to him once where the Witchblade was concerned, and his mind insisted that she should have been more than able to do so again. How could you? he repeated in a tone that demanded an immediate answer. He pushed her away, forcing her to look into eyes that demanded an answer as urgently as his mental tone did.

He ordered me to... Cailean told him, confirming Ian's suspicion. He told me to kill her, but I could not. You love her too much.

Horror and relief vied for control within Ian. She lives? he finally asked to reassure himself that he had heard what he thought he had. His thinking was so confused that he was not entirely sure that the last part had not been imagined. It seemed impossible that the Witchblade would have left Sara of its will while she lived, but if Cailean said that Sara lived, then Sara must be alive.

Abruptly, horribly, he suddenly found himself wondering how far he could really trust this woman who he had always thought he knew. The Cailean he knew and loved would never have attacked Sara, never agreed to steal, much less don, the Witchblade. Had she changed? Was she truly his own Cailean any more? Had she not, perhaps, finally succumbed to the brand of training and discipline that Irons had always hoped would turn them into obedient and lethal servant, unquestioningly willing to carry out their master's every whim? His Cailean... Could this woman before him, a woman who had attacked and robbed the Wielder, truly be the skinny teenager who had flatly refused to don the Witchblade because it was not her right to do so?

She had never had any secrets from him in the past. Now, though, she kept things from him, followed the orders that Irons gave her, even when she knew them to be wrong. Maybe she really had changed. The thought left him feeling hollow and more truly miserable than he would ever have thought possible.

Cailean nodded confirmation that Sara was still alive. The horrified, confused look on his face said it all. She had not just betrayed Sara and her friend Danny this night. She had betrayed her beloved brother as well. She is in the hospital now, recovering.

Ian rose swiftly, afraid that if he spent any more time in her presence, his anger might cause him to lash out at her. He could never have forgiven himself if he had hurt her,  even in the face of this betrayal, so removing himself from her presence seemed like a wise choice. Besides, if Sara were hospitalized, he had to go to her. With a final, confused look at his sister, he fled the room.

 "I've lost him..." Cailean muttered, shaking her head. She could not believe that Ian would ever be able to forgive her for what she had done to the woman he loved. In her mind, she had no right to expect otherwise. There was a new pain now, a sense of emptiness so great that she felt like she would never smile again.

Mechanically, she picked up the toothpaste and searched for her toothbrush, wanting nothing more than to remove the awful taste from her mouth. It would not work, though, she knew, because the taste in her mouth had nothing to do with the fact that she had been throwing up and everything to do with her betrayal of Ian. As she finished brushing her teeth, Irons joined her in the bathroom. "My Master..." This is your fault... she thought to herself, although she schooled her expression into an emotionless one before her anger could be apparent to him.

He was pale, tired-looking. His connection to the Witchblade meant that he had suffered much of what Cailean herself had tonight, to a lesser degree, a fact which pleased her inordinately. As much as she hated herself for what she had done, she hated him even more for putting her in a position where it had been her only choice. This man, a man who she had called father until her sixteenth year of life, was evil incarnate.

He knew that her suffering had been substantially greater than his own, and it amazed him that she was still able to stand and speak coherently. He had, of course, known that she was strong, but her resolve in this had been incredible. More than once during her suffering, he had been sorely tempted to order her to remove the Witchblade to ease his own pain. Still, any amount of pain was worth it in light of what had passed. The Witchblade was once again in his possession and under his control.

He had to hear every detail of this victory over Sara Pezzini. "Get changed, Cailean, and then join me in the sitting-room."

"Yes, my Master." She nodded weakly. She slid on jeans and a black turtleneck, running a brush through her hair before starting for the sitting-room. Even after all she had been through tonight, Irons, the bastard, would not want her to look anything other than pretty for him.

***

Jake was dozing fitfully on a folding cot when Ian entered the hospital room, carrying a vase with two dozen white roses, all that the gift-shop had been in possession of. Ian eyed the sleeping man thoughtfully for a moment. He distrusted McCarty, but it was good to know that he was still sufficiently devoted to Sara to stay with her. From what Cailean had told him, Irons would not be happy that Sara was still alive. The Wielder would need whatever protection she could get.

McCarty's gun was on a table next to the cot. Ian quietly pocketed the weapon, to avoid any unpleasantness, then placed the vase on the table next to Sara. Having accomplished this, he announced himself to Jake by quietly clearing his throat. Jake sat up abruptly, reaching for his gun. He did a startled double-take as he realized that it was not where he had left it.

When Ian spoke, he did not take his eyes off of the unconscious woman. "That is not necessary, Detective. If I had wanted you dead, you would be..." Ian informed him quietly, not wishing to disturb Sara's rest.

"Nottingham. What the hell are you doing here?" Jake demanded, glaring at him and momentarily forgetting about his gun. Someone had pretty severely pummeled the assassin recently, but Jake merely noted this in passing, more interested in what the man was doing in Sara's room than in his most recent criminal exploits. He was too surprised by his sudden appearance here to even be pleased that someone had finally gotten the better of Nottingham.

Ian's expression indicated that this was one of the most stupid questions he had ever been subject to. "I heard that Detective Pezzini was unwell. I came to pay my respects." He indicated the vase he had brought in.

Jake stared at him suspiciously. "Nice flowers..." he muttered sarcastically, noticing them for the first time. "But, you know, lilies are more accepted for funerals." He moved closer to the bed, determined to stop Nottingham if he tried to harm Sara.

Ian turned to face Jake, staring at him as though daring him to point out that visiting hours had been over for hours. "I will be certain to recall that useful piece of information, Detective, should I ever have occasion to bring you flowers. Roses, however, are Detective Pezzini's favorite..." he told Jake softly.

Jake shook his head, ignoring the implied threat. How the hell could this freakish assassin know anything about Sara, let alone her favorite kind of flowers? "Whatever. Why white? Couldn't find any in black?"

Ian ignored him. "May we have a few moments?"

"You think I'm going to leave you here alone when she's helpless?" Jake scoffed. This guy was beyond freakish. He was psychotic, and Sara seemed to be his new fixation. He could not believe that Sara would be in any way involved with Nottingham, but that did not mean that Ian was uninvolved with her.

Ian did not bother to conceal his contempt for Jake. "You know as well as I that if I wanted the Detective dead she would be, a thousand times over. I have no desire to harm her, only to speak to her."

"Well, then, why don't you come back when she can hear you?" Jake suggested, growing irritated.

Ian picked up her chart and scanned it, approving of Cailean's wisdom in both her choice of poisons and countermeasures. Still, the drug was meant to be injected into the muscle. Injecting it directly into Sara's vein had been risky. It was an unusually sloppy job for Cailean who knew her poisons better than Ian knew his swords. No wonder the Witchblade had been fooled into thinking Sara was dying; her vital signs had been almost immeasurable when the paramedics had arrived, even though the effects of the drug had been largely reversed by that time.

There was no doubt in Ian's mind that Sara would be fully recovered within a few hours. The fact left him feeling elated for two reasons. Aside from the fact that Sara would recover fully in a very short time, it was now obvious to Ian that Cailean had never intended any real harm to her. Clearly, he had misjudged his sister. Irons would never have sent her unless he had wanted Sara dead. Cailean had gone, but she had refused to take Sara's life. Perhaps her loyalty to the Wielder remained in-tact and she could still be convinced to part with the Witchblade.

"The fact that she sleeps does not mean that she is wholly unaware of her surroundings. I prefer to speak to her now. I may not have another opportunity." He gazed steadily at Jake.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Jake demanded defensively.

Ian continued staring at Jake. "I only require two minutes. You may wait outside." He said this as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

He glanced at Jake thoughtfully for a moment, then sent him a mental image of his last beating at Ian's hands, elaborating it to illustrate exactly what would happen this time if he did not give them some time alone and allowing him to think that the images were coming from within his own head. The effect was striking, and amusing.

Jake backed down immediately, strangely intimidated by the steady gaze and by the assassin's steady tone and recalling their last encounter. He had no doubts at all that if he did not give the assassin his time alone with Sara the results would be exceedingly unpleasant. "Two minutes..." he repeated, backing towards the door. "But if you lay a hand on her..." he trailed off, unnerved by the contemptuous look on Ian's face.

When Jake had closed the door, Ian slid a chair under the handle to keep him from intruding before the agreed two minutes had elapsed. He returned to Sara's bedside, glancing down at her regretfully. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "Had I known what was planned for you, I would have done everything in my power to stop it, fair Lady Sara..." he said in a halting voice. "I... I can only beg your forgiveness that I was not there to guard you when you most needed me. I am... so very sorry..."

Shaking from shame and anguish, Ian dropped to one knee beside the bed. He gently took Sara's right hand in both of his and tenderly kissed it, wetting it with his tears. Slowly, thoughtfully, he turned her hand over, examining the two scars on the underside of her wrist that were the only indication that she had been bonded with the Witchblade. He pulled a glove off and gently ran his fingers over the scars. They were so tiny, hardly noticeable, yet they spoke volumes about the woman who bore them. Cailean would never bear such scars herself. The Witchblade, like Irons, would use her and throw her away. He replaced his glove and kissed Sara's hand again.

Sighing deeply, he rested his forehead against the back of her hand and knelt there for several moments, wishing that Kenneth Irons had never heard of the Witchblade. The chance that had led him to happen across a passage about it in a book so many years ago had, and would continue to, cause immeasurable pain to the only two people Ian genuinely cared about. True, the odds of him having met Sara had she never encountered the Witchblade were slim, but he would have willingly forgone the chance to know her if it had meant that none of this insanity had ever come to pass. It never occurred to Ian to wish that his own pain might be less; he was too concerned about Sara and Cailean.

Both women were in incredibly tenuous situations. Irons would be outraged that Sara still lived. He would doubtless send someone else after her to finish the job now that she no longer wore the Witchblade, perhaps even Ian himself. Ian knew that, like Cailean, he would never be able to carry out such an order, and he knew that refusal would equal death, which would leave only Cailean to protect Sara, assuming that Irons deigned to let her live that long.

Both women would be in danger from Irons, assuming they were not already. Ian shook his head in confusion, desperately trying to formulate a plan to keep them both safe. His mind, usually so quick to develop feasible plans, remained annoyingly, frighteningly blank. He could not think of one good way to keep both women from harm. To save Cailean would be to sacrifice Sara to Irons. To save Sara would be to abandon Cailean to him. Ian groaned softly, agonized and torn. He simply could not chose one over the other.

At the sound of the doorknob rattling, Ian rose swiftly and returned Sara's hand to her chest. He picked her chart up again, glancing through it as he allowed Jake to re-enter the room.

"Thank you..." he said politely, ignoring Jake's suspicious glare. He replaced the chart and turned to carefully rearrange the flowers in the vase. "The man responsible for this attack will not be well pleased when he discovers that she lives."

"What?" Jake demanded. "It was a robbery."

"Was it?" Ian turned and stared at him, wondering if any man could really be so stupid. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that, in this at least, Jake McCarty was not his enemy. He might be a White Bull, but the Bulls had been uninvolved in the attack. Until Irons chose to involve them, Sara was in no real danger from that quarter.

"You knew this was going to happen!" Jake accused, pointing and glaring at Ian, recalling the bullet in his pocket and wishing once more for his gun.

Ian left Sara's bedside and closed on Jake. Standing perhaps six inches from the shorter man, he gazed steadily down at him, his face at its most intimidating. "If I had known about the attack beforehand," he told Jake in a deceptively gentle tone, "it would never have occurred. I would never let anyone hurt her..." He took several steps away from Jake without seeming to back down at all. "There may be other attempts against her now that this one has failed. She is at her most weak and vulnerable at this moment; she will not be able to protect herself. You must guard her from harm." A small smile stole across his face. "Hopefully better than you guarded her from my visit..."

"You think she's in so much danger, why don't you keep an eye on her?" Jake challenged, although he had no real desire for Nottingham to stay and no real trust in his intentions. He was distinctly unsettled by the smile the assassin had just given him.

It was a compelling offer, but Ian knew better than to accept it. If Irons had found out he was in the hospital at all, the old man would be furious and Sara or Cailean would suffer for it. "She does need protection, but I am not the one to provide it to her in this instance. Will you care for her?" he asked, hating to so humble himself before such a man. An idiot with no integrity set to guard the woman he loved because he himself could not.

Jake nodded slowly, more than a little confused by the request. His first instinct had been to believe that Nottingham was probably somehow involved in the attack. But that hardly meshed with the assassin warning him that her life was still in danger and then asking him to protect her. And what was that all about? Suddenly her stalker could no longer be bothered to watch over her. That did not make any sense either. Jake considered this thoughtfully for a few moments, before it suddenly clicked in the undercover agent's mind. Irons had been behind the attack, for some reason, but it had gone off without the knowledge of his favorite lapdog who could not now involve himself without getting into serious trouble with a man whose rebellious employees had a habit of vanishing.

"Yeah. I'll keep an eye on her."

Ian nodded and turned to leave. "Watch her well." It was an order, and Ian's tone of voice promised dire punishment if any harm came to Sara because of Jake's negligence. He knew that this fool's protection would not be enough to keep Sara safe from Irons for long, but it was the best he could think of at present. Given time, he would be able to think of a better plan to keep her safe, but for the time being, Jake was Sara's best shot at safety.

Ian dropped Jake's gun on the table next to his cot and swept out of the room, leaving a startled Jake staring after him.