Chapter 10 -- Domestic Violence
Irons stared into the fire, his hands shaking with anger. He kept his voice level, however, as he spoke to Dante on the phone, trying to convey the impression that he was quite pleased that the woman Dante was sure he was sleeping with was going to recover. "And she is expected to recover, Captain Dante? Excellent. Yes, thank you. Good night."
Pulling off his headset and tossing it in the direction of the table, he glanced down at Cailean, who knelt at his feet. She had her eyes fixed on the floor, and she was shaking. The pain from donning the Witchblade was beginning to recede, and Irons was feeling much better. Cailean, on the other hand, was clearly not feeling at all well, which was to be expected considering how badly she had fouled up the simple task he had given her. He reached down almost negligently, catching her chin in his hand. With a swift jerk, he hauled her onto her feet and pulled her close.
"She lives..." he hissed, his nose almost touching hers. Even the pretext of affection was now gone from his manner. "How is it, Cailean, that one sends one of the best assassins in the world to kill a sleeping woman and that woman manages to survive?" He shoved her into his armchair and closed the distance between them, gripping the armrests on either side of her and bending close. "How does that happen?" he shrieked.
"I thought..." Cailean began in a shaking voice, willing the Witchblade to activate.
Irons backhanded her, silencing her excuses. He had never been a man to tolerate weakness, and Cailean's decision to spare Sara could only be interpreted as weakness. He frowned at the stinging pain in his own cheek, courtesy of his connection to the Witchblade.
"Take that thing off!" he hissed at her.
Cailean tugged helplessly at the Witchblade, frustrated by its refusal to activate. "It's stuck, my Master..." she muttered, secretly pleased. If the Witchblade came off now, not only would she be unable to kill Irons, he would probably beat her pretty severely. His link to the Witchblade, the fact that through it he experienced her pain, offered her some degree of protection from his attentions until she could force it to bend to her will. She only needed it to work once, but until it did, she could not be sufficiently certain of her ability to triumph over Irons. She needed to wait.
Irons grabbed her arm in a vice-like grip and attempted to pull the Witchblade from her hand. "What did you do?" he demanded, sure that this was merely some trick of Cailean's to avoid punishment.
"I put it on!" Cailean shouted, shaking her head in anger. It was as if something in her mind had snapped. She was no longer truly in the room, just a spectator to events that should have alarmed her but seemed genuinely unimportant. She no longer felt entirely in control of her own action. "Just like you ordered me to!"
"Do not talk back to me!" Irons pulled her from the chair and shoved her to her knees on the flagstone before the fireplace. "Do not raise your voice to me..." he added, crossing the room and retrieving the lash he always kept on hand. "Do not assume a disrespectful tone with me..."
"I'll speak to you with respect when you earn it!" Cailean snapped, not rising. Let him beat her. Spilling her blood might be the only way to force the Witchblade to work, and once it had, she could finally free herself and Ian forever.
Irons raised an eyebrow, startled by Cailean's words. "So, my little girl grew a backbone while she was away?" he asked her absently, twirling the lash in his hands. "Not very wise of you, my dear." He sighed and shook his head. "It should never have come to this, Cailean. Your defiance has endangered you and your brother."
"Leave him out of this!" Cailean shouted, rising and spinning to face him. "You so much as try to retaliate against him for this..." she snarled, advancing on him.
Irons raised the lash and almost carelessly flicked it in her direction, catching her across the face. He shook his head and clicked his tongue, ignoring the biting pain and dizziness he felt, knowing that the pain Cailean felt had been far worse. "Dear, dear. No amount of makeup is going to conceal that. On your knees, Cailean..." he said in a bored voice.
But he was shocked, and more than a little worried. This display was definitely not in keeping with Cailean's typical mode of behavior. It occurred to him to be worried by it, but he just as quickly dismissed that concern. Cailean would never raise her hand against him, he was sure of it.
Her head swimming from pain, Cailean clenched and unclenched her fists, willing the Witchblade to work. It remained dead and cold on her hand.
Ignoring the pain and the blood, she raised her head and, for the first time in her life, looked Irons in the eye. "Sir, you are my Master. I loved you. I would have walked barefoot across broken glass to please you. I would have died to protect you or for no other reason than that you desired it." She dropped to her knees, her back to him, and pulled off her shirt. "I would have walked barefoot across broken glass for you..." she repeated quietly, crossing her arms over her chest and bowing her head. "And in so doing, I would have experienced a thousand times more pleasure than I have ever gotten in your bed."
Irons, who had always prided himself on his skills as a lover, was furious. He raised the lash and tore into Cailean's back with as much force as he could manage. The explosion of pain that Cailean felt was mirrored to a lesser degree in Irons. He dropped the lash and fell to his knees, gasping in pain. Cailean did not move until Irons had pulled himself to his feet and staggered from the room. She picked up her shirt and used it to remove the worst of the blood from her face before automatically turning her attention to the blood on the flagstone, another habit she had picked up in childhood. If you committed an infraction worthy of a beating, you cleaned up your own mess once it was over. Only then were you allowed to take care of your injuries.
The pain was almost welcomed. It made it very hard to think about anything else, including her betrayal of Sara and Ian. Shaking from pain and exhaustion, she finally made her way back to her room. Irons would have received a healthy dose of painkillers from his personal physician by now, and, by breakfast, his anger with her would likely be fading. Until the drugs wore off enough for him to remember that Sara was still alive.
Reluctantly, she moved to the bathroom to examine the damage to her face. Irons had been right. No amount of makeup was ever going to cover the gash. After she had tended the wound on her back as best as she could, she changed into a black turtleneck and examined the injury on her cheek, curious but detached. Finally, she picked up her hairbrush and pulled some hair over the right side of her face, smoothing it against her cheek. At least now she would not flinch every time she caught her reflection. She was lucky not to have lost her eye to that stroke. It had been too close.
She returned to the sitting-room to await Ian's return. By the time he silently entered, it had begun to rain heavily. Cailean stood at the window watching the storm. The thunder and high winds, reflected her mood, turbulent and confused. The Witchblade's refusal to work against Irons, even after he had hurt her, seemed to confirm everything she had ever been told about herself. She was unworthy of the Blade, unworthy of its protection. Unworthy to do anything except quietly accept the abuses she had been subject to her whole life, and doubly unworthy for resenting them. And now that she had harmed Sara, Ian hated her as well. Cailean had never felt so miserable in her life.
"Cailean..." Ian said softly, breaking the silence.
Will she recover, Ian?
Yes. Rapidly. She'll be fine in a few hours.
I am glad.
You're hurt. What did he do?
Nothing that you need to worry about. Cailean shook her head absently. Ian, may I please have some time alone?
Ian stared at her uncertainly. She had never in her life requested that Ian leave her alone. The two had been virtually inseparable for most of their childhood, the one drawing comfort and strength from the other. And now Cailean, at the moment when she needed him most, was asking him to leave her. It felt like a rejection, as if his sister no longer wanted him.
For her part, Cailean could not believe that Ian would wish to be in the same room with her after everything that had transpired. She had betrayed Sara, betrayed Sara's ghostly companion, and, worst of all, betrayed Ian himself. Ian prized honor and directness above all else, so Cailean could hardly expect him to understand her actions in light of their concealed motives. Her only comfort was the thought that, through her betrayal, she might still be able to set him free.
Ian was reluctant to leave her, but she seemed to want solitude so he turned to go. Cailean... he began, uncertain how to fully express the concern he felt for her.
Cailean interpreted his uncertainty as reluctance to speak to her. She could hardly blame him. I'll see you later, Ian.
Ian left with a sigh. Cailean turned and stared after him. In trying to save him, she had alienated the one man she had ever cared about. He obviously could not understand. She did not blame him. She hardly understood herself.
It had all seemed so beautifully simple when the plan had presented itself to her during her conference with Gabriel Bowman. Mimic the Wielder's death and the Witchblade would have no reason to stay with her. That, at least, had worked as planned. But he had also said that Pretenders could, for a time at least, make the Witchblade work. A few moments were all she would have needed, but it refused to aid her. The only reason that she could imagine was that her plans were not a part of its agenda.
But how could the death of a man like Irons not be something that the Witchblade longed for? He held the Wielder back, sabotaged her efforts, attempted to control her. Cailean could not see how the Witchblade could want anything other than his death, which meant that its refusal to aid her must have reflected solely on her. She was not worthy to be even a Pretender to the Witchblade. She had betrayed the Lady Sara for nothing, and now the Witchblade was back in the control of Kenneth Irons.
That could not be allowed, she knew. She would die before she allowed him to control the Witchblade. It might be too late for her, but it was not too late for Lady Sara, and she prayed it was not too late for Ian. "Why did I ever tell Elizabeth about you?" she breathed, glancing down at the cold, dead stone on her wrist. She did not turn from the window when the doors to the sitting-room opened and Ian and Irons walked in.
"Although our Cailean assures me that fair Sara never saw her face..." Irons was telling Ian as they entered. He paused briefly, his eyes on Cailean in her corner. "Enjoying yourself, child?" he asked in a solicitous tone, wondering if she was over her earlier mood.
"No, my Master..." Cailean muttered absently, not turning from the window. Tears formed in her eyes. The Witchblade had chosen this demon over her. The thought made her feel strangely apathetic.
Irons shook his head, smiling absently. From the expression on his face, she might as easily have been some new love interest, bored by a museum exhibit or show at the theater. "Never fear, my love. We'll find a task to occupy your attentions soon. Once you no longer have the chance to be bored, I'm sure your disposition will improve accordingly."
Cailean nodded weakly, wondering if he was going to send her after Sara again, or if he had some business or political rival to be dealt with. She could sense that Ian's thoughts were turning in the same direction. His anxiety would have been almost palpable even without her connection to him. "As you say."
Irons nodded approvingly and turned his attention back to Ian. "As I was saying, although Sara never saw Cailean's face, there is no doubt that she will link the attack to us. How do we deal with her if she comes, Ian?"
"Denial." Ian's voice was soft, pained. When he spoke, it was in the hope of saving Sara's life when she reacted in her predictable, rash manner. "She has no proof that you--"
"We, Ian..." Irons corrected him mildly.
Ian scowled. "She has no proof that... we are behind the theft of the Witchblade."
"Retrieval, Ian..." Irons told him gently. "We were merely retrieving what is ours."
Ian hated the way Irons persisted in using the word 'we', as if the three of them were equal partners in this insanity. "She has no proof that we are behind the... retrieval of the Witchblade. She can not go to the authorities with her suspicions given the nature of both the Witchblade and her acquisition of it. She is quite powerless against you in this."
Irons nodded his approval of Ian's assessment. "So, that is our policy? We deny that we had anything to do with this?"
Ian nodded. "Perhaps we even offer her aid in her own investigation of the matter..." he suggested, hoping that it would translate into a chance for him to see Sara, to explain to her what had truly passed. He could not bear the though of her being angry with Cailean when she discovered the truth about his sister's role in the attack.
Irons nodded thoughtfully, knowing full well that there was more to Ian's request than met the eye. He recalled the party that Sara had attended the other night and Ian's dance with Sara. No doubt this had only intensified Ian's growing infatuation with Sara. He shook his head in frustration; it was an unforeseen reaction. He had hoped that the incident would increase Ian's discomfort around her.
"Much remains to be seen, young Nottingham." Irons patted Ian gently on the shoulder. "At present, I think a straightforward policy of denial is best. If she becomes unduly persistent, we will consider offering her what aid we can."
Irons, who prided himself on always being three moves ahead not only of his opponents but of life itself, paused thoughtfully as it occurred to him that, if Cailean proved unable to manage the Witchblade, Sara might still be useful. If he 'recovered' the Witchblade for her, she would be bound to him by gratitude. Perhaps her opinion of him could be manipulated in this fashion. Yes, Cailean's blunder might still be turned to his advantage. Sara would require more subtle handling this time, but it could still be feasible.
Irons nodded again. "At present, I want you to observe her, Ian. From a distance. It's very important that she not see you or any reminder of either of us. These will only fire her imagination and lead her to suspect the worst of us." Irons smiled as though anyone suspecting the worst of him were absurd.
"Of course." Ian nodded, relieved that Irons seemed to be more or less over his anger at Cailean. Ian could see the wheels turning in the old man's head, working to turn this situation to his advantage. As long as Irons kept mulling these possibilities, it was possible that he might still forgive Cailean and decide to spare Sara.
"You may go now..." Irons told Ian quietly, moving towards his chair.
As Ian started for the door, it swung inwards and a furious-looking Sara Pezzini stormed into the room. Ian immediately moved to her because she was still so obviously weak from her ordeal the night before that she was wobbling on her feet.
"What have I done..." Cailean muttered at the window. She raised her hand to touch the cool glass and let out a frustrated cry, driving her palm through the pane. She saw her own face reflected in a thousand shards of glass, and a single reflection of Sara. She bent her head, unwilling to turn and face the friend she had so egregiously betrayed.
Irons glanced up in irritation at the sound of the breaking glass. "That was supposed to be shatter-proof..." he muttered, shaking his head, seemingly unaware of Sara's presence and seemingly unaffected by Cailean's behavior.
"Give it back, Irons!" Sara demanded, ignoring the wave of deja-vu she felt at the scene she had just witnessed. It so closely mirrored the vision she had experienced the first time she had seen Cailean.
"Give what back, fair Sara?" Irons asked with a curious smile, spreading his hands.
"You really want to mess with me right now, Irons?" Sara demanded.
Since the attack, she was beginning to understand many things. Like the fact that the Witchblade was more addictive than nicotine. She could probably have handled the physical cravings for it that she was experiencing, but the Witchblade was hers. She had passed the Periculum, proved herself worthy of it and, in turn, been accepted by it. It was a part of her, she knew, quite beyond the fact that it was, usually, half-buried under her skin. No matter how much she might resent the fact, life without it was no longer a possibility.
"You seem upset, Detective..." Irons told her with his trademark smile, the one that made Sara feel like scrubbing with steel wool to get the filth off.
For some reason, that smile pushed her over the edge, and she reached for her gun, even as her brain screamed at her that she was probably signing her own death-warrant in the process.
"Ian..." Irons muttered, gesturing.
Ian stepped forward and removed the gun from Sara's holster before Sara could, shame clearly written on his face. "And please do not attempt to go for the gun you keep holstered at your ankle, either, Detective..." he muttered softly, stepping away from her, praying that she would heed his advice and not antagonize Irons unduly.
Sara stared at Ian, wide-eyed, her mouth moving soundlessly. After the other night, she had almost expected him to back her up. She shook her head and returned her attention to Irons. "Give it back, Irons..." she repeated.
Irons smiled sympathetically and rose, approaching Sara. "I'm afraid, fair Sara, that I do not have what you seek."
"You're lying."
"Am I?" Irons asked, spreading his hands again. "You are still overwhelmed by the attack against you. I suggest that you go home and get some much-deserved rest. You'll be in much better mental shape to discover who has taken our property after you have recuperated. Good day." As Sara stared at him, working on an appropriate retort, he nodded to Ian. "See the Detective out, Ian. I have too much work to do today to occupy myself with pleasantries." Dismissing them with a wave of his hand, he half-turned to Cailean, who still stood with her back to them, staring out the broken window.
Ian moved to stand next to Sara. "This way, please, Detective."
"I'm not going anywhere..." Sara said firmly, glaring at Ian. He immediately dropped his eyes, so she turned her glare to Irons. "I will get it back..." Next to her, Ian winced, a reaction that Sara put down to her continued rashness in threatening the most powerful man in the city.
Irons shrugged indifferently. "Ian, see her out."
"I'm not leaving." Sara took a step towards Irons.
Irons gestured to Ian. The younger man stepped forward and gently wrapped his hand around Sara's arm, restraining her. "Detective, please..." he whispered desperately, his fear audible in his tone.
Sara stopped, her attention caught by the fear in his voice. Ian Nottingham scared? Someone had better call hell and tell them to turn down the air conditioning. Something was going on here. Shaking her head, she followed Ian out. "This isn't over!" she informed Irons as she followed Ian from the sitting-room.
"You should not have come today. You are still weak..." Ian told her as he led her through the corridors of the mansion. "Too weak to stand against him."
"Who took it, Nottingham? You?" His pained expression almost made her regret the accusation. "That sister of yours?" she pressed. Sara nodded as his startled glance confirmed that. "Why?" she demanded.
Ian caught her arm and pulled her into a side room. Sara stared at him, surprised by the action.
"Irons ordered her to kill you..." Ian told her in a low voice, leaning close.
"Is this room bugged?" Sara asked, realizing that they were in a large bedroom.
Ian shook his head. "It's one of his rooms. One of the few rooms in the mansion that is not monitored. This is why I chose it."
Sara nodded, accepting that. "If Irons ordered Cailean to kill me, what stopped her?"
"Me." Ian bowed his head.
"You? You knew about this?" Sara asked, amazed. She could not bring herself to believe that Nottingham would not have done something to stop the attack.
"I did not. Cailean could not kill you because I..." Ian paused, ashamed to admit his feelings. Sara, of course, would not return them. He was beneath her, worthy only to serve her and to die for her, which made it wrong for him to feel such things. He was ungrateful not to be satisfied merely to serve her. "She knows that I... esteem you highly."
Sara frowned. He was holding back here, she could tell by his tone and manner, but she was not entirely sure what he was holding back. He was telling the truth that he respected her, but there was more to it than that. She studied Ian carefully, recalling the comment that Irons had made at the party, that Ian had a crush on her. Could Irons have been serious? Did it truly matter now that Ian had as good as admitted that her life was not safe.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked finally, deciding that she could work out the riddle that was Ian Nottingham later.
"You have a right to know..." Ian said simply. "Your life may not be safe."
"Jeez..." Sara muttered, shaking her head. "Nottingham, you sure know how to get a girl's attention."
"As long as Cailean retains the Witchblade, you will not be safe from Irons."
"So tell me how to get it back..." Sara suggested.
"Short of cutting off Cailean's hand, I don't know how." Ian was clearly frustrated by the pronouncement. "It will not let her remove it."
Sara frowned, startled. "Well, I'm not cutting off anyone's hand. There's got to be another way, Nottingham."
"I wish I knew of one." He bowed his head. "I wish I could help you both."
Sara stared at him. He had spoken of his loyalty and dedication to her in the past, but she was only now starting to believe in it. There was no denying those things now, listening to his voice and quite probably watching him risk his life to tell her these things. "If you had to chose, Nottingham, me or her, who would you pick?" She had expected an immediate response in Cailean's favor, so she was surprised when Ian hesitated.
"I don't know. There must be a way to save both of you. I will find it."
He sounded so confident, like a little boy stating his unequivocal belief in magic, but Sara knew better. When Irons played the game of Life, there were invariably going to be casualties. "You should have let me shoot him..." she muttered bitterly.
"I could not. He was... is the only father we have ever known."
"Some father..." Sara muttered, shaking her head in disgust. "Nottingham... Ian. Does she want the Witchblade for herself?" She could not believe that, either.
He shook his head firmly, no more able to believe that than Sara. "She never has. I don't know why she took it this time. I had believed that she would have died before she would have willingly harmed you." He bowed his head. "She was ordered to kill you, yet she did not..." he muttered in her defense. "In the past, she has never hesitated to kill at his order, but you... She could not."
Sara sensed that Ian was trying to excuse Cailean's behaviors. He did not wish her to be angry with Cailean for the attack, and Sara, who had come to know Irons better than she could have wished, was not angry with Cailean.
"He once said that, if the Witchblade truly belonged to anyone, it belonged to me. Is that still true?"
Ian nodded.
"Good. I'm going to get it back, Nottingham. I really hope that it won't come to hurting Cailean, but you need to know that I will, if that's what it takes."
She could not believe that she had just said that. It was almost as if the words had not been her own. It took her a moment to realize that they were the words of Sara the Wielder, not Pez the Detective. She shook her head in frustration. This was worse than the nagging suspicion she had felt when she first acquired the Witchblade that she might be going insane. After spending almost a year rejecting her connection to the Witchblade, it had been taken from her and she would do anything to get it back. It made no sense, and she knew it.
Ian was horrified. He had no doubt that Sara would make good on her threat if she did not have the Witchblade soon. Her hunger for it, like the hunger that Irons felt for it, was too strong to allow reason to intrude. Sara would go after Cailean, forcing the girl to chose between killing Sara in self-defense and sacrificing herself so that Sara could recover the Witchblade. Either way, one of them would die, and there was little that Ian could do.
"Give us a week, Sara..." Ian pled quietly. It was the one thing he could do. "Half a week, even. I will do everything in my power to return it to you in that time."
"Three days..." Sara muttered, and again the words did not seem her own. "Nottingham..." she began gently, sorry to have put him in this position but powerless to take back what she had said.
"Forgive us..." he whispered, bowing his head. When he looked at her again, there were tears in his eyes. "This way, Detective."
***
Irons was beyond furious with Cailean. He clutched the lash tightly as he paced around the room, berating her for her weakness and carelessness. She stood in the center of the room, head bowed, arms clasped behind her back, ignoring her bleeding hand and the physical and psychological pain that gnawed at her. Even though the pain from the Witchblade was almost gone, the pain in her palm felt nonexistent by comparison.
Having run out of insults, Irons demanded, "How do you plan on remedying this situation, child?"
"Would you have me kill the Wielder?" Cailean asked, managing to sound completely impassive.
"You are the Wielder now, child..." Irons told her in a gentle voice, brushing his fingers across her left cheek.
"For once, sir, let us speak frankly." Cailean glanced up at him. "I am not even worthy to be a Pretender to that title and we both know it."
Irons was more than a little shocked by this. Never before had she addressed him as anything other than a superior, her master. Even the title 'sir' lacked the deference he was accustomed to from her, and the statement she had made had placed them on the level of equals.
"What has happened to you?" he asked himself, thoroughly confused.
"You happened to me." Cailean stared at him, daring him to deny it. "You made me what I am..."
She clenched her fists, once more willing the Witchblade to activate. It remained obstinate in its refusal, but Cailean no longer cared. It was as if she was seeing Irons for the first time, a depraved old man who could never be a real threat to her. She could beat him to death without breaking a sweat and they both knew it. She did not need the Witchblade for this, never had. This was the reason it was punishing her, for not having seen that earlier. She smiled at Irons, feeling suddenly, strangely free.
When she spoke, it was in a deceptively calm and quiet tone. "You made me what I am, dad." She laughed quietly, humorlessly as she advanced on him. She could sense his fear, almost taste it, and it was sweet.
When he raised the lash against her in self-defense, she caught it in her hand and pulled it easily out of his grasp, ignoring the way it bit into her already-injured palm. Pain seemed far less important to her than the long-deserved penance that Irons was about to pay. She caught his arm and pulled him towards the fire-place. When he had beat one of them, it was always on this flagstone surface. She shoved him to the ground.
"Cailean..." he gasped, starting to climb to his feet. Fear was visible in his cold eyes.
"You so much as flinch from this lash, dad, and I will kill you. On your knees." Her voice remained quiet and steady.
"Cailean. Child..." Irons began in a reasonable tone.
"You know," Cailean began, ignoring his attempts to reason with her, "this lash easily tears through skin and muscle, as Ian and I can both attest. Wonder what it does to Italian silk..."
"Cailean, you can't do this!" Irons gasped, not trying to rise. He could not believe that his Cailean would actually, willingly harm him. "You have said that you love me."
"I do, dad." Cailean dropped to her knees next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. "I love you the way only a daughter can love a father, no matter what a cold, hateful creature he is. One small problem. I love Ian more." She shook her head. "You could have done anything you wanted to me and I wouldn't have raised my hand against you. Involving Ian in this evil, however, was unforgivable of you." She smiled pleasantly at him and rose.
"What are you going to do?" Irons asked quietly.
"Um, I think one lash for every lash you gave him in the past two beatings is a good start." She raised the lash and applied it forcefully to his back, listening to him scream in pain. She dropped to her knees in front of the gasping man, brushing her hair out of her face so that he could see the gash there. "Not fun, is it, dad?" she asked gently, patting his shoulder. "That was one. When I dressed Ian's wounds, I counted at least fifty. Do you want to keep count, or should I?" She rose and struck him two more times. "You haven't passed out yet..." she said calmly. "I'm impressed."
"What do you want, Cailean..." Irons gasped, too startled and in too much pain to move. "Money?"
She scoffed. "I've never wanted for that. What I want doesn't have a price."
"Revenge?" he asked weakly. His head was swimming from the pain. His only chance of not dying at her hands was for Ian to return.
"Freedom." She hit him twice more, then dropped the lash and dropped to her knees in front of him. Backhanding him when it looked like he might pass out. "What do you say, dad? How much is that worth? How much is Ian's childhood worth? Or my innocence?"
"Freedom..." Irons gasped, nodding. "It's yours."
"I don't believe you. I've learned too well from you to believe a victim under this kind of duress." She shrugged helplessly. "What's a girl to do, dad?" She shoved him.
He flew backwards, landing on his back with a scream. Cailean rose and closed the distance between them, giving him three swift kicks in the ribs.
Irons rolled onto his stomach and lay there panting. "You're going to kill me..." he gasped out after several minutes. "For the money..."
Cailean rolled her eyes, looking remarkably like Irons at his most disdainful when she did so. She dropped to her knees again. Grabbing a handful of his hair, she jerked his head up, pulling his face level with her own. "For our freedom..." she hissed.
He was surprised by that, as Cailean had expected. Men like him understood money and pleasure, nothing else. She backhanded him again and dropped him onto the floor.
"Anything you want..." Irons gasped, too weak and in too much pain to do anything more than negotiate. "Anything... I'll give you whatever you want..."
"How would you die? If I owe you anything, it's that choice... Well?" Cailean asked, unmoved by his plea.
"Go to hell!" Irons spat.
"After you, dad."
Cailean rose, pulling him with her. She shoved him into a wall and slammed the crown of her head into his face, stunning. Twisting one hand around his tie and collar to hold him up, she used the other to deliver a series of punches to his stomach. She dropped him to the floor and kicked him again, then dropped to her knees next to him, cradling his head in her arms.
"I guess I at least owe you a quick death..." she whispered to the half-unconscious man, tears streaking down her face. "You would do the same for me."
"In a heartbeat..." Irons groaned. "I love you, my little warrior."
"I love you, dad..." Cailean whispered.
Tears streaked down her face and mingled with his blood as she continued to beat him. This man, whatever else he was, was her father. For all the bad times, there had been good times, too: games of chess, horse-back rides, lazy afternoons spent discussing philosophy or finance. The beatings had not been many, and she had understood the need for every one of them. Cailean meant 'my little warrior', and he had always called her that when he was especially proud of or pleased with her. He had been trying to turn her into something, making her more than she was in what she had to believe was the only way he knew how.
She stopped abruptly, in mid-kick and stared at him with wide eyes. He was beyond even noticing that the beating had stopped. He had been trying to turn her into something. If she killed him now, it meant that he had succeeded in that, that she was the same as him. To kill him in fair combat would have been one thing, but to kill him like this, when he was weak and she was strong... She refused to lower herself in such a manner. Shaking, she lifted him gently into her arms and moved him to a couch.
"Don't worry, dad. Ian'll be back shortly from seeing Lady Sara out. He'll take good care of you."
She bent and swiftly kissed his cheek, before turning and fleeing the room. Her time was short now, and if she did not act quickly, Ian might be forced into being the instrument of her death. That could not be allowed any more than Irons could be allowed to control the Witchblade. She knew what had to be done, and she was unafraid.
