Disclaimer:

I don't own it, I don't pretend to own it, I intend no monetary gain off of this, and don't wish any kind of copyright infringement on Top Cow production or TNT or whomever.

In honour of the officers of the NYPD who served and protected their last on 9-11-01

Chapter Eight

"Yes, Lady" Ian sat, meekly, and his eyes never wavered from the barrel of the gun pointed at his nose. He felt the heat of the bullet rolling in his palm, a tangible reminder of Lady Sara's attempt on his life.

"I told you to quit calling me that" said irritably, kicking off her boots. "I'm not your kind of kind of lady."

'But you are' quivered on the tip of his tongue, but Ian swallowed it. God she was beautiful when she was angry. Her green eyes snapped fire and she moved like a lithe, dangerous lioness as she set her formidable glare on the object of her wrath.

"What are you doing here?" she questioned again, coming closer, but not wavering the tip of her gun. He could smell her presence, the sharp, sweet aroma of woman and oiled steel.

"The Witchblade granted you a vision," he said, "It confuses you."

"That's the understatement of the year," she replied, "You know what it's about."

"Yes Lady,"

"You know what it means."

"Yes Lady,"

"Then start talking," She sat on the opposite side of the coffee table, "and remember that I'm a little short on patience tonight. Short, sweet, and to the point, Nottingham."

"The vision was about pretenders to the Witchblade, was it not?" he asked, wanting to clarify this before he got himself shot at. Again.

"Yes," she said impatiently.

"Then I believe that the Witchblade is acting precognitive. It knows or perhaps suspects that a pretender will make an attempt on the Blade," he was sweating, a curious sensation, he didn't usually become nervous when addressing the Lady Sara.

"When?" she demanded.

"I don't know, perhaps recently," he responded honestly.

"Who?" she asked again, shaking the gun in his general direction.

"Someone," he shrugged, "A pretender. Possibly someone you know,"

"I coulda told you that," she stood up again, restlessly, "Fat lot of good this is,"

She bent down to pick up the shell casing, which had been ejected when she fired her gun. Ian got a full view of her very muscular posterior. Surprisingly another unusual sensation assaulted him, one he was only slightly more familiar with. It had occurred on another occasion, when he had been treated to an uninterrupted view of her posterior. It was desire, a sensation he'd felt but never indulged.

For the first time since his adolescence he was now tempted to indulge.

Wordlessly he placed the bullet he'd caught on the glass tabletop, it clicked softly. She turned around and looked, smiling wryly at his chutzpah. She picked up the bullet Ian caught in his bare palm.

"Well the super-ninja struck again," she examined it, noting that it was still warm, "nicely done."

"Thank you Lady," he bowed his head.

"Damn it Nottingham, didn't I tell you to quit calling me that, and stop it you're making me feel like some weird…just stop it." She unbuckled her gun belt and threw it on the kitchen counter, heedless of the delicate granite.

"Yes…Sara." He examined the apartment.

Much of his decoration was gone, the expensive antique furniture and stylish Turkish rug had also vanished. In their stead's there was a sturdy sofa, overstuffed, and covered in soft corduroy. She had also acquired several hardback chairs, replacing the leather wingbacks, a swivelling barstool for the kitchen. The oil paintings also seemed to disappear, all but one, a rendering of the city skyline at sunset Ian had enjoyed for the contrast and the colours. She replaced the large rug with several smaller ones, brightly coloured, in fact the whole area was much brighter, with less leather and more cloth.

"You have re-decorated," he observed, trying to spark up a conversation that did not involve weapons.

"Yeah, sorry, but it just wasn't my cup of tea, I don't do antiques or …" her voice was muffled in the freezer, "Hey, you want a brown lump or a grey one?"

"Brown," he supplied, surprised that she could threaten his life in one minute and offer him dinner in the next. 

"Here," she tossed him a frozen lump of food, "You're the one breaking and entering. You may as well make yourself useful."

"Yes, La…Sara" he got up, moving swiftly, and she took the seat he had just vacated, yawning and shuttering her eyes. He found a pan, probably unused since he bought it, and placed the solid lump of icy beef in the pan to thaw.

"Y'know it's quicker if you nuke it," she pointed to the microwave, not one of his acquisitions, and he suppressed a shudder. Microwaved food was not something he would willingly eat. There was something unnatural about an empty box that fried things. 

"I will cook, Sara," he turned back to the burner and adjusted the heat needlessly. He could hear her shaking her head, her eyes still burning a hole in his back. She didn't trust him, he'd bet his right hand that the 45 calibre Colt automatic was within arm's reach. How unfortunate, trust was essential.

"What do you want, Nottingham?" she asked him, seemingly puzzled.

"What can I do?" he asked back, not taking his eyes of the thawing lump of steak.

"Stop that" she ordered.

"Stop what?" he asked.

"Being cryptic," she shifted; he could hear the soft 'tick' of her gun being lifted off the glass table top. "I'm getting tired of not having a straight answer"

"Sometimes there are no 'straight answers' Sara," he observed, "A situation I believe you are well aware."

"Why is the Wichblade ignoring me?" she asked, impatient for answers.

"Is it?" he countered back, searching her face. "Or do you merely think it is?"

"What's it up to, what's it doing, and damn it, why the hell won't you answer me?"

"I have not all the answers, Sara, though I'm sure you're well aware of that."

"Can the crap, Nottingham, what do you want from me?"

"I should think that's obvious," he turned, facing her, "Especially after our little encounter in Mr. Bowman's shower stall"

"Hey" she jumped off the sofa, sliding another round into the chamber of her weapon, "I was out of it, Ok? It's not right to take advantage of a situation like that. I don't want to hear it."

"You're a lioness, Sara, and very remarkable woman, as beautiful as a sunset and as fierce as the strongest warrior. You bear a talisman of feminine power that few men could live with without being overshadowed by. I know of one such man." He stepped closer so that she could not, even if she tried, escape his meaning.

"Touching," she cocked her pistol, pointing at his chest, "You're trying to seduce me, Nottingham, and it's not working. There's nothing between us. You, me, no – get it?"

"Are you sure about that Sara?" he continued to step closer, "I who know your every move, I who know who you truly are, I who can understand in the way no other man could. Are you truly sure that there is nothing between us?"   

"Positive," she took up a defensive posture, holding her pistol in a two handed Weaver grip, "Get out of my home"

"I'm never far, Sara, I'm always near. Always ready for you. Always," He reached out to stroke her cheek and she stepped back, levelling her weapon. "Do you really think that will stop me, Sara?"

"Even a mad dog will stop if you put a bullet in his head," she hissed angrily, "You wanna try me? I need some new wallpaper."

He did nothing but smile, and walk to the window, his most comfortable point of egress, and leaping out, heedless of her gasp. It was a dramatic exit, making as if he fell towards the street, but in actuality he swung upwards and landed silently on the fire escape a level up. He watched her poke her head out of the window, looking downwards, and then locking it securely behind her, as if that could keep him away. 

His hands remembered their journey across her prone form; she was warm and soft, even dusty and sweaty as she had been. Irons had never allowed him a woman, feeling the excess sexual energy would be better put to use in a productive fashion. Bowman, 'Gabriel', his mind reminded him, had been shaking, barely able to control his lust.

His unrequited infatuation with Sara had been painfully obvious, even to one as relatively unschooled as Ian in the depths of desire. Ian himself had required every ounce of self control to keep his hands from wandering away from their self-appointed task. The scar from the Periculum had been on her left breast, he could not help himself from exploring the ridges of the same scarring that his father had borne in his abortive attempt to master a power not his own.  

  He heard the clang of the pan and the scathing hiss of meat being put to fry. It appeared Sara was taking out her frustration with him on her defenceless sirloin. Better it than him, he shrugged. He didn't anticipate her shooting at him, the harsh burn of the bullet left a welt on his palm that he now looked at soberly.

It was dangerous to underestimate the Wielder of the Witchblade. Another split second of response time and it'd have buried itself in his chest instead of being caught by his hands. He'd already seen her in action with the Witchblade itself, as she put a permanent stop to Irons. Perhaps a new set of action was required, a new angle, another way to approach her.

This required thought.

In her apartment Sara was fuming, at herself, again, for shooting at Ian the second she walked in her apartment. Firing off a Colt 45 in her living room was not the way to endear oneself to one's neighbours. Besides, how much good had it done?

"Damn, muscle bound, ham-handed, stalking, FREAK!" she shouted at her stovetop, "What does he think he's trying to accomplish?"

'He's trying to mess with your head,' the sensible voice in her head chimed back, 'and he seems to be doing a pretty good job of it too.'

"RRRRGGGH" she stabbed the steaks, one handed, with a good deal more force than was needed, and flipped them over to thaw on the other side.

The phone rang.

"This better be good" she growled, without preamble.

There was along pause, then a rather amused voice asked "Long day at the office?"

"Not in a good mood, Gabriel. Spit it out or shut it," She ordered.

"Ok," he agreed, rather quickly, "I was thinking about the last vision, y'know, the one you had at my place? I think, I'm not sure, but the Witchblade's been precognitive before hasn't it? What if this is like some kind of precog warning, like a pretender is in the near future. Maybe it's warning you to, like, be on guard or something."

She took a very deep breath, and then let it out slowly. Somehow, someway, somewhere, there had to be a God. She could not imagine this happening by coincidence. There was a deity sitting up there in some sanity-be-damned cloud city with a vat of bourbon and a drafting board for her life. At this point she wasn't sure if she'd offer God another round or strangle him.

"Uh…chief?" Gabriel asked, reminding her that he was still on the line.

"You are a wonderful human being, you know that Gabriel." She sighed, "Guess who just jumped out my window after delivering approximately the same speech only after I shot at him and threatened to plaster my living room with his remains."

"Mr. Nottingham, I presume."

"Yup," she retrieved some garlic and olive oil from the pantry, drizzling them over her steaks, "I don't know whether to run screaming through the streets or go 'postal' with my .45."

"Y'know, on a scale of one to ten, 'postal' would be bad." Gabriel pointed out, and suddenly he processed what she said. "Wait a minute, you shot him?"

"At him," she clarified, "He moved"   

"You missed?" he asked, incredulous.

"No," she grumbled, "He's quick." 

"He might have some good moves, but there's nobody born that can out move a bullet." Gabriel said.

"You mind telling that to him?" she asked. "I don't think he read the book on physics. Come to think of it neither did the Witchblade."

"E doesn't equal mc squared?"

"Not in this cop's life." She grumbled.

"Way to go…Einstein." 

See the button?

Push the button

See the button?

Push the button 

            Thanks