Author's note: Wow! Thanks for all the kind comments on the first chapter. The warm welcome inspired me to get my butt in gear on the second one. It also inspired much guilt, as I suck at feedback- especially on unfinished stories. I shall try to rectify that tonight. There are more than a few stories here that I find deeply intriguing
Chapter 2.
Ian sat cross-legged on the bed, mechanically shoveling steamed rice into his mouth. He'd made a conscious effort to find some real food, not because he cared, but because he knew Irons would be angry with him. He'd lost weight and he'd had none to spare. With a frustrated sigh, he grabbed a short-rib and stripped the meat from the bone. He needed the protein, whether he wanted it or not.
Black and white images flickered on the TV screen. The sound was off, only the roar of the trucks outside disturbing the silence. He didn't need sound, he'd seen this movie a hundred times before. It had been one of the old man's favorite. Curious, given that Irons more resembled the villain than the hero. Then again, not so curious afterall.
The camera panned across an opulent room. Fine furnishings, rich fabrics. The portrait of a beautiful woman. He could relate to the setting. He could also hear the music swell inside his head, a narrator's voice setting the stage.
"I shall never forget the weekend Laura died. A silver sun burned through the sky like a huge magnifying glass. It was the hottest Sunday in my recollection. I felt as if I were the only human being left in New York. For Laura's horrible death, I was alone."
If he concentrated on the voice, he could almost believe he was home. The fire, crackling inside the grate. The lights, turned down low. He'd lean back against his master's legs, receive an occasional absentminded stroke from his hand. That he vied with the dogs for attention was somewhat pathetic, but he didn't care because he always won.
Grunting in irritation, he tossed the empty cartons in the trash. Settling back down on the bed, Ian wrapped his arms around his legs, rested his chin on his knees. This was his favorite scene.
Resurrection. Rebirth. The look on the hero's face when spirit was once more made flesh.
If anything should happen to you this time, I wouldn't like it.
Good movie.
He wondered if Irons were somewhere far away, watching the same shifting images. Would Sara like it? Probably not. Nothing exploded.
I don't deny that he's infatuated with you in some warped way of his own. But he isn't capable of any normal, warm, human relationship. He's been dealing with criminals too long. When you were unattainable, when he thought you were dead, that's when he wanted you most.
Don't believe it, Laura. Men consorted with ghosts only when there were no other options. Laura was wise enough to recognize that truth. Was Sara? Moot point, as his lady didn't care who he consorted with as long as it wasn't her.
At least the movie would give him a happy ending. Staring at the screen, he indulged in the fantasy.
And thus, as history has proved, Love is Eternal. It has been the strongest motivation for human actions throughout centuries. Love is stronger than Life. It reaches beyond the dark shadow of Death. I close this evening's broadcast with some favorite lines...Brief Life - They are not long, the weeping and the laughter, love and desire and hate. I think they have no portion in us after we pass the gate...They are not long, the days of wine and roses. Out of a misty dream, our path emerges for a while, then closes within a dream.
Smiling self-consciously, he flipped the television off and stretched out on the bed. Three hours before he'd have the excuse of needing to get ready for his new job. He'd meditate until then. Sleep was to be avoided. It brought the dreams, and they were something he could do without.
Gazing up at the ceiling, he was harshly reminded that sleep was not required for his dreams.
******************
Sara whirls in place, the blade engulfing her arm. A flash of recognition, and the witchblade retreats, giving him momentary cause for hope. The moment doesn't last long.
He can read her eyes. Fear. Disdain.
WretchedPsychoCrazyBastard.
Freak.
"Lady Sara," he says, bowing his head. She walks towards him and his throat tightens, the blood pounding in his ears in time with her footsteps. "You need protection, but not from me."
"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to sneak up on people?"
His head swings up, their eyes locking. "My mother. Strangely silent in all matters of import."
"What are you doing here, Nottingham?"
Flesh and blood, My Lady. Flesh and blood. But that's not the answer she wants. "I'm saying good-bye to you, Sara."
Wrapping one hand around the witchblade, she covers the suddenly pulsing eye of the jewel. "Why? Where are you going?"
"Does it matter?"
She doesn't answer. It's answer enough. He steps closer and she draws up, as tightly stretched as a bo string. So beautiful. Every lifetime, she is so beautiful. Falling to his knees, he holds up a hand, asks for one last touch. Child of an indifferent god, he is willing to wait forever for this one boon. To his surprise, he doesn't have to.
"Nottingham...."
The heat of her flesh burns through the thin leather of his glove, and the glowing jewel welcomes him home. He touches his lips to the eye of the blade and swears an oath that this time, things will be different. The amber light deepens to the blue-black of blood. Mocking him or agreeing with him, it is impossible to tell.
"You must leave quickly, Sara." Reluctantly releasing her hand, he rises to his feet. "The Witchblade confirms the danger."
"You can't just walk in here, dump this load of crap on me, and then tell me to get lost, Nottingham. It doesn't work that way. Besides, you aren't going anywhere. You're still wanted for questioning in the Parsegian murder."
He shrugs, already striding toward the center of the big room. "As you well know, if you wish me to remain close, you have only to ask. But for now, Lady Sara, you must go."
"Nottingham...."
Anger overrides the fear. He will not lose them both. He will not lose her. "Go now!" She shrinks back from the fury in his glance, and it feeds the rage that screams in his blood.
The heavy tread of booted men drowns out the sounds of her retreat. He takes a deep breath, tries to find his center. He doesn't want to center- he wants to build a fucking shrine to her from the bones of their dead bodies. The acid burn of the rage reminds him that anger is an emotion too.
I forbid you your death.
"Captain Dante. It is truly a pleasure to see you again."
"Where is she? Where's Sara Pezzini?"
The officers fill the room, their guns drawn, their expressions expectant. Out in full force, the only one missing is Jake.
Ian sighs, contemplating the question, watching them from the corner of his eye. At length he finds an answer he likes. "She graces the intersection of primal cause and pervasive entropy."
"What? Listen, freak. Now, I don't give a damn what Irons wants. She's here, or you wouldn't be. Now you tell me where she is or get the hell out of my way."
That this peasant threatens the wielder is a sacrilege he will allow no longer. Ian grins as the officers spread out around him. More than enough bodies to build a shrine. "I believe there's a third option."
"What's that?" Dante snarls, his impatience evident.
"Don't worry, Dante. I intend to kill you last."
The thunder of his guns splits the air long before the threat can register. They had half-expected it, but they are still far too slow. Nottingham rolls, the answering volley chipping the stone floor behind him.
Bodies drop. Some dead. Some returning fire. He curls his legs beneath him, rises like an unholy angel. A startled face, panic blossoming as he takes the man's shotgun. The face disintegrates, and he holds the limp form before him. He can feel the impact of the bullets, blasting his human shield to pulp.
Blood mists the air, screams ringing out as he empties the riot gun. The fusillade slackens, random shots, poorly aimed. Fear makes their hands shake, their resolve crumble. The cattle start stampeding for the door. Cowards all. No one here gets out alive.
His weapons spent, he tosses the bloody remains of his new friend away, the corpse taking down the last man scrambling for the door. Slamming home a fresh clip, Ian stalks forward. The occasional bark of the gun marks his passage and dead men litter his wake.
"And then there was one," he intones, watching with a carnivorous grin as Dante fumbles with a speed loader. Foolish men deserved to die foolish deaths, and Dante was more of a fool than most.
Returning his guns to their holsters, he slips his knife free of its sheath. He wants to feel Dante's death, and a blade is the only way to do it right.
Red-face and snarling, Dante slams the cylinder shut, frantically trying to bring the .45 to bear. "Fuck off, you son of a bitch!"
Lashing out, Ian sends the gun sliding away. Inexorably, he backs Dante across the bloody floor. The anticipation builds in the back of his head, the desire for this kill blinding him to all else.
"Nottingham, stop it!"
Ian's left hand latches onto the bull throat, shoving the policeman against the wall. "I told you to go," he replies evenly, as his fingers begin to squeeze the life from the sweating body in his grasp.
"Nottingham, you've done enough. Let him go! I need him. I need the secrets he holds. There's been enough death!"
She's coming up fast behind him, outrage in her voice. The chilling hiss of metal as the gauntlet forms, but his grip never slackens. "The blade will agree with me, My Lady. This abomination can be allowed existence no longer."
Dante slumps in his hand, the beat of the pulse beneath his fingers growing weak. Too easy a death. Far too easy. Leaning in close to the dying man's ear, he whispers his curse. "May yours be the fate of all who challenge the wielder."
Her arms wrap around his neck just as his blade splits the flesh. One practiced movement, and his work is done. The witchblade hums loudly in his ear, giddy and exultant. That it comes to him as a jewel rather than a sword is no surprise. He is what destiny has forged him to be. The witchblade would expect no less.
He allows her to pull him away, watching as Dante's corpse slides down the concrete wall. The anger slips away with it and his body relaxes, his head falling back to rest in the crook of her shoulder. For one shining moment, the world makes sense.
"Bastard," she whispers, shoving him away. Crouching beside Dante, she feels for a pulse. Dead eyes watch the futile gesture.
"You're welcome," Ian mutters bitterly, surveying the carnage that surrounds them.
"You didn't have to do this." She rests her head in her hands, long hair falling forward to shield her face. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was crying.
"They wanted to kill you, Sara. What did you expect me to do?"
She whirls on him, eyes flashing. "It didn't have to happen, Ian. You killed a dozen men! A dozen cops!"
"And I would kill a thousand more to keep you safe!" he thunders back at her, his restraint shattering.
She stares up at him, her face unreadable. Whatever reply she might have made is interrupted by the distant whine of sirens. "Get out, Nottingham. Go back to your master. Tell him it was a job well done."
His hands curl into fists and he drops his gaze to the ground. "As you will, My Lady."
Halfway to the door, he draws to a halt. Unable to face her, he directs his words towards the floor between his feet. "He's dying, you know. Without your help, he won't last the week."
"Who? Irons?"
The sirens draw closer, urging haste. He's past the point of caring. "You can save him. You're the only one who can."
"I see," she replies, ice in her tone. "So that's the deal. Irons' life in exchange for this... this bloodbath of yours? Is that your price, Nottingham?! "
He shakes his head, glances back. "Will you never understand? Sara, you can't buy what you already own. You have owned me from the start."
It's that look. The look she gets every time he shows her a piece of his soul. Bowing his head, he walks away, waiting for her to tell him to stop.
******************
He was waiting still.
With a muffled groan, Ian stumbled into the bathroom, rubbing at tired eyes. It was almost 6 a.m., not too early to get ready for his new job.
His face stared disapprovingly back at him from the mirror. Shadowed eyes. Unruly beard. He looked like a vagrant. A wretched, psycho, crazy, bastard, freak of a vagrant. Jameson would take one look at him and order him removed from the premises.
Well, at least he could change the vagrant part. Picking up a fresh razor, he started trimming away.
His gods had cast him out. Perhaps it was time to find a new god.
**Note- if you're wondering about the movie reference, it's the 1944 flick, 'Laura', directed by Otto Preminger.