(Author's note: I guess I'll have to try humor more often! Glad you enjoyed the last chapter- and to those who noted the appeal of 'innocent Ian'- Loki summed it up nicely. That is the draw of this character for me- that terrible innocence that can manifest in the most lethal of forms. A further note- I WILL finish this story- barring death or dismemberment. I only write on the weekends, so updates may be a little slow. Figure one chapter per week. And yes, this one was slow in coming, but it ended up being much longer than my usual. It also took a kind of perverted turn that I hadn't foreseen- but sometimes stories do that. I hope you enjoy, this chapter is a bit different.
-PS-- while I'm 'noting', I just read a brilliant WIP on another website. It's a Highlander x-over called 'Digitabulum Magae'. I'm not normally a fan of x-overs, but this one is impressive. Here's a link to the main site- but note, it is slash: http://www.wordsmiths.net/MacGeorge/ . Look under 'Works in Progress'. )
Chapter 4
"So what do you think of the place?" Robert asked, holding the front door open and motioning Ian inside.
Pausing in the foyer, Ian took in the curving staircases that flanked both sides of the oval entryway, the perfect symmetry drawing his eyes upward to an antique chandelier. "Antebellum architecture? It's not what I expected, sir. Not this far north."
"Yea, well that's what happens when you marry a Southern girl. Susan wouldn't live in a home without columns. We searched for almost a year before we found this old relic. It predates the Civil War."
"So does the security system, sir," Ian replied as he followed Robert into an informal living room to the right of the foyer.
"Ian, did you just make a funny?"
Turning from his inspection of the antique shotgun mounted above the fireplace mantel, Ian linked his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders. "I'm serious, sir. The front gate is useful only as a decoration and you have a stock ADT alarm system on the front door that can be disarmed by anyone who buys the manual. The need for such a manual is a moot point, given the two open windows on the second floor."
"You're always serious, Ian," Robert said, pulling a bottle of bourbon from the dry bar. "Knock it off. The security system is there to keep the teenagers from stealing the stereo system when we go out of town on vacation. It's not meant to repel marauding ninjas."
Dropping his head, Ian nodded, his acquiescence somehow conveying the message that marauding ninjas were a more likely threat than might commonly be believed.
With a resigned sigh, Robert filled a tumbler to the brim. "Bourbon or scotch?"
"I don't usually drink sir."
"Guess I don't have to worry about which wine I pick for dinner," Robert muttered philosophically, taking a deep swallow and trying to relax. "Do you have any vices at all?"
The hint of a smile creased Ian's lips. "Aside from the occasional homicide?"
Chuckling, Robert loosened his tie and settled in on the leather couch beside the bar. "See, I knew you had a sense of humor. Take a seat and get comfortable. The kids will be here soon, and all hope of peaceful conversation will die an ugly death."
Somewhat stiffly, Ian joined him on the couch, his head snapping up at the distant sound of car doors slamming.
"Brace yourself," Robert warned, smiling as the front door burst open.
The sound of barking dogs and skittering nails was accompanied by the high-pitched shriek of children's voices and the pounding of tiny feet. Invading armies made less noise. Ian's hand crept under his jacket, seeking the reassurance of his trusted Glock. For once, his weapon failed him. Not even the best in Austrian craftsmanship could hold back this rampaging horde.
Two English Setters led the way, bee-lining for the strange intruder on their couch. One step behind them, a small sweaty boy in a white gi yelled out "Dad's home! Dad's home! Kiyaaaaa!" before launching himself into the air. Ian grimaced in silent sympathy as a bony knee drove into Robert's stomach, but the older man didn't seem to mind. Wrapping the boy in a tight hug, he kissed the top of his damp head.
"Ian, allow me to present the next lord of the manor, Robert Jr. He's known as 'Bobby' to his friends and as 'The Kung-Fu Master of Death' to his enemies. Bobbie, say hello to Mr. Smith."
"Hello." Sticking his hand out, Bobbie flashed an exuberant grin that was an exact match for his father's. Somewhat bemused, Ian carefully returned the handshake.
"And you've already met my real security team. That's Lucy and that's Ethel," Robert continued, pointing at the dogs who rubbed against Ian's legs. "You can see why I'm not too worried about the alarm system."
Ian glanced down and one of the dogs immediately flopped over on her back, begging to have her belly rubbed. When he ran his fingers over the soft white fur, the dog's legs began kicking away as she squirmed happily at his feet. Jealous of the attention her sibling was receiving, the other dog poked a cold nose into the side of his face, a sloppy tongue lapping at his ear. "Yes, they are very... intimidating."
"The Lord be praised, you are actually home on time," a smooth, feminine voice drawled. Standing in the doorway, a petite woman with dark curly hair and skin the color of honey looked on in amusement. A little girl clung to her leg, peeking up at Ian as if uncertain he should be there.
"Hey, I'm trained to follow orders," Robert replied. "Susan, I'd like you to meet Ian Smith, one of my new recruits.
Instantly, Ian rose to his feet. Arms behind his back, he made a formal bow. "I am honored."
Her eyes widening in surprise, Susan unleashed a dazzling smile. "The pleasure is all mine, Ian. Finally, Robert has hired someone with manners! Don't let those heathens at the temple of testosterone pervert you, dear."
"No ma'am," he replied, keeping his head respectfully down as she walked past.
Feeling distinctly out of place, Ian held steady as tiny Adidas clad feet tiptoed into his field of view, advancing until they touched his black boots. The girl child who belonged to the feet craned her head back, staring directly into his down-turned face.
"Hello."
"That would be Jenny," Susan said. "Future breaker of hearts."
"Hello," Ian replied, managing a smile that he hoped didn't look threatening.
"They won't let me spar with the big boys. Sensei says I have to be at least ten years old. Do you think that's fair?"
"You're too little, Jenny. You'd get creamed!" Bouncing out of his father's lap, Bobbie flopped on the floor next to the dogs.
"I would not!" Crossing her arms across her chest, Jenny shot Ian a look that dared him to disagree. It was a look that was strangely familiar, and he wondered if all women had such fiery tempers or only the ones that surrounded him.
Years of experience had taught him that there was only one way to deal with such women- complete and total surrender. Taking a step back, he went down on one knee before her. "I believe the loss is entirely theirs, princess."
Jenny beamed at him, then turned around and kicked her brother in the back. "See, I told you!"
"Mom!" Bobbie's complaint was cut short as he stormed out of the room, in hot pursuit of his fleeing sibling.
Ian simply crouched there, feeling homesick and not knowing why. Home had never been remotely like this. A friendly nose jabbed him in the ear, and he finally rose to his feet, looking to Robert for direction.
"I warned you it was a zoo." His arm was curled around Susan's waist as she leaned against the side of the couch and it was clear from his expression, he wouldn't have it any other way.
"You will stay for dinner, won't you? I want to hear all about you, because I tell you now, if you are single, I know some ladies who will be dying to meet you!"
"I figured we'd put Ian up for the night, if that's okay with you. He's new in town and hasn't settled in yet," Robert answered for him.
"Plenty of room. Make yourself at home, Ian," Susan replied, tugging herself free from Robert's resisting hands and moving toward the kitchen. "What is it you do, anyway?"
"Security," Robert and Ian replied, in perfect synchronicity.
Halting in the doorway, Susan shot Robert a withering look. "You put this sweet boy to work with Frank? Robert, how could you?"
It was clear that there was no appropriate answer to the question, and Robert gave a helpless shrug. "It's Ian's fault, honey. He's the one who's a security specialist."
Her glare suggested forgiveness had yet to be achieved, but without further comment, she disappeared into the back of the house.
Letting out a long sigh, Robert picked up his glass, raising it in mock salute. "Never fall in love with a woman, Ian. It's cheaper and less painful to just cut your balls off with a rusty knife."
Turning his attention to the floor, Ian muttered under his breath, "Where were you three thousand years ago?"
*************
"Well, I'd say you met with the family's approval, Ian. Jenny's got a crush on you, Susan gave you the last piece of pecan pie, and Bobbie thinks you're the next Jet Li." Opening the bedroom door, Robert flicked on the lights as the two dogs immediately took up residence on the queen-sized bed.
Ian stood just behind Robert's shoulder, silent and watchful.
"You have no idea who Jet Li is, do you?"
"No sir."
"Ian, seriously, you have to get out more. You going to be okay bivouacked here tonight? There's a connecting bath, everything you need should be in it."
"Mr. Jameson, this isn't necessary. Bringing me here..." Ian trailed off, tucking his chin against his chest.
Turning around, Robert put his hand on Ian's shoulder, ignoring it when the man flinched. "Ian, look at me."
Reluctantly, the man complied. His dark eyes were intense and dangerous, and Frank's warning rang in Robert's ears, '...the last mistake you ever make'.
"Every man under Frank's command was in the service. Every one of them, I would trust with my life. It's why I assigned you to him, and it didn't have a damned thing to do with your training. Those boys are family. Family takes care of its own, Ian. That's why I brought you to my home. Do you understand?"
"I understand loyalty, sir," Ian replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't understand why you chose me."
"You trusted me not to have the police waiting for you this morning. Why did you do that?"
"I have very little left to lose, Mr. Jameson. I could afford the risk. Can you?"
There was an unstated warning behind those words, and Robert felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "I have a lot to protect, Ian. That is why I chose you."
If he expected a reply, it quickly became evident he wasn't going to get one. Shaking his head, he dropped his hand from the other man's shoulder. "Get some sleep, Ian. We've got work in the morning."
*************
Laying his clothes carefully out on a nearby chair, Ian crawled into the bed. Grudgingly, the dogs gave way. Meditation was an impossibility. He needed a good workout, needed to push himself to the point of exhaustion and beyond. That wasn't going to happen tonight, so he stared at the ceiling and wondered what Kenneth would say.
Jameson was a fool. There was no doubt about it. He had hired him knowing only that he was capable of killing, swiftly and efficiently. That was fine if all the job entailed was a bit of wet work, a quick payoff, and no last names to complicate things when the authorities came around. Irons himself had made such arrangements when Ian's schedule had been full. One did not, however, bring hired killers home for dinner with the wife and kids.
The silky head of one of the dogs nuzzled against his bare stomach. He scratched its ears and debated leaving town. Irons might have died due to his weakness. Sara might have died. Neither had, he was sure of that. It didn't mitigate his failure. The last thing he wanted was to be responsible for another family. He hadn't even been loyal to his own.
He could feel her now, restless in repose. The witchblade reached out across the miles, wrapping itself around him and pulling him deeper. He didn't resist, wasn't certain he could if he wanted to. Tonight, he would be with her in dreams.
He recalled the desert heat, the sun that sucked the moisture from his bones. Her name had been Devorah, and she had called him down from the hills with a power he could not deny. A thousand years before the birth of Christ, she had led her people to victory and she had done it without a sword.
The witchblade balked, its anger a palpable force. This was not a history it had enjoyed. Breathing deeply, he settled further into the bond, as much a part of Sara as was the blade that joined them. Let the blade be angry, this would be his gift to her.
His right wrist burned with the promise of future retribution, but he concentrated on the dry wind against his face and the white sand below his horse's hooves....
His mount shifts beneath him, made restive by the cool morning air. With an absentminded touch, he gentles the horse, his gaze still fixed on the woman beside him. "Jabin's chariots will tear through our ranks, Devorah. There is no hope of victory here."
"Do you doubt the word of God? He sent you to me, lightening bearer. Do not allow your faith to waver now."
Her green eyes continue to stare out across the Jezreel Valley. Placid and calm, she is immune to the concerns of the flesh. He is not. "I did not come here for God, Prophetess. I came here for you."
Fear flashes in the depths of those eyes and she puts a hand to his lips, intent on silencing him. "Your heresy will be punished."
He burns at the touch, the need for her searing his veins. Grabbing her wrist, he draws her close, feels the jewel pulsing against his palm. Its rage pours into him, sharing with the deliverer what its wielder refuses to hear. "Is this not punishment enough?"
"I belong to God, Barak. It cannot be."
The sadness in her tone is bitter comfort, paling beside the steel in her words. Releasing her hand, he nudges his horse away. It is as futile as trying to escape the sun- the heat might lessen, but it is ever there. Bowing his head, he can only nod in submission. "I will ready the men. We await your command."
"Barak, the rains will come. The Canaanites will fall. It has been foretold."
Pausing, he looks down at the valley floor. The sand is cracked and hardened, already beginning to bake beneath a cloudless sky. "It matters not, my lady. Your will shall be done."
*************
Red clay mud cakes his sandaled feet, the blood of his enemies staining his armor to black. He plunges his sword into the sand outside the entrance of her tent. His very presence defiles her, but to bring weapons into her house is profanity he can easily avoid.
Entering the tent without asking, he ignores the servants as they shy away in fear. She awaits, ethereal and untouchable. Falling to his knees, he locks his hands behind his back, wise enough not to trust himself in her presence. She is not so wise. His eyes betray his will, and he watchs with unbridled admiration as she comes to him.
The white silk gown flows over her curves, luminous in the light of the torches. The olive skin of her bare arms gleams like beaten copper, hair as black as midnight cascading down her back in one thick braid. She is unadorned but for the golden cord around her waist and the bracelet that encircles her wrist. Chaste. Pure. Invoilate. She wears her faith like a shield and he curses the God who would keep them apart.
"Arise, Barak. It is I who should pay you homage. The Cannanites are defeated?"
He stays where he is, dropping his eyes and nodding. "It was as you foretold. The rains poured from the heavens and the chariots were trapped in the mire. It was a slaughter. Ten thousand or more lay dead on the sand."
"And Jabin?" If the death toll bothers her, it doesn't show in her voice.
"Jabin is dead, Prophetess. My only regret is that it was not by my hand."
"Have no regrets, Barak. You are a true and faithful servant of God." She says the words fondly, ruffles his hair as one would a young child or a particularly faithful dog. The jewel flares to life, the touch of skin on skin stoking its fires.
She pauses and he can read the visions as they shift behind green eyes. Bodies, writhing before the firelight. Fevered flesh and frenzied screams as they merge. An unholy trio, consummating a union that needs no god. They will purge the land in a sea of blood and nothing will stand before them.
Her breathing quickens, her fingers trailing across his cheek. Brushing back a lock of hair from his face, she gazes into his eyes with a passion that matches his own.
It is all the encouragement he needs. His calloused fingers catch her hand, his thumb rubbing against her palm. With infinite slowness, he presses dry lips to the back of her hand, waiting for her inevitable rejection. Instead, she pulls him to his feet, nestles her head against his armored chest.
"This is wrong, my love. This is not what God intends." Her arms pull him tight, giving lie to her words.
With gentle hands, he tilts her head to face him. "What do you intend?"
She hesitates, amber fire flickering behind the green ice of her eyes. "Not this," she whispers, and for the first time, it is a request and not a command.
Honey and sweet wine. She will taste of honey and sweet wine, and once he takes her, they will never be apart. Drawing a ragged breath, he pulls away. "As you will, my lady. I must see to my men."
The stone on her wrist screams in frustration, its need twisting inside his mind, making him the weapon that it longs to be. Gritting his teeth, he endures the violation. If this is the only way he can be bound to her, then so be it.
The pain in his arm streaked white-hot, blotting out the desert sun. Chewing on the inside of his lip, he held back a moan of pain and waited for Sara's slumber to deepen.
Devorah. For a hundred and twenty years, she had led the children of Israel, and in that time, she had never taken a life. She had never needed to, for he had stood at her side.
When he carried her body from her deathbed, she had been as beautiful as the day her first saw her. It was the last time he had touched her in that life. It had been the first time he touched her in a hundred years.
He had ridden into the mountains and waited for God to take him too.
It had been a very long wait.
The witchblade hissed in his ear, no more pleased by the memory than he was. He ignored it, just as he ignored the fire that pulsed through the veins of his arm and the need that tightened his groin. Pushing the dogs away from his sweating body, he headed for the bathroom. Mocking laughter followed him. He ignored that too.
Resting, his forearms against the cool tile of the shower stall, Ian cranked the icy spray to full blast. It wouldn't numb his mind, but it might numb his body. He'd take what comfort he could get.
Stifling a groan, he acknowledged his folly even as his body began to shake. There was only one thing that could take away this incessant, inescapable ache and she was forever beyond his reach.
"You seek to reject me, and then lay the blame for your betrayal at my feet? Your hubris knows no bounds, Paladin." Sara's voice, sibilant and seductive and very, very dangerous.
Shuddering, he clenches his eyes tight shut. If he doesn't look, maybe it will go away. "Get out of my head," he whispers.
Soft laughter echoes from the walls, her warm breath teasing across the bare skin of his shoulder. "Not in this lifetime or the next. When the earth is nothing more than a burned out cinder circling a dying sun, we will stand together on the barren plains and curse the coming darkness. It is your fate, my love. Embrace it. Embrace me."
Silver-tipped nails scrape across his ribs, twisting his unresisting body around. Her left hand pins his arms above his head, while metal clad fingers brush lightly across his closed eyelids. With exquisite patience, her body presses against him, the heat she radiates all consuming.
"Sara doesn't want this," he croaks, the words sticking in his throat. "Neither do I."
He can feel the purr of her laughter, and swallows hard as she drops her free hand to his groin. At first, the touch is gentle, cool steel skimming the uncut skin of his erection. Inexorably, the pressure increases, her fist tightening until there is nothing left of pleasure but the hope of eventual release. He forces his eyes open, too proud to beg but too weak not to want to.
She is smiling up at him, reveling in the moment. "You lie- on both counts."
It is Sara's body, naked but for the flowing quicksilver that clings to her curves with a lover's possessive touch. Sara's body, but not Sara's will. Her eyes are insane, shining with the blade's red fire. Rage and hunger vie for supremacy in those seething depths, and he will never know which it is that inspires her attack.
The air explodes from his lungs, white tiles cracking as his back slams against the shower wall. Slumping in her grip, his arms pinned helplessly above his head, he lashes out while he still has the will to fight.
His knee connects with her belly, a blow that would drop the strongest of men. It serves only to deepen her smile, heighten the color in her cheeks. "That's one of the things I always love about you- your need to make things more difficult than they have to be," she hisses, jamming herself between his legs and forcing his stance wider.
The liquid essence of the blade flows from her body to his, joining them together in a profane union of metal, flesh, and blood. Alien and malevolent, it invades him in a way that is utterly familiar and utterly right. With a spasmodic jerk, his hips thrust forward in a vain attempt to find relief. She rewards him with her sharp teeth, clamping down on his right nipple just hard enough to draw blood. When she pulls back, he is not surprised to find that the witchbade's tendrils still hold him firmly against the wall.
"We have missed you too, Watcher. Tell us you will return, and all will be forgiven."
His teeth grind together, holding back the words she wants to hear. He won't fail again. He won't allow himself the option.
Temperance has never been a quality attributed to the blade. There is a reason for that. The metal that wraps his wrists begins to tighten. He can feel the blood trickling down his arms, as first skin and then muscle gives way before the onslaught. His defiance only seems to spur it on, and he can hear his bones as they begin to splinter.
"Does the pain alleviate the guilt, Ian?," she whispers in his ear. "Is that what Irons has taught you? Kenneth is a beautiful boy, but he has seen only what we allowed. He cannot absolve you, Ian. Redemption is found in us. Only in us."
Desperately, he struggles to wake up. His mind knows it's possible, but his body betrays him. Growling deep in his throat, he convulses as she slides his foreskin back and flicks the cleft of his cock with one dismissive finger.
"Is this for me?" The drop of pre-cum shimmers on her fingertip as she raises it to crimson lips.
"The Lady Sara doesn't want this," he pants, mesmerized as she sucks the finger deep into her throat.
"But you do." Smiling a vampiric grin, she kneels down, her hot mouth brushing against his straining dick.
"Yessss," he hisses, throwing his head back in defeat.
"So will she before the night is over."
He screams when she takes him, the molten heat of her more intense than any memory. Looking down at her perfect form, he finds ecstasy mirrored back by blue-green eyes.
"No no no no no," he chanted, crouching on his knees and rocking back and forth. Somewhere far away, Sara moaned in her sleep and a young/old man pleasured himself with a hazel eyed man.
Ian's teeth chattered, his body numb beneath the freezing water. It didn't help. Three quick jerks and he came, nothing of pleasure in the act. With a disgusted sigh, he shoved the shower door open and allowed his body to collapse across the thick cotton bathmat. Pulling a towel from the rack, he tried to rub feeling back into his limbs, distantly noting that the pre-dawn light that filtered in through the bathroom curtains.
Time to get ready for work.
*************
Robert crept quietly into the hall and pulled the bedroom door shut. He was halfway to the kitchen when he sensed another's presence. Spinning instinctively, he found himself nose to chin with his newest employee. "Ian! What the hell are you doing!?"
Retreating a step, Ian took up that weird form of parade rest and fixed his attention firmly on the floor. The man was fully dressed, down to the black gloves that covered his hands. Shrugging broad shoulders, he offered no other response.
"Please don't tell me you stood guard outside the door all night. Ian, am I supposed to trust you or get a restraining order? After last night's conversation, I don't know."
Ian shook his head and flashed him a momentary glimpse of dark eyes. "I haven't been here all night, sir. I wasn't certain when you would require me, so I was here at 6."
Scratching his head, Robert slowly counted to ten. Getting frustrated wouldn't do anyone any good. "Ok- new rule. No lurking outside of my bedroom door. Ever. If my wife caught you, blood would flow. And while we're at it, no more staring at the ground when I'm talking to you, no more calling me 'sir', and when we aren't at work, my name is always 'Robert'. Got all that?"
"Yes," came the subdued answer.
"Yes, what?" Robert snapped, too irritated to be cautious.
Ian's head shot up, his eyes blazing. "Yes, Robert," he replied stiffly.
"Ian..."
"Sir?"
"Nevermind. Come on. You can start breakfast while I put the coffee on. Susan won't get out of bed until I bring her her daily fix. You look like you could use a little caffeine yourself. Rough night?"
"No sir, Mr. Jameson. Nothing out of the ordinary."
With a frustrated sigh, Robert led the way down the hall, wondering why his life was so difficult.
(End note- Barak and Devorah/Deborah are VERY loosely based on folks from the old testiment- Judges, book 4. As far as I know, they were never lovers- and for that matter, I totally made up the fact that a priestess couldn't marry! That said, the legend is the same. Deborah was a 'judge'- a prophetess who talked to God. She summoned Barak (which means 'Lightening') and they went to the Jezreel valley and kicked butt- with a little divine intervention!)