(A/N: sorry this is so slow in coming- I got slammed by exams! This one is more than a bit dark.)
Chapter 6
Robert kept his eyes on the road, but his attention was on his passenger. For a guy who could pass for mute, Ian 'Smith' had a hell of a tendency to draw attention to himself. Stifling a sigh, Robert checked the rearview mirror, searching for some sign of a tail. Nothing. Of course. The damn paranoia was contagious.
"Ian, stop sulking. You've been doing it every time we drive into work and it's getting old." Punching the gas, Robert expertly threaded his 300-SI through the heavy morning traffic. Sneaking a glance at his unresponsive co-pilot, he twitched the wheel and swerved into the passing lane. The tires screeched, Ian's jaw tightened, and Robert grinned as he mentally chalked up a point in their daily pissing contest.
"Susan agrees with me," Ian replied as he scanned the cars flowing by outside. "There is no point in having a driver if you don't allow him to drive."
"Susan just wants me to do my paperwork in the car instead of at home. It has nothing to do with your security training or your driving expertise, Ian. You are so damn gullible where my wife is concerned!"
Ian spared him a wounded look, but gave no other protest. Slumping down in the padded leather seat, he tucked his hands inside the lightweight sweat jacket he wore and refused to be baited.
Robert was willing to bet his stock options that Ian had his fingers wrapped around the butts of those Glocks, just waiting for an excuse to open up on someone. The kid was always wired on the ride into work. It had reached the point Robert had stopped asking if Ian had had a rough night. He now assumed Ian knew no other kind.
"You're sulking again," he chided.
"I am not sulking. I am practicing."
Surprised to get a response, Robert quirked a brow. "Practicing what?"
"The mournful look I'm going to wear at your funeral."
"Well, practice harder," Robert replied with a grin. "You look like you're having an attack of gas. Probably those damn Coco Puffs you eat for breakfast. Grown men don't eat Coco Puffs. You do realize that, don't you?"
Ian flushed and bowed his head. "Sugar is high in energy," he muttered, staring at his boots like a guilty kid.
Crap! Not the head thing again. It had taken the entire month to reach the stage where Ian would hold eye contact for more than five seconds. Robert decided it was time for his daily curse against whoever had fucked the kid up. As usual, calling down a silent litany of plagues, boils and infectious diseases greatly improved his mood. "Ian, you can eat whatever you damn well please. For all I care, you could have a steady diet of nothing but Ring Dings and Yoo-Hoo."
Settling his shoulders, Ian went back to his surveillance of the outside world. "Ring Dings?"
"Yea, Ian. Ring Dings. Don't they have Ring Dings in Siberia?"
Biting his tongue, Robert didn't wait for a reply he knew wouldn't come. "Ring Dings are... Well, have you ever had chocolate soufflé?"
"Of course."
"'Of course I've had chocolate soufflé.'," Robert mimicked under his breath, finally gaining a brief flash of hazel eyes for his efforts. "Sorry. But if you know what chocolate soufflé is like, Ring Dings are exactly not like that. Clear things up for you?"
"Not really, sir. Perhaps Frank could provide additional insight."
"Low blow, Ian. The last person you should ever go to for advice is Frank! Which reminds me, are you riding with me tonight? Thought Frank was taking you out after work?"
"He is," Ian replied. "Jason Morris will escort you home tonight, sir. Frank insists that we celebrate my one month anniversary."
"Only a month? Seems like longer."
Ian started at the comment, and Robert shook his head. "I didn't mean it like that. I just... We've gotten used to having you around."
"No, you're right. It feels like I've been here forever." Starring northward, Ian seemed to drift away. His eyes lost focus, his hands clenched tight. After a long moment, he drew a deep breath, his typical stoic expression replaced by one of longing.
As he pulled the BMW off the freeway, Robert told himself to let the matter drop. He'd been telling himself that a lot lately. Damn... He never had been any good at following orders. "Something's been eating at you ever since I met you, and it doesn't appear to be getting any better. Why don't you tell me what's going on? Maybe I can do something to help."
Ian's face went blank, the emotion draining away as if it had never been. "There is nothing to be done, sir. It won't interfere with my job, you have my word."
"Ian, it's not about the job. But if it's something I can help with..."
"No!" Ian cut him off, angry for the first time Robert could remember. Dropping his head, he struggled to collect himself. "Sir, there's nothing you can do. It's... a family problem."
"You told me you don't have any family, Ian."
"I don't," Ian snapped, clearly uncomfortable with conversation.
"And that's the problem, huh?" Robert pressed, starting to get pissed, though he couldn't say why. "This the same 'family' that's responsible for the scars on your back? This the 'family' that taught you to stand around looking like a dog that's been beat too much?"
Slamming a fist against the dashboard, Ian swung around to face him. "You know nothing of this, Robert! The world you live in... You could not possibly understand."
Swallowing hard, Robert avoided the hot glare of Ian's eyes. "I understand the scars, Ian. I know someone did that to you on purpose. Nothing you could have done deserved a punishment like that."
"It wasn't... it was not a punishment."
"Then what the hell was it?"
For a long moment, Robert didn't think he was going to get an answer. When he did, he could barely hear.
"Penance."
Christ! Ian was defending it. Robert felt the bile rise in the back of his throat, but no argument he made was going to change Ian's twisted view of his past. Keeping his tone purposely light, he replied, "Kid, you need to look into finding a new church."
Ian's offered an ugly grin. "Don't worry, sir. I've been excommunicated. As I said, it won't affect my work."
"It ain't about the work, Ian."
Once more in 'surveillance mode', Ian simply nodded. "I know."
************************
Ian toweled the sweat from his bare shoulders and walked toward the rooftop's edge. For the first time that day, he felt at peace. He shouldn't have snapped at Robert and he most definitely shouldn't have put a fist through his dashboard. Most of all, he shouldn't have been thinking about home. Seemed he was getting very good at doing things he shouldn't do. Kenneth would not have tolerated such behavior for a instance.
And here he was again, thinking about things he shouldn't be thinking about.
Frustrated with himself, he tried to convince himself that this was just another day that could be classified as 'good'. Jason had reported that Robert and his family were safely ensconced in their home, he'd had time for a two-hour workout before the sun fully set, and he hadn't needed to think about drawing a weapon much less taking a life. As Frank would say, two out of three ain't bad.
Linking his fingers in the chain-link fence, he stretched out knotted muscles and allowed his gaze to wander. He loved watching the city as night fell and the Am-Tech tower offered a perfect view. Or at least, it would have but for the blasted fence. Americans and their insatiable need to protect the weak and the foolish from the consequences of their own folly. It was as if the law of natural selection were a foreign concept in this land.
Snorting in disgust, Ian grabbed the top of the six-foot fence and vaulted over, landing lightly on a narrow ledge. A strong updraft pushed back a few escaped tendrils of hair and the building seemed to sway beneath him. Leaning out over the void, he considered the 70-story drop. If he fell from here, not even Irons could put him back together again. Of course, he wouldn't fall and jumping wasn't permitted. A pity, really. The freefall would be magnificent and the landing would put an end to this pathetic charade of a life he was attempting to create.
He paced the ledge, heading north. If he concentrated, he could see the New York skyline just over the horizon. At least, he could pretend to see it. Pretense would have to suffice.
Reaching the corner of the roof, Ian leapt to the top of a concrete pillar and settled down on its warm, flat surface. His legs dangling, he absently ran his fingers over the faint scars that wove their way up his right arm.
Two months since he had left home. Fifty-four days, eighteen hours and twelve minutes, to be precise. Kenneth had always preached the importance of precision- it had been one of his more benign lessons. The ugly welts that scored his back began to pulse- silent sympathy or acrimonious warning, he wasn't sure.
Ian knew Irons was angry. He had been for weeks, his ire polluting their bond like some cancerous growth. He'd nearly picked up a phone half-a-dozen times over the course of the past month. It would have been a relief to hear his master's cultured tones- forgiving him, chastising him, yelling at him... Not that Irons would yell. Kenneth might occasionally hit, but he never yelled.
Driven by a bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with his workout, Ian pulled his knife from its sheath. Careful not to cut the skin, he traced the fine white lines that encircled his wrist. Thousands of dollars worth of plastic surgery had gone into erasing the visible signs of his encounter with the witchblade. At first, he'd failed to see the point. The witchblade was not something one forgot, scars or no scars.
Maturity had brought understanding. The blade's stigmata had been removed so that Irons wouldn't have to look at it. Ian's compensation for the loss had been the mangled skin on his back, his own personal memento of Kenneth's love. It was, in hindsight, more than he deserved.
Too bloody bad. He was keeping the scars. All of the scars.
Smiling a wolf's grin, he slid the knife's tip past the tendons in his right wrist, driving it in until it scraped against bone. The cold bite of the metal was welcomed, and he hoped that somewhere out there, Irons could feel his defiance. Not that Kenneth would care. Not anymore.
His eyes closed, dry and gritty. Yanking the blade from his arm, he wiped off the offending blood and returned it to its scabbard. He could muster the courage for only so much disobedience and the limit for today had been reached. He should go inside, find Frank. Maybe drink some beer, eat some pizza, fuck a woman, fuck a man. Be normal. The charade, after all, must go on.
Instead, he tilted his head back, offered greeting to the rising moon and let the memories flow free.
************************
The boy staggers down the darkened hallway, oblivious to the trail of blood he leaves behind. The void will be filled. He cannot abide this constant need, this empty hole that was created when they ripped the witchblade from his flesh. The siren call draws him on, stronger than loyalty and more permanent than death.
Pushing soundlessly through the double doors, he breaches the inner sanctum. The wielders past stare down at him from the walls, their disapproving faces recognizing him for the pretender he is. Fortunately, their approval is not required. Unfortunately, they are not alone.
With his usual polished perfection, Irons dominates the center of the shadowed room. One hand casually rests atop the glass enclosure that contains the witchblade, but his focus is on the teenage intruder.
"Ian? You should be in bed."
Any other night, the hint of concern in Irons' tone would have sent a flush of pride through him. Irons is the center of his universe, his approval the only quest worth pursuing. But the blade has shown him that his universe is a very small place and Kenneth Irons merely another scrap of human meat.
"It wants me," Ian croaks, sidling forward, his eyes locked on the glowing stone that has summoned him, the heart of chaos calling him home.
"It wants to kill you, Ian. It almost did. Don't you remember?" Stepping in front of the dais, Irons purposely blocks his view.
Blinking in confusion, Ian raises his head and stares up at the closest thing he has to a god. "We remember everything, Kenneth."
Blue-green eyes turn cold, Irons' face a stoic mask. "You are dripping blood on a very expensive carpet, Ian."
"I'm sorry." Instantly contrite, he drops his eyes, his fingers wrapping around the sodden gauze that binds his arm. Swaying back and forth, he is vaguely aware of the pain hidden behind the creeping chill that wraps his bones.
A warm hand squeezes his shoulder, anchoring his reality, fending off the nothingness. "I should never have permitted this. You are too young and the witchblade is made far too angry by its current state."
"I'm fifteen!"
Irons rolls his eyes, his lips quirking in an almost grin. "Exactly. Now, go to bed."
The hand pushes him away, sending him off to his room like the good little boy he is. Ian takes one step back and then halts. "No."
For a moment, they are both shocked. The boy has never denied him, never even considered the possibility. Irons recovers first, his hand snaking out to grab the wounded arm. One vicious twist and Ian is on his knees. "Never forget who is master here."
Like a drowning man, Ian grabs for Kenneth's wrist. Sobbing for breath, he rests his head against the back of the man's hand. "It's inside my head. I can't hear anything else. Not you. Not myself. Please..."
Awkwardly, Irons pats at Ian's shoulder. A moment of hesitation, a brief grimace of distaste, and then he crouches down in front of the boy. "Shhhh," he gentles, pushing back the damp hair that hangs in Ian's face. "The voices will fade with time. For now, you must ignore it. If you don't, it will destroy you."
"The witchblade didn't destroy you," Ian whispers.
Irons manages a rueful nod. "No, it rejected me. That is what the witchblade does- it accepts or it rejects- often with fatal consequences. But with you... It tried to consume you, Ian. To take you over. Your unique genetic structure, your relationship to the wielder... I don't know why, not yet. Whatever the cause, the blade's reaction was not normal. If Dr. Immo had been a little less proficient, we would have lost you."
"It didn't hurt me." Raising his head, Ian gathers the tattered remains of his self-control. Forcing himself to meet his master's eyes, he shakes his head. "Not until you cut it out. It wants to leave. It wants the wielder. You can't keep us here, Kenneth. The witchblade will not be denied forever."
"I can do anything I choose, young Nottingham. To you. To the witchblade. You are both my property. I thought you had accepted that truth long ago." Running a tapered finger along Ian's jaw, Irons studies him as if searching for some hidden flaw.
For once, Ian holds his stare. "I've died before. A thousand lifetimes worth."
The softly spoken words hang in the air. A challenge. A request. Irons is in no mood to gratify either.
"I doubt you enjoyed the experience and I promise that you would not enjoy it by my hand. Have you any doubt of that?"
"No sir," he replies, his too bright eyes losing focus as his exhausted body begins to shake.
"Enough of this foolishness." With an irritated grunt, Irons loops an arm around Ian's chest and pulls him to his feet.
Too tired to fight, too tired to care, Ian leans against Irons as the taller man half-drags him toward the door. Inside his mind, the malevolent fury of the blade twists through his synapses, whispered words stirring long forgotten lives. The memories crash down on him, a red tide of blinding emotion. Ecstasy. Transcendence. Annihilation. No man shall not deny them their destiny. No man shall...
He tries to jerk away, to take his rightful place. Somewhere in the distance, there is the sound of muttered cursing. Strong fingers dig into the muscles at the back of his neck, the arm around his chest tightening until he can feel his ribs start to crack. His opponent is too big, too strong. This is a fight he can never win, but he has waged hopeless battles before.
The polished tiles are slick beneath his feet and he scrambles frantically for a means of escape. In silent desperation, he latches onto a display pedestal. The solid oak column halts his progress for but a moment, then teeters before the irresistible force that pulls at him. Boudica smiles from atop her precarious perch. Cast in bronze, she is just as cold and beautiful and scarred as she had been in life. His doom once before, in this lifetime, she will be his deliverance.
Ian swings hard, every ounce of hard-earned muscle behind the blow. The base of the statue takes Irons in the forehead, staggering him, forcing him back.
Glittering blue eyes, a trickle of blood, and Ian swings again. The old man is too slow to stop him, pain and disbelief robbing him of his defenses. The crack of bone echoes through the cavernous room, drowning out the shrill shriek of the witchblade's vengeful cry.
Panting shallowly, Ian stands tall above his vanquished foe. His master. His father. Through the crimson haze that fogs his vision, he watches the blood flow across the floor in an ever-widening pool. So much blood. Too much blood.
"No," he mutters, rejecting the blade's demands, rejecting the reality that lays at his feet.
Crashing to his knees, Ian slaps his free hand to Irons' forehead. Bearing down hard, he tries to stop the flow, but with every heartbeat, more of Kenneth's life leaks away.
Irons is growing paler, fair skin fading to white, and still the blade is not satisfied. Its lust for its captor's death clots the very air he breathes, demanding that he finish what he has started. His fury flares, purging the voices. All of the voices. Screaming his loathing, Ian slings the blood-spattered statue at the blade. The glass case explodes, shimmering shards falling like frozen tears. In the silence of the witchblade's temple, Ian is left with nothing but the blood on his hands and the knowledge of what he has wrought.
************************
The concrete room is sterile and cold, an appropriate tomb for a traitor such as he. Ian prays to every god he's ever read about that treachery is all he is guilty of. Irons is not dead. He can't be dead.
The pitted surface of the wall in front of him begins to blur and he widens his stance, fights to keep his balance. Three weeks chained to a bed has left him weak and groggy and standing in place for the better part of the day is beginning to take its toll. Is this how they intend to kill him? Let him stand here until he falls? It's too kind a death.
Reaching out with his mind, Ian tries to convey his acceptance, his desire to atone. Silence is the only reply. No surprise. He's becoming use to the solitude in the same way one becomes 'use' to a missing limb. When he'd first woken from his drug-induced sleep, he'd called for Irons and received no response. Not from the voice inside his head and not from Dr. Immo. Recrimination and a hint of fear, that's all he'd seen in the good doctor's eyes. Ian hadn't spoken again and no one had spoken to him. Why should things change now?
The click of a lock warns him that his solitude is coming to an end. Do they realize he isn't dead yet? Ian doesn't move, intent on obedience now that it is too late to matter.
Footsteps, as men spread out behind him. Immo, he can tell by the subtle hint of his aftershave. Someone else, someone big. His executioner? A third man, waiting in the doorway. Goosebumps spread across his naked body and uncontrollably, he starts to shake. Irons. The sense of relief threatens to drop him to the ground.
The faint tread of a leather-soled shoe breaks him from his from his trance. Tucking his chin to his chest, he holds back the words he wants to scream. Words won't make things right. He won't degrade himself further with worthless excuses.
"You healed quickly, Nottingham. More quickly, even, than I did." Standing just behind Ian's right shoulder, Irons takes the boy's arm and traces the angry cuts with a feather's touch. "Of course, your wounds were not nearly so grievous, were they?"
The boy's silence goads the lurking anger to life. Snarling, Irons knots his fingers in Ian's hair, forcing panicked eyes to meet his. "Answer me!"
Gasping for air, Ian hisses, "No sir."
He receives a sardonic grin for his efforts before Irons shoves his head back down, reminding him of his place. The fingers seat themselves more deeply in his scalp and Irons edges closer, hard up against his body. Ian can feel the raw silk of a tailored suit, pressing against his back and thighs. The thready touch of a whispered breath ruffles his hair as cool dry lips press a chaste kiss to the base of his neck. "I loved you like a son, Ian. It is important that you know that."
As quickly as the longed for acceptance is given, it is withdrawn. Pulling away, Irons circles his charge. Ignoring the tight sobs for breath, he cups Ian's chin and again raises his head. He contemplates dark eyes and the unshed tears they hold. "Like a son, Ian. Yet one touch of the witchblade and you become my Judas!"
The blow is no more expected than was the kiss. White pain explodes against the side of his face, knocking him off balance. Unbelieving, Ian dabs his fingers to his lip, stares stupidly at the blood that stains them.
"You are a disgrace."
"I'm sorry," he can't help but murmur as he resumes his pose.
"Yes, you are." The German accent comes to the fore as Irons distastefully wipes the blood from his knuckles. Shaking his head, he walks away from his captive audience.
"I had thought you special, Ian. I believed that you would be the one. But without loyalty... It is fortunate that you can be replaced."
Ian's face aches, his mind befuddled. This, however, is a concept he still comprehends.
Irons senses his raw fear and nods in confirmation. "You are expendable, Ian. As I made you, so can I make another- as perfect as you are and untainted by the witchblade's poison."
Numbly he stands, struggling to breathe as Irons' words suck every molecule of air from his lungs. It's all he can do not to cry, not to beg. It's only right that Irons should have someone worthy at his side. Worthy, he is not.
Ian keeps his head bowed, waiting with infinite patience as Irons returns to stand before him. At least his death will spare him the vision of another taking his place.
"I should put you down, Ian. You are too... defective a creature to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world."
Forcing tense muscles to relax, he anticipates the bullet in the back. He doesn't deserve the grace of a sword and Irons has never granted him anything he didn't deserve. So prepared for pain, the gentle touch of a hand makes him flinch.
"Jensen will take you to the airport and provide you with the necessary funds," Irons says, as he cups the side of Ian's face and runs his thumb across one angular cheekbone. "I want you gone, Ian. Where you go matters not, so long as it is someplace far away from me. Someplace I won't be able to find you on the nights when I sit and remember your betrayal."
Irons is almost to the door before Ian realizes what he's done. Death was an old and familiar enemy, but this abandonment... "You own me. You said so."
His voice is dry and cracked and he barely recognizes it as his own. But Irons doesn't leave, and that's the only thing that matters.
"You broke faith with me. You brought dishonor upon yourself. Upon my house. Tell me Nottingham, what possible penance could pay for your sins?"
It is a reprieve if he can earn it, and he will do anything necessary to win back Irons' favor. Kneeling on the cold ground, he searches for the right words, the words Irons wants to hear. Nothing less than the truth will suffice. "Everything I am. Everything I will ever be. My life, my death. I give it freely, master."
"Get up."
Approval and a savage form of satisfaction. Ian can feel it flooding into him through the link he'd believed was broken. He's passed a test he didn't know he was taking and nothing that happens now can rob him of that. He will be worthy.
"Put your hands on top of your head and keep them there," Irons commands, tilting Ian's chin up before wrapping his hand around the back of his neck.
The approval he yearns for shines down on him from familiar blue eyes. Lacing his fingers together, Ian buries any doubts deep inside. The pose leaves him exposed and vulnerable, and the hand that tightens around the back of his neck serves to reinforce his lack of control. It is exactly the way he is meant to feel, so he accepts it. It is what Irons wants.
"Earn my forgiveness, Ian. Prove to me that you are the one."
He senses the blow before it falls, instinct telling him to twist away. But instinct is what brought him here, and if he's leaned nothing else, it's that obedience is the one virtue Irons requires of him. Standing firm, he feels the whip tear through the center of his back. The air is driven from his body, and only Irons' hand prevents him from falling forward. Numbness and shock are replaced by a swiftly spreading fire, the extent of which he is only beginning to grasp when the bullwhip descends again.
The thick leather sizzles as it rips through the air. Wielded by an expert, it can cut to the bone. For Ian's atonement, Irons would accept nothing less than an expert. The sound of leather on skin fills the room, the sodden thuds of blood-soaked hide followed by grunts of pain that cannot quite be held back. When it is done, the boy is on the floor. Kneeling in his own gore, he takes the proffered hand and confirms his obeisance.
************************
The cool breeze carried him back, despite his desire to stay in the past. It had been his finest moment, and he was loath to let it go. Twenty blows he had taken before his knees had begun to buckle. He'd been so afraid that it wouldn't be enough, but then Irons had pulled him close. He'd tucked his head into the crook of the taller man's neck and been so damned grateful he'd almost cried. Another ten lashes marked him before Irons had let go and he'd slid to the floor. Even now, he felt the surge of pride and triumph as he proved that he was the one. No one else could take his place, his worth branded onto his skin in Irons' obscene version of a signature.
Now that he thought about it, Ian was surprised Irons hadn't had the scars removed before he had dispossessed him. They were the one thing of value he'd been allowed to retain.
"Ian! Hey, Ian! If you're gonna jump, make sure you don't land on my car. Just got it washed!"
"Frank." Ian sighed and let the past slip away. Gathering his legs under him, he stood, peering out over the edge of the building for one long moment. The freefall really would be incredible. Turning away from temptation, he easily leapt from the pillar to the ground beyond the fence.
"Cocky bastard. Bet you haven't even killed anyone today," Frank said in appreciation of his proweress.
"The day's not over yet, Frank."
Frank grunted a laugh. "Well, hold off on the slaughter until we can get some beers in us. I know a great little place. Good whiskey, lots of smoke, and they even have a live band on Fridays. You like Irish pubs?"
"Words fail to express my enthusiasm," Ian replied, deciding that he really did want a beer or twelve. With one last glance to the north, he rejoined the charade.
(End note- if you think the 'Coco Puffs' reference was a nod toward the story 'Truce', you'd be right!)