Cidevant

Sara Pezzini had never been the type of girl to dream about her wedding. It had come up, of course, in games little girls played on the playground, writing down lists of numbers and colors and names of boys in their grade, counting off and striking out potential grooms and bridesmaids colors and honey moon locations, and types of cars, until Sara's life had been neatly laid out for her by random chance. Of course, no matter how bizarre those games turned out (and Sara's games usually turned out very, very odd) she never ever dreamed that her wedding would be the kind of thing to show up on the front page of the human interest section of the New York Times.

"This is horrible," she said, resting her head on Conchobar's shoulder and staring out into the amazing sapphire blue waves of the Hawaiian coast. If her wedding was going to be bizarre, her honeymoon might as well be normal, and so the hospital pulled some strings and booked them a two-week rehabilitation program in Hawaii. Sure, she and Conchobar were staying in a hospice across the street from the Hospital, where he spent almost eight hours a day in intensive rehab as Sara did the normal tourist stuff alone. And then at night he always was asleep before eight p.m., so she went out again and played the vigilante, not because she was fighting a particular crusade, but because it felt wrong not to be fighting. Four idyllic days had passed that way and four more were held in promise when the letter came from Danny. It was sealed with a smirk.

"Le'me see," Conchobar said, reaching over and taking the newspaper clipping from her hand. When he saw it he actually laughed which, Sara was sure, all her friends in New York were doing at that very moment. "'Hospital Romance: Coma patient weds cop who saved his life.' Tha's a pretty picture of ya Sara, not as pretty as ya were, but still pretty."

"How on earth . . ." Sara sighed, "Who's quoted in that article?"

"Wanna see who the dirty scoundrel tha' ratted ya out is?" Her husband asked the most magnificent twinkle in his eye.

"Danny, damn him, he was the only one with a camera, he must have sold the pictures."

"He's not mentioned," Conchobar said as he read the article with an impish grin on his face, he looked like he would break out into laughter at any second. "It just says, a friend of the bride said, quote 'This wedding was just meant to be. It was fate.'"

"Well," Sara said, nuzzling closer to her husband. "That's true."

He moved his arm, pulling her closer to him. He kissed the top of her head, taking a moment drink in the smell of her hair, before looking back to news clip. "Helen Carter, an attending nurse, said quote 'It's like a miracle, like a movie. It was the most touching thing I've ever seen.'"

"Oh, I bet she called the paper," Sara sighed. "She balled through the entire thing."

"Tha's right," Conchobar said with a laugh. "Oi, they mentioned that I'm a musician. I should call Sue 'n see if sales 'ave gone up."

"Sue?" Sara asked her voice was cool with a teasing jealousy as she pulled herself away to look at the man she'd married after having spoken to him only twice.

Conchobar laughed, "Me agent, she's old and ugly."

"Good," Sara said, pronouncing the word with cool precision before nuzzling back into her husband's arms. Her husband . . . this was so right.

"But," he said as he stroked her hair. "Even if she were Miss America, I wouldn't be tempted. You are . . . there aren't words for what you are."

"There is a word, Yours. I'm yours."

* * *

Gabriel Bowman was surly in some Buddest conception of hell, they after all, accommodated every imaginable torment. He couldn't think clearly, he could barely see or feel anything, he was only half-alive, if that. And no one could see it, that was the worst part. Some force was pushing his essence aside at will. Someone else was being him, or rather someone else was being themselves in his body. And, if Gabriel was honest with himself, he knew who it was.

Kenneth Irons had taken over his body about a week ago after Gabriel had been lured into checking out CyberFoust.com by a girl who claimed to be a purchaser for an Italian museum of passion. He should of known better, blondes like that don't work for museums, especially in Italy.

Blondes like the one lying across from him on the bed didn't usually work for museums either. They didn't usually go to museums. They didn't usually know how to spell the word museum . . . and this one was no exception. Gabriel looked at her through his own eyes, even though it seemed like he was looking at her from very far away, and felt more week and powerless than he'd ever felt before. He hadn't wanted to sleep with this girl, god . . . he didn't even know her name. But all night he'd watched as he, or Irons seduced her, lulled her into a drunken stupor and then slept with her. Gabriel told himself it wasn't date rape, but he couldn't quite believe it.

And then it was over. The boxed-in, unreal, caged torment he'd been in vanished and he was himself, in his body, lying next to a beautiful girl who's name he didn't know and who he'd just raped. Gabriel just traded one hell for another.

* * *

Ian Nottingham watched his master very carefully. Something was different, something was terribly wrong. Irons had always been one to take pleasure wherever and whenever he could get it. Nottingham would never had called his master a hedonist, for such a classification seemed base and unwarranted, but a utilitarian, yes, Kenneth Irons was definitely that. He saw an end and worked solely for it. His end was life eternal, life everlasting, and a life to be the envy of every man. He usually reached his end. But Irons as he was now seemed more cautious and limited. There were no more beautiful women, no more surreys or rendezvous. Kenneth Irons was all business, and when he wasn't doing business he retired into his room alone, saying nothing.

Ian knew that his master's social life was his own, he knew that pleasures could become dull, he knew that being dead for several months changes a person, so this new disinterest in a plethora of pleasures was not overly concerning. What was unusual was the way he would become distracted, sometimes during the middle of very important meetings, he would develop a somewhat malicious smile and then excuse himself, usually in a rather distracted way, and leave Ian to make up an explanation. Ian had no qualms with lying for his master, and he did not feel the need to even understand why his master needed the lies, but part of him was hurt that Irons did not trust him enough to tell all. It was the hurt, more than the behavior that made Ian suspicious. And a mysterious e-mail from Talismaniac.com which read only "help he's here" provided Ian a place to focus his suspicions.

* * *

Prospero McQueen was a pimp. No one liked him. He was murdered, shot down in the middle of the street. No one was surprised. Danny and Jake, his temporary partner until Sara got back, rounded up all of McQueen's hookers. The squad room was a mess. Everybody was inconvenienced. Nobody was bereaved.

"Anyone in the employ of or otherwise aquatinted with Prospero McQueen please raise your hand," Danny yelled into the discontent and scantily dressed mob. Everyone raised their hand.

Jake sighed, "Anyone not acquainted with Prospero, please raise your hands."

No one raised their hand.

"Oh yeah," Danny said. "This is gonna be a very long night."

* * *

Gabriel started burning things. He already wiped his computer of all its links, all its e-mail addresses but he still didn't feel safe. Well, no, he never felt safe. At any moment his body could be usurped by a power hungry lunatic who would stop at nothing to steel a very powerful talisman from his best friend. But if he could erase all means of reaching anyone he loved, if he could just destroy the paper trail, maybe he could at least feel that everyone he loved was safe.

Gabriel burned his address book, and his high school yearbooks, and every letter he had ever saved from anyone; his dyeing grandmother, his first love, his best friends from high school . . . every trace gone. He could feel the heat from his little bon fire on the roof of his apartment building, and he could smell the smoke. He was him, Gabriel, not Kenneth Irons. He, Gabriel, was doing rapidly what he was sure Irons would do in a very long drawn out, painful way. He, Gabriel, was destroying all records of his life and of himself. And he, Gabriel, was crying.

* * *

Charlene sat playing with the hem of her very short dress. Danny and Jake looked at her curiously from the other side of the one way mirror.

"She knows," Danny said softly. "She saw it."

"How can you tell?" Jake scoffed. "You haven't even talked to her yet."

"She's to quiet."

"Maybe she's just not a flamboyant person."

"She resisted arrest, demanded to see a warrant."

"So, she knows her rights. Besides, no one wanted to come in here. They could all be charged with resisting arrest."

"None of them demanded to see a warrant."

"None of them know their rights. It's not illegal to be smarter than the average hooker."

"No, no, she saw who did it and she's scared to death they'll come after her. She thinks they know she's a witness."

"Danny," Jake said, exasperated. "Come on, this, this . . . you haven't even asked her a question. How could you possibly . . ."

Danny turned to look at Jake, his dark brown eyes were sharp and focused silencing any objections Jake would make. "She didn't want to come in because it was a cop who killed McQueen, the only reason she came in when there was a warrant was because she knew that a dirty cop wouldn't take the trouble to get one. While everyone else was making a show of themselves she stayed quiet, in the shadows, out of sight, just in case the dirty cop walks in she doesn't want to be seen. She was looking around the station the way a rat looks around the room for a cat. A cop did this guy, and she knows who it is."

"I still think you're deducing an awful lot from the way she's playing with her skirt."

"Alright," Danny said gamely. "What you wanna bet?"

Jake laughed and looked away, when he looked back Danny was still starring at him gamely. "I thought gambling was illegal."

"You gonna arrest me detective, come on, ten bucks, twenty?"

Jake was shocked by Danny's determination. He was never this way when Sara was around, he always seemed to let her take charge. "A beer," he finally blurted out. "After work."

"Fair enough," Danny said. "I bet you a beer that the first thing out of her mouth when we walk in isn't 'I didn't kill him,' or 'I don't know anything,' but 'I didn't see it happen.'"

That, to Jake, seemed like an extremely safe bet. "Alright," the younger man said. "You're on."

They walked out of the observation room and, right before Danny opened the door he turned to Jake, "I like Philsner Urkel and refuse to drink anything on tap."

Jake smiled and nodded, "I'll keep that in mind."

Danny opened the door, let Jake in, and before he could close it Charlene said, in a very timid voice. "I wasn't there."

"Excuse me?" Jake said, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"I didn't see anything," She said, glancing up, before quickly returning her attention to the hem of her dress. "The shooting, I didn't see it happen."

Jake glanced up at Danny, amazed, the Asian man just smiled.

* * *

"Hi Gabriel!" Sara said to her best friend's voicemail. For some reason, Gabriel had been nigh impossible to get a hold of for the last few weeks. Sara would have been worried if she weren't so preoccupied with her wedded bliss. "I'm just here at the base of an active volcano and, ah, I thought of you. There are these teiki gods around and at the luau they tell these legends about ghosts and spirits and stuff and, well, I think of you. I don't wanna say 'wish you were here' because I don't, really. . . . but it'd be nice to talk to you. See how you are, you know. I've, ah, well, you're my friend and I'm starting to miss you, that's all. You know, it's great at night, but during the day he has to go to rehab and physical therapy and all that so I get a little lonely. If you ever feel like calling I've got my cell, it's on. . . . so, yeah, buy."

* * *

Irons, that is to say, Gabriel, was at a club again. Gabriel, the essence of Gabriel, the real Gabriel, the Gabriel who had no control, hated clubs. He didn't like the blaring noise, he didn't like the flashing light, he didn't like the heavy smell of smoke, and he didn't like the people that went to clubs.

"Hey, Kenny!" an anorexic girl with obviously died red hair said as she threw herself at him. The real Gabriel was almost glad he couldn't feel the kiss.

"Well, Dianna," Kenny said using Gabriel's voice. "How splendid you look tonight."

She laughed, it was hollow: everything about her was hollow. "It's all for you. Wanna dance," she said. She was trying to be a temptress, if Gabriel could have, he would have laughed. By this point he knew that Irons liked to be the one who was in power, he couldn't stand not being in control. A temptress had power over those she seduced, Dianna would never win Kenny with that trick.

* * *

Charlene was not detained for further questioning; in truth she'd said nothing that warranted it. But before she left Danny took her aside and spoke to her in a very low voice. "Of the record, I know what you saw."

"I didn' see anything," the girl insisted, nearly in tears. She wasn't very believable.

"I'm not one of them, one of the cops McQueen was paying off. And you know I'm not the one who killed him. I want to protect you."

"I just want to be left alone."

Danny nodded compassionately, "You have every reason to be scared. We're not holding you to protect you. But you know, if we could lock these guys up, that's the only way you'd ever be safe."

"I can't stay here."

"I know," Danny said, his voice very quiet, very kind. "But, if you try to leave the city we're gonna have to pick you up, and lock you up. Stay low, but stay in the city. And if you ever, ever feel scared, or see the guy, just call me. On the back's my cell number, it's always on. Ok?"

Charlene nodded. "Ok," she managed to choke out.

Danny nodded and smiled and put a supportive hand on her shoulder. "Ok."

* * *

"Master," Ian Nottingham said with his head bowed in supplication.

Irons looked down at him like an ungrateful God, "Yes, Ian, what do you want?"

"I am concerned for your welfare."

"My welfare?" Irons was almost laughing, "Ian, I have returned from the dead, renewed, invigorated, and wiser. I will not question the will of the Witchblade any longer, I will waist no more time on Sara Pezzini. Let her and her husband enjoy their lives for as long as fate sees fit."

"Master, I did not raise any concerns about the Witchblade," Ian said carefully. He was extending himself on to very thin ice.

"Of course not, you're sill infatuated with her. You always will be you know. But she has found someone else, someone who is not you, Ian, and he has made her content."

These statements, though they were all true, were clearly said to hurt Nottingham. But Ian had been ready for such a forward attack. Like a good servant he knew his master well. Emotional, financial and physical manipulation was Irons stock in trade. He never lifted a finger yet he moved worlds. Ian sensed a greater manipulation going on, but he could not sense what it was. Still, he could not confront his master, that was too forward. Their relationship did not work that way and would, most likely, be terminated by the quick slashing of a knife across his throat.

"Run along, Ian," Irons said dismissive. "I do not need your ignorant concerns cluttering my day and as childishly sweet as they appear, I assure you that they are, in fact, childish. Surly I am better served with you elsewhere."

"As you wish, Master," Ian said, bowing low again and backing away. Far from alleviating Ian's concerns, Irons had magnified them with his cool flippant remarks. However, Irons had underestimated his servant, a very foolish thing for any man to do, and as Ian walked down the street, wrapped conspicuously in his black overcoat, he tried to determine the best way to exploit Iron's mistake. As he wandered, the boy, Gabriel Bowman's, e-mail found it's way into his stream of thought. It was an odd e-mail to receive from anyone, particularly someone placed as Mr. Bowman was, on the bridge between the present and the past, myth and reality. Ian found himself turning right and taking the eastbound subway to the Talismaniac showroom.

He entered the dimly lit warehouse as the tune 'Sprit in the Sky' met his ears and for a split second, he hesitated. Ian Nottingham knew enough about his life to know that Deja Vu was more than a trick of the mind or a random sensation. He had entered this room and heard this music before, perhaps in another timeline or a past life. All in all, the feeling was disconcerting.

"Hey," Gabriel said, walking out from another room. He stopped cold when he saw Ian, "Ah . . . Mr. Nottingham."

Ian's eyes narrowed as he looked at the boy, Gabriel was worn. Their were bags under his eyes, a cautious nervous look in his eyes, his hands shook ever so slightly and his voice had the distinct tone of one who was hunted. "Mr. Bowman, I was wondering if I could impose on you to make another transaction for me."

"Really?" Gabriel said, nervously. "You, or your boss?"

"You refer naturally, to Mr. Irons."

"Yeah, I refer to him."

"This perches is to be outside Mr. Irons sphere."

"Under his radar?"

"Precisely."

"Can't do it," Gabriel said simply. He sounded ashamed.

"I was under the impression, Mr. Bowman, that you could do anything."

There was a heavy silence. Gabriel looked at the ground and swallowed hard, Ian's steady gaze tried to cut through the boy's defenses and see the truth of the situation. A truth which, Ian was sure, was intimately connected with Irons.

Finally, Gabriel looked up, his gray eyes had just a spark of anger, but no more than a spark. The flame had been doused by fear and exhaustion. "Did he send you?"

"Irons?"

Gabriel nodded.

"Will you believe me if I say no?"

It was Ian's turn to be examined with critical piercing eyes. It was an odd sensation, to be searched and measured, very few people had the bravado to try. Ian stood patently letting the boy's eyes search, knowing full well that anything worth finding was buried deep enough to stay hidden.

Finally, Gabriel spoke. "He wouldn't need to."

There was another pause as Ian tried to figure out what that was supposed to mean. Irons did nothing alone. In every endeavor he needed other people; such was the disadvantage of power through manipulation. "What power does he hold over you?" the dark man asked. Ian was not trying to be threatening, but he did not succeed in that endeavor.

Gabriel took a step back. "I think he'd kill you. I don't know, I don't know him, but . . ." Gabriel's voice trailed off. Ian could see that, for a moment, the boy was lost in his own memories. Ian also noticed that he started rubbing his hands on his jeans, as if he were trying to rub off a stain.

"You are correct in assuming that my Master wouldn't hesitate to remove me from any situation where my presence hindered his goals. What you need to know, Mr. Bowman, is Sara will return. I cannot ally her in her cause, nor can I disobey my masters will. Still, I live with the certainty that in all situations Lady Sara will find her own way and be triumphant."

Gabriel looked up at Ian with an expression that, Ian assumed, signified a broken heart and a broken will. It would surly have sent Sara into a bout of motherly compassion or perhaps murderous rage. It invoked little to no emotion in Ian. "Sara," the boy said softly, he blinked a couple of times and scratched his head. "Sara," he muttered again and then, inexplicably, turned around and disappeared into the back room, leaving Ian alone.

To be continued . . .