Notes are at the end, guys.

* * *

That night as Sara sank onto the couch with a cold beer in front of her, she was still wondering. The bullet was gleaming a dull glow on the coffee table where she had tossed it. Her reluctance to include Gabriel struck a chord of familiarity, one she would have preferred to stay silent. "It's not like a leopard can change it's spots in one day," she told herself. No matter how hard she tried, she was a private person and old habits were hard to break.

She set the beer on the coffee table and walked around the apartment, idly touching something here, something else there. Leaning against one wall was the case that held Conchobar's guitar. Setting the case on the floor, she knelt and lifted the guitar out of it, settling it in her lap to play a few chords. A wistful smile graced her lips; he'd been teaching her how to play before he was killed and, while she was still interested, she wasn't interested in looking for another teacher. She had wanted to learn to be closer to him.

She glanced at the swirling Witchblade on her wrist and sighed, putting the guitar away. I can use the Witchblade to talk to ghosts. I talk to Danny all the time. I even talked to Monsignor Bellamy. I haven't used it to talk to anyone other than Danny since then. Why not?

I've been tempted, I am tempted, to ask to talk to my father, Maria, Conchobar. Even my mother. Talking to the dead is a great gift for a Homicide detective, but an even greater one to someone who's basically alone in the world. But I haven't.

I wish I could figure out why. I guess I just see it… For whatever reason, they were meant to die. The circumstances set in motion, their time. I don't know if I want to talk to them, knowing that we're separated. With Danny, we have a common goal regardless of the separation: the Witchblade. I wouldn't with anyone else. Maybe the Witchblade planned it that way.

God, I sound paranoid! Sara laughed, the sound of it strained as she looked at the bracelet she wore. The bracelet that was now controlling how her life played out. Okay, maybe I do, but is that so wrong? It's not like I don't have reason. A slight breeze ruffled the papers trapped under the guitar and she freed them, tears pricking the backs of her eyes as she looked at the scrawled words. It was the last song he wrote before his death, one that the band had used as a tribute to him.

'Oh fate is an unmerciful queen.' Sara laughed again, a familiar pain mingling with black humor. Well, you got that right. She placed the pages back in the case and closed it, leaning it once again against the wall before going back to the couch. Her mind still on Conchobar, she went over how she had met him; the rune which meant his name scratched on the wall of a murder scene. Automatically her mind began replaying the song he had sung that tied into the case as she laid down and stared at the ceiling.

Bid Goddess rise from mists of memory

Rise the fair Cathain

In battle the equal of every man

And every lover disdained.

Sara sat up so quickly that she had a moment of dizziness. She steadied herself for a moment before hurrying back to the guitar case to take out the papers. If she remembered right… There it was. The written lyrics for The Legend of Cathain. Scanning the words quickly, she came to what she remembered.

Till Ulster's sons with sacrifice

Bid her return once more

Trying to remember, she flashed back to the original scene of the murder, the guard who found the first body, who had turned out to be the killer. Brian Reilly. Iona McClearey, his intended second sacrifice, had told Jake that he was wounded Irish Catholic.

Second sacrifice. The Witchblade hissed and glowed, swirling furiously as Sara relived the second sacrifice as a vision. Iona tied to the stone altar, Brian repeating Conchobar's song as he readied to kill her. He had been giving her the murder weapon when he was killed. She left the pages resting on the still open case and went back to the coffee table, picking up the bullet. That was where she'd seen it before! It was the only evidence left of the shooter.

Jake told me he wasn't the shooter, but he was very interested in this. Was he lying? Or does he know something he isn't telling me?

Sara shook her head at the thoughts and drained the now warm beer she had abandoned before going to bed. Hopefully things would look clearer tomorrow. She slid between the sheets, idly making plans to go see Gabriel and spending time figuring out what do do about Jake.

* * *

She watched Jake industriously work across from her, her green eyes watching his every

move as she silently sat at her own desk. The paperwork lay where she had placed dit, her coffee similarly abandoned.

Jake looked up from the papers in his hand and caught her watching him again. "Do I need to brush my hair or something?"

"You always need to brush your hair, rookie," was Sara's automatic response.

Jake put the papers down on the desk and folded his hands in front of him in a gesture of extreme patience. "Why do you keep staring at me?"

"Just thinking." Sara smiled briefly when she saw his surprise. Obviously he hadn't expected her to admit to staring in any way.

"About what?" he asked, knowing that they wouldn't get any work done until she got whatever was bothering her out of her system.

"You."

"Anything you want to know, you can ask." Jake childishly crossed his ankles so the lie didn't have to be followed.

"Really?"

"Of course! I'm your partner. Partners don't keep things from each other," he reminded her, needling her about her own problems about leaving him in the dark.

"Okay," she accepted as she leaned back in her chair and put both booted feet on her desk. Jake followed her example and leaned back in his own chair, the very picture of nonchalance. She waited until he stopped moving and then asked "what was your fascination with the bullet the other morning?"

Jake tensed and tried to continue to give her a carefully studied front. "I already told you, Pez, you don't see many engraved bullets that belong to cops."

Sara nodded vaguely. "I know what you told me, rookie. I'd like the truth."

Jake couldn't sit stil and left his seat to pace in the small confines of the office. "That is the truth!"

Sara watched the pacing rookie, every instinct within her screaming that he was lying.

Jake seemed to realize how guilty he was acting at that same instant and he immediately sat back down in his chair. "It's the truth, Sara."

Sara watched him for a long minute before nodding and starting her paperwork again without saying another word to him. She heard Jake give an almost inaudible sigh of relief and schooled her features into a blank mask, hiding the fact that she knew she couldn't trust him. It was unfortunately; Danny had spoiled her, teaching her that partners are allies no matter what. Her hopes at finding another partner like that were spoiled, as were her plans to teach Jake that fact.

"I really miss you, Danny," she whispered so low that Jake was oblivious to the sentiment as well as the fine tension that now raced through his partners body.

* * *

"Twice in two days, Chief?" Gabriel asked as he came closer to the door with the sign of his online company emblazoned on it. Sara was sitting in front of it, her back flush against the wall and her legs straight in front of her.

In response, she stood up and reached out to take hold of the bottom box in the stack he held, earning her a smile of gratitude as he fished his keys out of the pocket of his jeans to open the door.

"Thanks, Pez. I was gonna have to put everything down and I really didn't want to lift it all again." He opened the door and let her precede him in, flicking on the lights with one hand as he motioned to a space on the floor near a corner. "Just put them anywhere."

Sara followed the request, bending at her knees to put the boxes on the floor carefully since she didn't know what was in them. They were pretty light, but since they belonged to Gabriel, it could be anything.

Gabriel frowned, just noticing her silence and the lack of facial expression. "You okay, Chief?"

Sara nodded jerkily and sat down in the chair he had gestured to.

"You don't seem okay." He said it as a joke, his tone light to mask the worry in his voice.

In answer, Sara reached into one of her coat pockets and pulled out a small object, handing it to Gabriel.

Gabriel automatically accepted it and glanced at it, recognizing it as a bullet. He looked at Sara in confusion, until she reached out and turned it, revealing the engraving. Gabriel glanced at it again before looking up at Sara. "This is why you were asking about bulls?"

"Know anything more now?"

Gabriel looked over at Sara and nodded. "One of my clients is a real conspiracy nut, collects brutality memorabilia. Absolutely hates the cops. He swears there's a group of dirty cops in New York that have an engraved bullet they use to kill people."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "This conspiracy nut give you a name?"

"The White Bulls." Gabriel continued when Sara didn't respond, "you know, he offered me fifty thousand if I could get him a real one of their bullets." Reacting to Sara's glance at him, he lifted his hands. "I'm just curious as to where you got it."

Sara swallowed the lump in her throat. "It was in with some stuff that belonged to my parents."

Gabriel frowned in thought. "Wasn't your dad a cop?" When Sara nodded in response, he followed the logical train of thought. "You think he was a White Bull?"

Sara glanced at him before taking the bullet back and pocketing it. "I don't know anymore."

* * *

Sara picked up one of her framed pictures and looked at a young James Pezzini standing next to a young Joseph Siri. She traced both men, young cops with smiles on their faces ready to take on the world. Placing the picture back on the table, she grabbed her leather jacket and headed out the door. She needed to get rid of some of the tension she felt.

That thought in mind, she headed towards the gym she used occasionally when she wanted to work out but get away from the department. Pulling her Buell up along side a group of buildings, she climbed off and pulled her workout clothes from the saddlebag before entering the rundown building.

Going straight to the women's locker room, a stark concrete room that held only lockers and benches, she changed into the ancient sweatpants and faded sleeveless T shirt before tying her hair up in a ponytail to keep it out of the way and going towards the exercise room. This room was also stark, full of only old equipment, a boxing ring, and some punching bags. It had character and history, something Sara preferred to the weekend only exercise clubs most seemed to favor.

Sara picked one of the punching bags, one located in the farthest corner away from any traffic, and started her workout, pummeling the bag with a desperation born of her anger. Panting slightly, she pulled back from the swinging bag and shook her head. No use getting herself so out of control she'd hurt herself.

She started again, this time taking measured responses and punches at the swinging bag. Shifting her body, she mimicked an actual fighting match, the bag her only outside opponent. Again and again, the wrappings on her hands made contact until sweat began running down her body, soaking into the well worn fabric she wore. Still, she continued until her muscles began to shake with the exertion, at which point she decided her extra workout was over. Still punching, slowly now, she wound down.

Shucking the gloves and picking up the towel she had tossed onto one of the rickety chairs placed throughout the room, she wiped her face off and went back to the locker room, her only thoughts of stripping and washing the sweat off her body with one of the bracing showers she loved about this place.

Once dry and dressed in the street clothes she came in, she left, nodding a goodbye to Frankie, the gym's owner. Not wanting to go back to the confines of her loft, she automatically steered once again to the park she had visited before. Finding her way to the same table she had sat on with Nottingham, she laid down on the wood and stared up at the sky.

The clear night was so similar to the other one that she didn't even jump at Ian's softly spoken question. "What do you see, Lady Sara?"

Automatically, she answered. "I'm not seeing what I'm looking for." She was aware of him sitting down on the bench, in the same sport he had occupied before.

"What are you looking for?"

"Answers." Sara sat up and glanced at him. He wore the same dark trench coat, the same severe ponytail.

Ian looked up to her before quickly looking down again. His shoulders tensing, he seemed to make a decision and looked up at her again, his hazel eyes catching her own. "The answers you seek, Lady Sara, can only be found here," his hand barely stroked her forehead before moving downward and hovering over her heart, "and here."

Sara smiled sadly when he broke the rare eye contact. "I guess you're right." She stood up quickly only to sit back down hard as a wave of dizziness washed over her. She was aware of Ian's arm around her waist, a steady warmth that was her only anchor in the shifting world surrounding her. Finally, the dizziness abated and the world settled itself into it's normal confines. She smiled sheepishly at the assassin who still held her. "Must have gotten up too fast."

Ian reluctantly let go of her and assessed her carefully. Other than being a bit pale, she seemed healthy. "Are you all right, Lady Sara?"

Sara nodded and stood again, this time carefully holding onto the table. "Yeah, I must have worked out more than I should have earlier." She let go of the table when her legs supported her. "I'll probably just go home and crash." She started to walk away before turning, though she didn't really expect to see him still there. "Thanks for your help, Nottingham."

Ian nodded and watched her leave, a frown on his face as she mounted her bike. Making up his mind, he made his way to the dark sedan he had taken from the Irons estate earlier. He'd follow her home, just to make sure she was alright. His caution was unneeded as she made it home in one piece, completely unaware of the man who was following her. He waited outside until the light in her window turned on and he started the car to go back to the mansion he slept in.

Sara changed into her night clothes and turned off the lights, stretching out on the bed. Was he a White Bull? Could James Pezzini, the man who raised me to follow my instincts and do what's right have been part of an organization that takes bribes? It seems impossible, ludicrous. My father never would have done anything wrong. But am I seeing him clearly?

Every young child sees their parents as perfect, as heroes who can stop all the evil in the world. I was ten years old when he died. For me, that was it. My memories were sacrosanct, frozen in amber. They're what kept me going when I was a teenager, something intangible but always there that I could fall back on. I wanted to be a cop to be like him. To help clean up New York, help people.

Is my whole life based on a lie? If my father wasn't an upstanding citizen, one of the good guys, are my reasons for wanting to be a cop null and void? I know I'm a good cop myself. I know I can handle the demands of the job. I've proved that to myself and anyone else paying attention. I can't even imagine being anything else.

But what if I could have been? I never even thought about becoming anything else. My earliest memory is Dad telling me about his father, a cop. Family tradition, he always said. A Pezzini son of every generation became a cop. I wanted to be a part of that legacy. I decided I would be, even if I was a Pezzini daughter instead of a son.

Was my narrow-minded vision of the future what led me down this path? What led me to the Witchblade? Sara turned over to rest on her stomach, leaning on one arm while the other was stretched in front of her, the red jewel barely seen in the shadows. Is it the Witchblade that's been controlling my life? I know it does now and I'm not happy about it. I hate being out of control. Was my control before I met this thing an illusion? I like that even less.

She sighed and went back to her former position on her back and stared up at the shadows on the ceiling. For the first time I don't seem to be in control of my life. I can pretend to be, but I'm not. I can't even fight it. It's my destiny to wield this ancient weapon. This sentient weapon. I passed the Periculum, accepting my mission, my bloodlines, my history. I accepted that there's more to life than I can see and that there are forces at work that I don't understand. I accepted my destiny.

Why do I still feel unsure of my ability to follow through? Sara turned, curling up on her side and drifting off to sleep, still thinking of the task that lay before her and wondering about the man she called Daddy.

* * *

TBC

Notes: I found this part written but it hadn't been posted. I know, I haven't posted for this story in forever. Sorry! I'm starting something new, which will hopefully get more of this story written. I may not be updating often, though. I just wanted you to know that I haven't forgotten about this fic and it's not season 2 that made me stop. Well, not directly. My muses don't like season 2 Ian, so I need to find my season 1 tapes and watch them. And hope that they don't mess up my season 2 stories!