Part Two: Rules of Engagement

Chapter Ten:

Tales That Were Never Learned By Rote

I am so weary of this calling / Tales that were never learned by rote / Better this desperate exhaustion / Than a king's knife upon my throat

~ Like Scheherezade by: Gwen Knighton

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They ran and ran. Then ran some more. Several blocks from the restaurant, Sara's heels refused to take anymore abuse. By that time, she didn't care. She fell against a wall, wheezing for breath but laughing at the same time. Ian was beside her, leaning on one shoulder. She suspected strongly that it had something to do with her---Maybe the fact that she was still keeping his wrist prisoner in the tight grip of her fingers?

He was breathing a little harshly himself, and his hair fell half-undone around his face, trailing darkness across his white-clad shoulders. The short-sword hung at his side. He had switched hands and turned so that most of his body, and even hers, hid it from view. Nearly. Her in striking red, and him in stunning white---they were a sight to see, and they were drawing curious eyes.

With her mind kicking back into gear, she saw one of those 'comfy' New York alleys and jerked him around the corner into it. They had to do something about the sword before someone else saw it and called the cops.

She started to turn him so she was in front, but he turned as well, making them move in almost a complete circle. He wanted the outside, his back open and vulnerable to attack. She hadn't been thinking about such things, but she figured he always did. Part of her reasoning had been that she didn't want to place him physically between her and the closest way out.

She realized like a flash that she had moved just as he had, automatically. Though their motivations were vastly different. His had been an answer to the possibility of violence, and hers had been to keep a path of escape.

She didn't trust him, old news. But she also did. She trusted him to do whatever he felt he needed to do, but she didn't know where she fit in, in that equation. After all, the Black Dragons fiasco hadn't been that long ago. And at the time he had thought that getting rid of her permanently was what he needed to do. She believed he was sincere in his guilt, but the fact remained that she didn't---no, couldn't trust him. But she let him keep his place, mainly because she didn't really feel like waltzing with him at the moment.

Besides, he didn't truly seem aware that they were at conflict.

Probably 'cuz he's not. Aware, that is. I bet this sort of thing is pretty much standard procedure for him. Which means the conflict is really all mine.

Great. I've been staring at him for a full minute. And he's noticed. She blinked, trying to shake free of her deeper thoughts. Nottingham was watching her curiously.

"Did you have a vision?"

His words took a few seconds to make sense. "Kind of," she whispered. What could she really say, 'no, I'm trying to figure you out'? Nuh-uh. Too many conversational paths would open with such a sentence. And she was not quite willing to go down any of them yet.

He frowned, but he didn't say why. And she didn't want to ask.

Some imperceptible movement pulled her eyes down, and she realized she was still holding onto his wrist, with the sword hanging point-down between them. She let it go.

Ignore that and focus on the sword. We need to put it away. "We need to put the sword away before someone notices." Someone else, that is.

He nodded, reached back and started to gather his hair to the side.

"I knew it," she said.

He paused, the slim blade lifted, point inward and the heel of his palm resting against the guard. "Knew what, Sara?"

"Spine-sheath," she nodded to the short-sword, or long-knife, both equally fit the beautiful piece he was balancing in his hand.

He nodded. The blade moved forward again.

"Is that dangerous," she asked softly.

He shook his head, "Not if you practice." A lock of his chocolate mane swung close to that wicked-looking edge, and her hand instantly shot out to rest on his shoulder, just above the collarbone. It achieved what she wanted; he froze in place, looking at her curiously.

"Please let me do it," she said flatly, "you're making me nervous."

He flashed a smile at that, but nodded, lowering the blade and handing it to her hilt first.

She took it from him, the handle very warm in her tight grip. He turned, giving her his back. It was one of those moments that struck her as significant, even when she knew it wasn't. Refusing to dwell, she pushed his collar down, fingers searching for the mouth of the sheath. She brushed his hair aside with her knuckles, but it swept right back into place, falling over the back of her hand.

"Hold your hair to the side please," she said.

He grasped the loose tail with its escaped tresses, and lifted it away from his neck. His fingers brushed hers, she noticed. She understood enough to know that she shouldn't be noticing things like that.

She carefully slid the blade into its sheath, then let the tips of her fingers rest against the very end of the hilt. She was thinking about how soft his hair had felt. A sweet-smelling cloud of dark silk, chased through with threads of gold. Her hand lifted, sinking into the tight waves. She spread her fingers, pulling all those curls free from their binding, smoothing his hair around his face. "I like it better like this," she whispered.

Ian turned around slowly, his hair sliding warmly from her hands. His eyes were a little wide, and she went very still before them, numb, but not in a dead way. She instantly knew the look he presented her, but never thought that she would ever see anything like it on his face. A certainty...a maleness.

He took a step forward.

She took a step back.

And that roused her out of her spell more than anything. She didn't back down from anybody! And yet she had just given ground to Ian Nottingham...

She couldn't retake the step, not without stepping into him. She turned left automatically, in hopes of going around him, but a white blur of motion stopped her. Her back hit the wall hard with the speed of her recoil. She flattened herself against it, her breath coming in harsh little pants that had nothing to do with her run. At least not from the restaurant.

Ian's hands pressed against the wall behind her, a palm on each side. He leaned into her, and she watched it happen, her eyes widening though she couldn't seem to move.

He didn't kiss her. His cheek slid the length of hers, his beard scratching softly across her skin. He pressed his nose into the soft tresses behind her ear, breathing in deeply and letting that same breath go as a shaky sigh.

She shuddered.

He nuzzled her face, almost like a wolf marking its mate, then he kissed lightly against the edge of her mouth. Not something begging invitation, but more like something reverent. On the spectrum of kisses, it was very small, but it carried enough force behind it to hit her like a battering ram.

The tiny shock of pleasure seemed to cut white-hot through her body, jolting her awake. Though had she truly been asleep she probably would not have felt the need to fight. She instantly slid down and under his arm, freeing herself from the trap he had created with his presence and baited with such an innocent kiss.

She had fallen prey before to kisses that sent her reeling, and others that pulled her down into sinking warmth. But this...this wasn't the case at all. It had been a delicate line, a teetering on some sharp edge. It had knocked her off-balance, and scared her---scared her with the churning intensity of feeling barely concealed within its gentleness. It wasn't a simple thing, and it wasn't easy, and It. Scared. Her.

She hugged her arms tight across her stomach, the dislodged strap of her purse sliding forgotten down her shoulder. She didn't let herself get scared often, and when she did she usually chose to force it down and not recognize it for what it was. But this time she held herself still within the embrace of that fear, just long enough to remember why this wasn't going to happen.

"I apologize. I had no right," he whispered, his voice coming out even lower since he had dropped his head again to address her shoes. That gesture was really beginning to grate on her nerves.

"Look at me," she snapped. And then he was, and she had no idea what she was going to say. He looked like an eager puppy. And he looked kicked. By big black boots that had her name scored decoratively into the very sole.

God, could she really kick him again? When he already looked so stricken and apologetic? Was she that much of a heartless bitch?

"Just forget it," she finally said, dropping all her righteous anger for a tone more quiet. I took the first liberty with him; he was only following my lead. But we are gonna have to have a little talk about all this, oh yes we are. There are boundaries, and he is gonna have to stop crossing them---or I really will turn and kick his ass. Wounded-puppy-routine be damned!

The silence dragged between them like a blade from a sheath. With every possibility to scar, given any wrong movement, but she had no intention of moving wrong. She sighed and resituated the strap of her purse on her shoulder.

"I think it's about time we get out of this alley." She moved around him, heading purposefully for the open sidewalk beyond, not bothering to see if he'd follow.

The change in atmosphere was almost solid as she walked out from beneath the shadow of the buildings and into the blinding light of the streetlamps. She felt like she had just stepped out of the mouth of some potentially dangerous beast, right before its sharp teeth were about to close around her.

Catching a flash of white out of the corner of her eye, she wondered distantly if that wasn't exactly the case.

TBC...