Disclaimer: Witchblade does not belong to me. The characters are full of inspiration, intelligence, and intrigue that I cannot help but borrow them a short while. I heartily enjoy the show and its premise. The events of this story are mine, but the characters are definitely not.
Author's Note: For Mr. Hathaway and b8kworm. I have taken liberties with the legend and lore surrounding the Witchblade, but it was fun to create something half as rich as actuality.
Summary: Destiny brought them together, Fate brought them love, But choice kept them together.
Rating: PG-13
Archive(s): Mine. Anybody else, email me; I like to go visiting.
Pairing(s): Ian/Sara
Spoiler(s): Yes, but they're all over the place and I can't name specific episodes.
***** ***** *****Title: Before Dawn
Author: Adrianna AEternalis
Email: adrianna@darkcorner.com
Chapter 7: Negotiate
Adrenaline pumping through their blood vessels, they drove along back roads at top speeds, stopping a few times to fill the motorcycles' tanks. The relative wilderness yielded no cops on the lookout for speeders. It also masked their approach to the mansion-like estate.
They parked their rides scant feet from the main drive and jumped the fence for access. Either the way in or the way out would be easier; time would tell.
Hidden by the dense trees, Sara and Ian crept towards the brightly lit building. Either Dante's call had not been a warning or they had disregarded his words; whichever the case, all was calm.
Taking turns, they installed the remote receivers that Gabriel and the others would use to access the White Bulls' digitized information. Sara was convinced that such an organization would have embraced as many technological advancements as they could.
Ian followed Sara and Sara obeyed the insistent pulling of the Witchblade to a second story hallway. Around the corner was a room barricaded by a long hallway; Sara stopped, memories of the alleyway fresh in her mind. Interspersed were visions of Ian; looks of resignation and lost trust contorted his face.
Steeling herself, Sara blinked and the alleyway cleared to show the hallway. Yet, Ian's hurt lingered. He caught her attention when he shifted from her side and moved to enter the door first. She had to perform some sort of buffer control.
"Ian, listen to me." He stopped but did not divert his attention from the door. "Whatever happens after this, I'm telling you now, I trust you. Got it?"
The intensity in her voice shook him away from the glaring contest he had with the door. Why would this matter? He spotted the glowing Witchblade and put the pieces together. Placing everything he had to lose in Sara's trust, he approached the closed door.
*****They were arrayed about the conference table with the air of practiced ease schooled to perfection. Twelve individuals in all, they sat six opposite six; the last two seats at the table were vacant - one at either end.
"Detective Pezzini, it's nice of you to join us. Mr. Nottingham." The greeting was suspiciously civil in its undercurrents of familiarity.
"Ian, you know them?" Sara asked Ian while never taking her eyes off the gathered; he had crept to stand just behind her since determining the room was relatively safe. Although concerned about the tension radiating off of him, she had no other reason to worry; he guarded her back.
"I recognize all as employees of various corporations associated with Vorschlag." His voice was thick with a potentially perceived betrayal.
"Right." She redirected her words to the current White Bulls' leadership. "So, I hear you've been looking for me. Here I am; thank you for the eloquent invitation, by the way."
The one who had spoken before glared at Sara. Immediately, she knew he was the one to watch and goad; their chairman was absent but he had no qualms about taking power. The other eleven were merely pawns.
Instead of addressing Sara, the man spoke almost reverently to Ian. "Very well. Then let us begin; Mr. Nottingham, as your father's successor, your seat is here." He motioned to the vacant seat at the head of the table.
She felt Ian's surprise more in her mind than in the cold expression she saw in the man's face. Evidently Ian's stoic rejection of the seat was a drastic change in plans.
The man rose. "Mr. Irons specifically assured us that your loyalty was absolute. He warned us that you would come with Detective Pezzini, but that would be a deception. We thank you for delivering her to us, but, now, the rest is our duty. Please, take your seat!"
Sara gently prodded Ian's mind, and she felt his desperate entreaty for an opposing sentiment. He would never betray Sara by bringing her into a trap. Never. Again, she gently prodded him, reminding him of her words as they entered the room. There was an imperceptible straightening of his body as he realized how much she did not believe their words. Ian now fully grasped Sara's words and actions; Irons no longer had any control of him.
The clock ticked loudly as Ian returned a bored stare to twelve simultaneously shocked visages.
Sara's nerves grated in the silent waiting. When they began to scream, she ground out, "Care to explain?"
A woman motioned the man back to his chair. Voice apathetic, she stated, "Before Mr. Irons's unfortunate death, he addressed a letter to us. In that letter, he informed us of the events that would unfold after his death. Knowing we would be concerned with losing his generous sponsorship, Mr. Irons reassured us; we would have no reason to believe Mr. Nottingham would not continue with all of Mr. Irons's investments."
"You were expecting another Irons."
Twelve swallows followed Ian's musing; they were beginning to see their upper hand dissolve.
Sara's natural impatient streak pertaining to all things Irons chose then to surface. "Obviously, you were mistaken; Ian has no ties to Irons. Irons is dead." Her emphasis on the last sentence produced group winces on its cue.
The woman waited for barely a breath before speaking again. "Very well. We are prepared to negotiate." There was the slightest waver in her voice; Sara clued in on it.
"Yes, negotiate. How about -"
Her cell phone rang and Ian had answered and ended the call in the blink of an eye. His voice in her mind told her the caller and the message.
While she and Ian had been "talking" with the twelve council members, Gabriel and the others had been working furiously to hack into the White Bulls' computerized databases. Using the remote accessing devices they had placed on their trek inwards, it had taken the group mere moments to gain access and begin downloading. Prudently, Gabriel had called just as they had finished the massive data transfer; within moments, all the bits and bytes were on their way to reputable, but shock-able minds.
She felt Ian move away from her; he now stood equidistant from her, the door, and the conference table. They had accomplished what they came to do; it was time to go.
© RK 16.Jan.2004
