22T A/N: The new doc editor doesn't let me put the spacers between POV changes, so I've put an extra space in. Sorry if it's a little harder to read.
Although it went against the grain, Sara let Ian convince her to take a cab back to her apartment. His argument that it would be hours by the time he went downtown and answered the detectives questions held weight. Even in a clear-cut case of self-defense like this Nottingham would see the inside of a jail cell.
While Irons doubtless had very good lawyers on retainer that would arrange his bail, it was still going to take the rest of the night. Not even Nottingham's position as the bodyguard of one of the most influential people in the city was going to get him out before morning.
It was possible that Sara could throw her weight around to make things easier, but it wasn't going to make enough difference to balance out what would happen to Ian when Kenneth found out about their date. It certainly wouldn't make her job any easier either.
Pez could just hear Dante blowing a gasket over this. The captain would probably take it as a gift from above to suspend her and put a write- up in her file. Not what Sara would consider justice, but Dante was hell- bent on carrying his grudge against her father over to the next generation. It was quite a difference from the support she had received from his predecessor, Joe Siri.
Sara missed Joe a lot. He had been a friend of her dad's since before she was even born. The Siri family had been an extension of hers for as long as she could remember. He had done his best to take care of her after her father had died. Joe was the rock, the constant, in her life. His retirement was hard to take for a lot of reasons besides the fact that his replacement was an ass.
Too bad it hadn't been Siri who walked in on Ian's little strip tease in her office yesterday. He would have had a sense of humor about the whole thing. Joe would have teased her instead of the lecture she'd gotten from Dante. Sara grinned to herself as she thought back to Ian's surprising Valentine's Day present.
The grin was still on her face when the cab pulled up in front of her apartment building. Sara handed the cabbie the bill that Ian had pulled out of his wallet, a little disconcerted to realize in the better lighting of her street that it was a hundred. Sara took the change and tipped him a twenty. She didn't want to be too generous, the drivers tended to remember the big tippers just as much as the ones who stiffed them, and Sara did not want to stand out in his memory.
Missing Ian's gentlemanly assistance, Sara walked carefully on the slick concrete. Once inside she moved more quickly, ready to return to her place and get back into more comfortable attire. At least she didn't have to work tomorrow, so she could sleep in. Too bad she was going to have to do that by herself. It wasn't the way she had been half hoping the night would end.
Nottingham waited until Sara had been safely bundled into the yellow cab before returning to the limousine. What he was about to do, he could not have Sara observe. She would never agree, and he did not want to end their first date with a clash of morals. It was bad enough that it had ended with a threat to her life. Being shot at was hardly how he had envisioned their evening ending.
The body of the shooter was going to have to go. He had been very careful during his phone call to 911, implying that the situation was a hit and run. Thankful that his .22 shell casing was small and easily identifiable, Ian pocketed the brass cartridge and then the shooter's weapon. The other shell casings he left where they lay.
Sara would have a fit if she was to see him heft the corpse and grab a length of rusty chain, but there was nothing else Ian could think to do. He did not have her faith in the justice system. Especially not when he was in a position to know just how corrupt it really was.
Nor had he any desire to be at the mercy of Captain Dante, a man who chafed under the restrictions of his master. It was easy to see how he could find himself a bargaining chip in the police captain's bid for independence. It was not a role Ian wished to play, nor a debt he wished to incur.
He wrapped the chain around the shooter's midsection and dumped him into the oily water that lapped around the wharf. Nottingham unscrewed the silencer and tossed both it and the .22 pistol in as well. It was unlikely that the body would be found, and even if it were, there would be nothing to link it to him. The gun would never surface, and the conglomeration of silt and muck made it unlikely that a dive team would spot it. Not that it was registered in the first place, but Ian liked to cover his bases.
A hurried check on Robert showed his condition unchanged. Nottingham was torn between his concerns for the older man, and relief that the emergency services crews were not yet on the scene. At least he and Sara knew enough field medicine to stabilize the chauffeur's condition.
He went back into the warehouse to where the limousine was still parked and knelt down. Nottingham pulled his favorite knife out of the sheath on his calf and reached under the car to puncture the gas tank. Once that was done, he put the blade back and reached for the pocket of a coat he wasn't wearing.
Ian walked back to where Robert lay covered with his coat, cursing his lack of forethought. He should have gotten the matches when he checked on the injured man, instead of wasting precious time going in and out of the ramshackle old building. Already his sensitive hearing was picking up the distinctive wail of the approaching ambulance.
Ian fished a book of matches out of the black leather. He was careful not to disturb the shell casings as he moved back to the shooter's position. He stood for a few minutes, staring at the spreading puddle of gasoline under the limo. He hoped he had enough time to move before the vehicle exploded, but he couldn't wait any longer.
The soft scritch of sulfur tipped match against the emery strip on the back of the matchbook brought to life a small flame. Ian lightly tossed the match and ran full out for the open loading doors. The resulting explosion seemed to chase after the fleeing form, but fell short, leaving him unscathed. Nottingham slowed to a stop next to Robert and knelt by him to await the ambulance that was drawing closer.
Sara's quick shower turned out to be quite a bit longer than she intended. The night had been so filled with revelations that she couldn't seem to focus on basic, ordinary things, like washing her hair with shampoo before using the conditioner. Ian's kisses, the wicked bitch of the South, the vision of Elizabeth, the way Ian's hair felt in her hands, the Witchblade changing back to the snake form, Ian's eyes hot with desire, the mesmerizing ability of Carmelita, all bounced and careened through her head with no rhyme or reason.
By the time she was finally clean, an hour had passed. Pez dried off with absentminded swipes of a white terrycloth towel. Her brain had been running around in circles, like a small child trying desperately to prove he wasn't tired, and it was finally wearing down.
Pausing long enough to pull on a pair of men's black boxers and a grey tank top, Sara gave in to the call of Morpheus and tumbled into bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow, with dreams coming close on slumber's heels. In the darkened apartment, the faint red glow of the Witchblade peeped through the fall of brunette hair that surrounded it.
The ballroom was crowded; there were far too many people on the dance floor for ease of movement. Each pair was dressed in the fashion of another age. At first she was enchanted by the myriad costumes, enjoying the white flash of togas next to the somber elegance of Victorian black and the drift of kimonos next to the stiffened satin of the French Regency.
Then she realized they all wore identical white porcelain face masks. It was a little disturbing to bring so many cultures together only to hide their personal individuality. The faceless couples brushed against her in a pattern of advance and retreat, forcibly reminding Sara of waves rolling and pushing an empty shell against the shore. Not liking the feeling of being driven, she began to push her way out of the crowd.
Finally Sara managed to wade through the sea of humanity to the opening in a line of potted plants that framed an alcove. A marble bench was tucked back there, although Sara couldn't have said how she would know it would be there, and she collapsed on it gratefully.
"Ssooo many livesss, sooo many deathsss, with nothing truly changing. Do you ever grow weary of it all?" The voice behind Sara was soft, familiar, and soothing.
"Sometimes." Sara nodded in agreement.
"Then perhapsss you ssshould lay down your burden and ressst." The softly sibilant tones lulled the brunette into leaning back, her head resting on the wall behind her.
"Give up that which you carry, sssurely he never intended for you to bear thisss weight for ssooo long, daughter of Eve."
Warmth and support poured from the unseen speaker, and Sara relaxed further yet, the arm with the Witchblade dropping from her lap as if too heavy. There was a muted click as the red stone lightly met the wall at the end of her arm's downward arc.
Her eyelids were so heavy with the need to sleep that they felt weighted. She let them close, too tired to keep them open. A pleasant heat, like a winter sunbeam through glass, started at her toes and began to move up her legs in a warm spiral.
Sara shifted, trying to get more comfortable on the hard marble, and found she could not move her legs. This was disturbing in a distantly annoying sort of way, like a fly buzzing just out of swatting range. Pezzini knew she should open her eyes to see what the matter could be, but it seemed like too much effort.
Ian watched the ambulance crew efficiently bustle Robert into the back of the bus. He wished he could go with the injured man, but there was really nothing more he could do for him. Besides, the back of the ambulance was not very big. He would only get in the paramedics' way.
Instead he squared his shoulders and turned to face the pair of uniformed officers that had arrived just behind the ambulance. Nottingham was glad it had not been any of Sara's coworkers. Eventually he would have to speak to someone from her department, since this was going to be filed as an attempted homicide, but by the time he did the evidence should be quite contaminated.
If not melted beyond recognition. The warehouse was burning quite merrily. Ian was glad that there was a fair amount of space between it and the next building. He had not expected the flames to grow so large. Fortunately he had called the fire department while waiting by Robert for the ambulance. They should be here soon enough to prevent the blaze from spreading.
"Good evening officers. I would like to thank you for your prompt arrival," Ian said pleasantly, and continued to lie like a rug, telling the two that he believed the attack was meant for Mr. Irons.
They were incredibly easy to lead, and Nottingham soon had them eating out of the proverbial palm of his hand. He used a judicious combination of admiration and praise in his sentences, watching them preen under the positive attention. It was a trick he had learned from Kenneth, one that never failed to provide the desired result.
By the time the crime scene van had pulled up, Nottingham had their complete cooperation and an offer for a ride to the hospital, which he graciously accepted. Soon he was going to have to call Irons and tell him what had happened, but not here. His master was not so easy to deceive. Ian was going to have to tell him part of the truth; there was no way around it. Kenneth had a far superior ear for discerning falsehoods.
Kenneth Irons lay on sheets of pewter colored silk, a sense of unease pulling him from his contented musings. He should have been relaxed and well pleased, his evening had gone exactly as he had intended. The sleek blonde trophy wife of his rival had fallen to his practiced charm, giving Kenneth vital information before falling into his bed.
Normally he would enjoy her surgically enhanced charms another time before sending her on her way, for Kenneth detested dealing with clingy women the morning after, but the sense of wrongness was increasing. He slipped out of bed and shrugged into the blue and gold silk velvet robe. Irons tied the matching belt as he walked out of the room, something telling him that he did not have time to deal with the woman just now.
His bare feet made no noise as he passed through the mansion, his steps hurried but light over Persian carpet and Italian marble. Kenneth was not sure where he was going until he turned a corner and was in the hall that housed his Witchblade artifacts.
The scarring on the back of his hand suddenly throbbed, the pain as sharp as it was the night he had placed the Witchblade on his own wrist. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Irons reached into the pocket of his robe for his ever-present cell phone. He flipped it open one-handed and pushed the button that would ring its twin.
Not waiting to hear Nottingham speak, he barked into the mouthpiece, "The Wielder is in danger. Why are you answering the phone?"
"I am not with her at this time." Nottingham kept his voice calm, despite the surge of fear he felt at his master's pronouncement, mindful of the attentive face of Detective Orlinsky.
"Then where, pray tell, are you?" Irons hissed malevolently.
"Filling out paperwork at the Precinct. Someone shot up limousine four, and Robert as well. I can only assume it was meant to be an attack on your person."
"Quit wasting your time going over their incompetence and take yourself to the Wielder's side. Now, Ian." Kenneth's voice brooked no objections. In fact, he hung up before Nottingham could say anything in response.
Standing over Sara's bed, Carmelita smiled coldly as she continued to bind the brunette. It had been very considerate of the detective to show her where she lived. Not that it would have been difficult to discover, but it had saved her a great deal of time. That pleased her and her ancestress. Ceto was patient as only the immortal can be, but there was an edge of anticipation in her voice this night that Carmelita had not heard before.
Unfortunately, there were limits to what she could do to one the Witchblade had already bonded with. Some of her gifts would not work at all, the blood of the mother giving the Wielder a partial immunity to Gorgon abilities. This was why she could not capture Sara's will with her gaze.
She could, however, hold the woman in her dreams. It was fairly easy really; the Witchblade had already accustomed Pezzini to outside interference on this front by influencing her slumbering subconscious. All Carmelita had to do was ride the connection already made, her bloodline giving her a free pass in, thanks to the laws of similarity and contagion.
Too bad that the instant she attacked, the sorcerous sleep would fail. The best she could do was to truss the Wielder like a Christmas goose before she started the ritual that would separate the two. Once the Blade was parted from Wielder, Serpent could be freed from Branch. The unbinding was dangerous to the human element of the pairing, flesh being far more fragile than the supernatural metal, but that hardly mattered to Carmelita.
In truth, she had been a little disappointed that her compadrito had failed to eliminate the bitch. Her survival had not come as a surprise, the reputation of the weapon, as well as its current wielder, had meant that any other outcome was unlikely. However, it would have been more convenient if the detective had died in a firefight.
Now Carmelita had several extra steps to perform in the ritual, as well having to rid herself of the woman's corpse in some fashion that would not lead the police to her door. She frowned down at the sleeping form as she reached for the small pot that held her own blood and began painting the symbols that would render the Witchblade inactive with the tail of a young serpent enchanted into stillness.
At least that much of the warehouse attack had not been wasted. Once Sara passed over the glyphs painted on the concrete with salt and water, the Witchblade had been temporarily rendered inert. Carmelita was not sure they would work, since they were ancient Mayan symbols and had nothing to do with the Judaic religion that held the tales that were the beginning of the Witchblade.
Yet they had worked, and worked well for as long as they had lasted. These glyphs would not evaporate like their earlier counterparts, and so should hold the Witchblade from action until the end of the ceremony. As Carmelita drew, the woman bound on the bed began to twitch and jerk as if each painted line was the pass of a blade across her flesh.
Irons stared at the back of his hand. At first he thought some supernatural force was redrawing the scar, but he realized that was not the case. Time was flowing backward for him, a century somehow compressed into an hour. The scar had fallen back to the deep burn that had he had born for a year and a day after putting on the Witchblade.
What did this reversal mean? Would his connection with the Gauntlet fade with the mark on his flesh? Irons walked past display after display of Wielder artifacts, intending to see what he could learn in the archive of texts he kept at the end of the room.
He found himself stopped in front of a Canaanite sculpture depicting the downfall of man and stared. The image held him, the image teasing at the edge of his mind. There was something important, if only he could remember. He stared harder at the stone serpent coiled around the branch of a tall fruit tree, head lowered as if conversing with the female figure below.
Kenneth willed the image to give up its secrets, the fingers of his hand brushing lightly over the stone. The strange double vision that had been gifted unto him from his brief wearing of the ancient gauntlet came over him, and the serpent turned to gaze at him.
His hand fell away from the carving as Irons prudently stepped backward. The snake became clearer, shadows bringing each scale into sharp relief. The forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air. Kenneth stepped back again, a horrible suspicion dawning. Was this some trap left by Dominique? She had always had an unnatural affinity for snakes.
"Ahhhh, the High Priessst." The eyes of the serpent were dark and full of knowledge.
Irons felt the tug as she tried to pull him down into those slit orbs. A chill spread through him as he realized who the serpent had to be.
"Ceto," Kenneth dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement and respect, all the while wondering why the ancient Greek Goddess had chosen to speak with him this night.
"You have been hidden from my sssight, but ever could I feel your hand upon the weave. Long and long did I sssearch for you, without sssucessss. That hasss changed. I sssee you now Priessst." Ceto sounded very self- satisfied by that fact.
"Now that you have found me, what would you have of me?" She was as ancient as the world, filled with great wisdom, and the mother of monsters. It would be best if he trod very carefully here.
"Your meddlessssome interfering life," Ceto replied, stone coils loosening from the tree. She dropped to the parquetry floor and slithered toward Irons, stone scales making a soft grinding sound.