A/N: Hello to my newest reviewer, Ashley. Best grab a pillow dear, more fainting ahead I suspect. Welcome! Dragongrrl, thanks for taking the time to read and review. Since I started writing I never seem to have time to do that any more. You are a better time manager than I. LOL Don't worry about the action scenes, they get easier as you write them. Pezzini, Thelma, sorry to make you wait so long for this. I'm duking it out with my Muses over the ending, which has sidetracked everything in between.
Two to Tango Ch. 18
With a jolt, Sara opened eyes she had thought already open. She was still in her bedroom, in her bed, but there the similarity ended. The warmth sitting by her hip was softer and more curved, definitely not Danny. Her sheets, judging from the cool air on her skin, were down somewhere on the floor instead of twisted around her body. Even so, Pez still couldn't move.
Despite the adrenaline coursing through her at the realization, she still felt like the fourth day of the three-day bender. It was so hard to focus; everything was seen through a blurry haze. Her head ached, her stomach was in knots, even her hair hurt, and surely to God something had died in her mouth.
Oh wait, that was the sock she'd been gagged with. Why couldn't Carmelita have used a clean sock? What a sadistic bitch.
It was the proverbial last straw. Anger pushed the last bits of fog from Sara's brain. She ignored the pounding in her temples and worked to orient herself to her surroundings. She knew she was in trouble, Danny had made that pretty clear, but she didn't know what kind.
A glance down her body revealed a criss-crossing of rope binding her from shoulders to ankles. She looked like a bondage poster girl, except her sleepwear wasn't exactly sexy enough. Sara flexed against the constraints, hoping for some give in the rope that she could maneuver. There was none.
The soft sound of chanting washed over her. It wasn't in English, and the Witchblade wasn't translating, so Sara had no idea what was being said. She did recognize that voice though. Those sibilant esses were a dead giveaway. Carmelita had said they would meet again soon, but Pez had not thought she meant tonight. That lack of caution had cost her, but she wasn't out of the game yet.
She focused on the Witchblade, willing the blade to come out so she could cut her bonds. Nothing happened. Pezzini could not even get the bracelet form to change into the gauntlet, which would have probably severed that section of rope. Startled by it's unresponsiveness, she stared down at her wrist. She noticed that the stone was dull under the brownish- red symbol that had been painted over it.
Great, the Witchblade was vulnerable to graffiti. Some all-powerful weapon the gauntlet was turning out to be. Any punk kid with a can of spray paint had its number. Cursing under her breath, Sara began to alternately strain and relax against the ropes, hoping to work free. It wasn't much, but it was all she could think of for the moment.
The glint of metal pulled her attention from the rope. Sara strained to look back over her shoulder to see what was going on. She could only observe the half of Carmelita that was closest to her, but that didn't matter. What she could see was quite enough to make her strain harder against the ropes.
The Gorgon was holding a strange silvery knife, the gleam was not the same as steel, and Sara had seen enough to know the difference, as Carmelita continued to chant. It was eight inches long and as twisted as Kenny's sense of morality. All Pezzini could think of was Danny's warning.
Instead of plunging the blade in her back, Carmelita brought the blade down over the bound wrist opposite the one the Witchblade rested on. She made a long cut upwards from the edge of the rope binding her hand to the rope at her elbow, which hurt surprisingly little. The blade must be very, very sharp.
Blood welled out of the wound and flowed in thick rivulets over her arm, hitting the ropes holding her. Some of it followed the line around her wrist, but a portion of the blood was soaking into the fibers. On the plus side, it would eventually make the rope slick enough that she might work her hand free.
If she didn't pass out from blood loss first, that is. This was the kind of cut that people serious about suicide made in bathtubs. It nearly always worked, they bled out long before anyone could realize the danger and save them.
Faced with death, Sara realized that she really did want to live, and if she got out of this in one piece she was going to hear a big 'I told you so' from Danny. She might even listen to it with good grace.
He had stolen a police motorcycle that someone had been fool enough to leave out front with the key in the ignition, and driven down the city streets like the proverbial bat out of hell. He even drove on the sidewalks when traffic was too tight for him to weave through, ignoring the shouts and lewd hand gestures the populace had for the numerous near misses.
He had drawn his share of odd looks from the people he passed, even for a city as jaded as New York, and not just because of his seemingly reckless driving. His black trench coat and hair flowing out behind him, the torn white shirt fluttering around his chest, and the snug black pants did not fit anyone's idea of a motorcycle cop.
Catching the looks, Ian decided he really should have had a bandit mask and been riding a black horse, very aware of exactly what he was wearing. He needed to finish what Sara had started, and tear off the stupid white shirt. That or he needed his costume back. A small grin tugged at his lips as he thought about Sara's face if he showed up on her doorstep wearing the patrolman's uniform. She might be quicker to forgive him for butting in on whatever was going on.
Sara believed she was quite capable of taking care of herself, even when she wasn't. He would probably get there just in time, and she would give him an earful for not trusting her to handle the problem. Not that that was going to stop him. He saved her because he loved her, not for hope of reward.
Although it would be nice if once, just once he'd get a kiss and a thank you for saving her lovely neck, instead of being glared at and told off.
Maybe tonight was the night? No, one date was not going to make that much impact on Lady Sara's demeanor, especially if she was in a great deal of danger. The level of peril seemed to be in direct opposition to the level of appreciation he received, and Irons seemed to think the danger was dire indeed.
Even with concern for Sara pressing down on him, Ian abandoned the motorcycle three blocks away and ran the remaining distance. He was not going to leave trouble on his lady's doorstep if he could possibly help it. In fact, he left the key in the ignition to increase the likelihood that someone else would steal it as he had. It would muddy the waters even more if another took it for a joyride or stripped it for parts.
Nottingham leapt onto the fire escape and bounded up the metal stairs two at a time. Now that he was this close, he could feel the change in the air. There was a smell to magically charged air, like ozone and rain, and it tickled his nose as he climbed. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he detected the metallic tang of blood.
Was he too late?
As soon as the thought occurred, Ian shoved it aside. He would not let it be so. He would open her window; jump into the apartment, and save her. Lady Sara was going to be just fine. He knew she would be. He held that belief to him as he swung around the last upward set of stairs to her landing.
Everything would be all right, because it had to be. He could not live without her. She was his sun, his moon, and his starlit sky. Without her, he dwelled in darkness. A darkness he was infinitely weary of.