A Family Affair
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. However, I am seriously in love with Ian Nottingham. Can you tell? And, unfortunately, you always hurt the one you love, eh? Anywho, I'm just playing. Please don't sue me. Enjoy!
Chapter 14.
Ian Nottingham stood on the roof of the building across from the 11th Precinct, watching the comings and goings of the station's voluntary and involuntary inhabitants.
He had barely arrived at the Wielder's loft in time to follow her to her workplace. During the drive from the estate, discomfort from the cuts and welts on his back had kept intruding on his thoughts, so much so, Ian had finally broken down and taken a pain pill. But either it hadn't kicked in yet or his abused skin was too agitated from the clothing rubbing against it for the medication to have much effect, because his back still felt like it was on fire.
Usually, owing to his body's accelerated healing ability, the welts calmed down and the cuts scabbed over within hours, but for whatever reason, this had not been the case with the damage left by his latest beating. Ian chalked it up to his recent lack of sleep and the exertions required of him to complete the cardiopulmonary tests for his exhaustively comprehensive physical.
About half an hour after Sara arrived at the precinct, Ian saw a late- model sedan pull into a parking space usually reserved for one of the precinct's officers. Joseph Siri, Jr. got out of the car first, followed by a man and a woman he instantly identified as the boy's parents from the photographs in the Wielder's dossier. Last of all, an older man carrying a briefcase exited the vehicle. Ian surmised that this individual was the Siri family's attorney.
Through his scope, Ian could see the sober expression on the teenager's face as well as how uncomfortable he looked in his dark, formal suit. Both of his parents wore worried expressions, and the mother looked like she had been weeping. The group went into the stationhouse, and Ian waited tensely for them to reappear, heaving a sigh of relief when they did so about an hour later. His heart rate sped up when he glimpsed his Lady at the stationhouse door, but she did not linger, vanishing back inside once she bid farewell to her nephew and his parents.
Expectantly, he trained his scope on the window that looked into Captain Bruno Dante's office. Shortly after Joseph departed, he spied the young, blond rookie detective named Jacob McCartey and the nearly bald, middle-aged man he recognized as Detective Frank Orlinsky enter their captain's office. Scant minutes later, the two detectives left as the Wielder was summoned to the office. For the next 35 minutes, Ian watched as Sara stood stiffly in front of Dante's desk, her face devoid of expression, as she apparently was lectured on the error of her ways regarding her cover-up of her nephew's and his girlfriend's misdeeds.
It did not surprise him that she stood there alone for he had guessed that she would stubbornly refuse to let her partner share in the blame for her actions. From what little Ian knew about Detective Daniel Woo, he was pretty certain this had not set well with the man.
When Sara finally left Dante's office, he abandoned his lofty vantage point and went to wait in the alley next to the precinct for her next coffee run.
If there was one thing that was predictable about the Wielder's behavior, it was that she or her partner would venture outside several times a day to acquire the copious amounts of coffee necessary to satisfy their raging caffeine addictions. Ian had quickly learned that his Lady's mood vastly improved once she had blunted the edge of her quick temper with several preferably extremely strong cups of the beverage. Drunk black, no sugar. Whenever possible, he tried not to approach her before she'd consumed at least 40 ounces of the stuff. And that was usually before she left her loft for work.
Sure enough, less than an hour after her dressing down, she had exited the precinct and begun to walk toward the Greek diner from which she and her partner regularly purchased their coffee, the same one she had taken young Joseph to yesterday. But then she had noticed his presence in the alley, catching him off guard by walking right up to him with a surprisingly mild greeting.
Suddenly, Ian found himself unable to look her in the face. Shame filled him as he remembered how cravenly he'd clung to the memory of her smile to help him get through the beating last night and then the hated and humiliating physical he'd been subjected to earlier that morning. His face burned as he realized that he'd actually given voice to the lines from a Shakespearean sonnet that had popped into his head at the sight of her.
Such a confusion of emotions swirled around his brain, that he could barely focus on his assigned task, which was to glean as much information as he could about the murder investigation involving her nephew.
The Wielder had been surprisingly forthcoming about the status of the case, and her relief that an end to young Joseph's troubles appeared to be in sight was palpable. He sensed her surprise when he asked her about the severity of the tongue-lashing she'd no doubt received from her captain. Ian could not suppress a grimace at the irony of the euphemism she couched her response in, especially since the evidence of his own, unfortunately all-too-literal hiding was still causing him considerable pain.
He felt a stab of something very close to despair as her customary wariness returned after he offered her his services in bringing to justice the drug lord who'd murdered Paco Gutierrez -- although, to be perfectly honest, Ian knew that this Angel Medina's chances of actually being apprehended alive vastly increased if he were left out of the equation, and he was certain Lady Sara was aware of this.
When he finally worked up the courage to risk meeting her beautiful green eyes, he was stunned to see something akin to concern in them when she glimpsed his discomfort. But it disappeared so swiftly, he told himself he must have imagined it. Still, there could be no doubt that she did care about his well-being when she said "Well, it's getting kind of cold out here, so try to stay warm."
Ian decided they were both equally astonished at this pronouncement.
Unfortunately, the Wielder's temper inexplicably flared moments later when he admitted to being touched by her unwarranted concern about his exposure to the elements, and he sighed as she marched away haughtily after one last flippant remark.
Truth be told, however, the precipitous drop in the temperature became more and more noticeable as the day wore on, and he made a mental note to himself to wear his coat with the fur lining and collar on the morrow.
No, Ian wistfully acknowledged, with his aching back and inadequate clothing, Lady Sara was absolutely right in surmising that she wouldn't want to be him. And contrary to her assertion that she would see him later, it turned out that they did not meet face to face again that day.
Heedful of his master's instructions, particularly given the stinging physical reminders of what had happened the last time he'd failed to provide him with timely updates, he called and informed Irons of the latest developments in the case.
Ian felt a mild sense of surprise when, after he finished his report, his master asked him how he was feeling.
"Penitent," he replied prudently after only a moment's hesitation, and was rewarded with a rare chuckle from Irons.
And while this sound of genuine amusement hadn't afforded him the almost spiritual fortification that his Lady's smile had, it warmed him sufficiently to enable him to endure the remaining hours of his surveillance duties, during which the air temperature continued to plummet.
By the time he returned to the estate shortly before midnight, he felt as if the chill had settled in his very bones. A long shower, the water as hot as he could stand it, helped somewhat, but left him strangely enervated and exacerbated the still inflamed wounds on his back. It was with profound relief that he fell into his bed, only to have his sleep plagued by vivid nightmares of poisonous serpents sinking their fangs into him over and over again.
****
The next morning, slightly before 06:00, Ian was awakened by Irons summoning him to join him for breakfast.
A wave of dizziness gripped him as he sat up, and the room spun nauseatingly for several seconds. Alarmed, he started to reach for the bedside phone with the intention of calling Dr. Immo, but he hesitated as he realized that if Irons discovered he was unwell, he would in all likelihood order him to stay home for the day, leaving the Wielder unprotected.
Taking deep, cleansing breaths, Ian attempted to meditate, noting with concern the way his entire body ached, as though he'd been pummeled by several extremely angry men instead of whipped by one furious man two nights ago. There was also an irritating tickle at the back of his throat and his head felt as though it were filled with a gallon of thick liquid, some of which insisted on trickling out of his nose with maddening regularity. No matter how many times he blew it, his nose still oozed copious amounts of the viscous substance. The wounds on his back had formed scabs overnight, but any sudden move pulled at the deeper wounds, making them split open and begin bleeding afresh.
Ian's heart sank as he peered at his reflection in the mirror in the bathroom and noted the unnatural pallor of his skin and his bloodshot eyes. Irons was certain to notice that all was not well with his usually extremely healthy servant.
But there was nothing for it. He had been summoned and so he must attend his master. He took a quick shower in the hopes that it would clear the fog that seemed be to swaddling his brain, and was relieved when it seemed to help a bit. Although he knew he was taking far too long to join Irons, he took the time to trim his beard and mustache and comb his hair neatly. He also dressed with great care, hoping that his impeccable appearance would offset the slight glassiness of his eyes and too pale skin. Stuffing a wad of tissues into his pants pocket, he grabbed his overcoat and headed down to the dining room.
"Ah, here you are at last, young Nottingham," Kenneth Irons said, not looking up from his Financial Times at Ian's quiet entrance. "Help yourself to some food and sit down."
Ian dutifully took up a plate, but felt a swell of nausea at the sight and scent of the crepes, omelettes, bacon, sausage, fresh fruit, toast, and muffins laid out on the sideboard. However, not wanting to arouse his employer's suspicions by refusing nourishment, he loaded his plate and went to sit at his customary spot, halfway down the table, hoping he could pretend to eat heartily enough to fool his master into thinking all was well.
That hope was dashed when Irons glanced up and indicated the place setting immediately to his left. "Sit here, Ian, I want to discuss something with you," he ordered.
Silently, Ian took the specified seat and began methodically consuming the food that his body kept sending him emphatic signals it did not want. Surreptitiously, he wiped his runny nose as often as he thought it safe to do so.
After several minutes, he could feel Irons eyes on him as he ate, but he kept his own eyes on his almost empty plate
"You are awfully quiet this morning, young Nottingham," Kenneth said suddenly, almost making the younger man flinch.
Ian allowed his gaze to meet his master's for a split second. "You once told me you detested small talk, Master," he murmured, washing down the last bite of omelette with some water. His belly roiled unhappily, and he wondered miserably if his appearance fit the saying "green around the gills." Everything he had just eaten felt as though it was sitting right beneath his breastbone, and his stomach was threatening to expel it with Vesuvian force. For a moment, he fantasized about aiming the impending geyser of vomit at his employer, imagining with perverse delight the look of astonishment on Kenneth's face as he was covered with the foul stuff. For some reason, this imagery calmed his stomach, but it also almost made him burst out laughing -- something that probably would have shocked Irons to greater degree than being thrown up upon.
"Tell me, Ian, do you honestly think the Wielder will be content to sit by and do nothing as this drug bust takes place tonight?" his employer asked him.
"Doubtful, sir," Ian said without hesitation. "She will most likely be unable to resist going to the location and observing the operation, even if it is from afar. I doubt she will do anything to jeopardize the success of the endeavor, but she would probably step in if it looked like things were going badly for the law enforcement personnel involved."
"I concur. You must stay very close to her today and tonight, young Nottingham. Find out precisely where this drug bust is going to take place, and whatever happens, see to it that no harm befalls Sara Pezzini. And, Ian, keep me apprised of developments."
"Yes, Master."
With a flick of his newspaper, Irons dismissed his servant.
Ian left the estate shortly thereafter, but only after judiciously fortifying his arsenal of weapons.
Thankfully, his breakfast appeared to have settled in his stomach and he felt a little more clearheaded. It wasn't until he was halfway to the city that he remembered he had forgotten to wear his heavy winter coat even though it was even colder out today than it had been yesterday.
More to come. Keep that feedback coming. Please?
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. However, I am seriously in love with Ian Nottingham. Can you tell? And, unfortunately, you always hurt the one you love, eh? Anywho, I'm just playing. Please don't sue me. Enjoy!
Chapter 14.
Ian Nottingham stood on the roof of the building across from the 11th Precinct, watching the comings and goings of the station's voluntary and involuntary inhabitants.
He had barely arrived at the Wielder's loft in time to follow her to her workplace. During the drive from the estate, discomfort from the cuts and welts on his back had kept intruding on his thoughts, so much so, Ian had finally broken down and taken a pain pill. But either it hadn't kicked in yet or his abused skin was too agitated from the clothing rubbing against it for the medication to have much effect, because his back still felt like it was on fire.
Usually, owing to his body's accelerated healing ability, the welts calmed down and the cuts scabbed over within hours, but for whatever reason, this had not been the case with the damage left by his latest beating. Ian chalked it up to his recent lack of sleep and the exertions required of him to complete the cardiopulmonary tests for his exhaustively comprehensive physical.
About half an hour after Sara arrived at the precinct, Ian saw a late- model sedan pull into a parking space usually reserved for one of the precinct's officers. Joseph Siri, Jr. got out of the car first, followed by a man and a woman he instantly identified as the boy's parents from the photographs in the Wielder's dossier. Last of all, an older man carrying a briefcase exited the vehicle. Ian surmised that this individual was the Siri family's attorney.
Through his scope, Ian could see the sober expression on the teenager's face as well as how uncomfortable he looked in his dark, formal suit. Both of his parents wore worried expressions, and the mother looked like she had been weeping. The group went into the stationhouse, and Ian waited tensely for them to reappear, heaving a sigh of relief when they did so about an hour later. His heart rate sped up when he glimpsed his Lady at the stationhouse door, but she did not linger, vanishing back inside once she bid farewell to her nephew and his parents.
Expectantly, he trained his scope on the window that looked into Captain Bruno Dante's office. Shortly after Joseph departed, he spied the young, blond rookie detective named Jacob McCartey and the nearly bald, middle-aged man he recognized as Detective Frank Orlinsky enter their captain's office. Scant minutes later, the two detectives left as the Wielder was summoned to the office. For the next 35 minutes, Ian watched as Sara stood stiffly in front of Dante's desk, her face devoid of expression, as she apparently was lectured on the error of her ways regarding her cover-up of her nephew's and his girlfriend's misdeeds.
It did not surprise him that she stood there alone for he had guessed that she would stubbornly refuse to let her partner share in the blame for her actions. From what little Ian knew about Detective Daniel Woo, he was pretty certain this had not set well with the man.
When Sara finally left Dante's office, he abandoned his lofty vantage point and went to wait in the alley next to the precinct for her next coffee run.
If there was one thing that was predictable about the Wielder's behavior, it was that she or her partner would venture outside several times a day to acquire the copious amounts of coffee necessary to satisfy their raging caffeine addictions. Ian had quickly learned that his Lady's mood vastly improved once she had blunted the edge of her quick temper with several preferably extremely strong cups of the beverage. Drunk black, no sugar. Whenever possible, he tried not to approach her before she'd consumed at least 40 ounces of the stuff. And that was usually before she left her loft for work.
Sure enough, less than an hour after her dressing down, she had exited the precinct and begun to walk toward the Greek diner from which she and her partner regularly purchased their coffee, the same one she had taken young Joseph to yesterday. But then she had noticed his presence in the alley, catching him off guard by walking right up to him with a surprisingly mild greeting.
Suddenly, Ian found himself unable to look her in the face. Shame filled him as he remembered how cravenly he'd clung to the memory of her smile to help him get through the beating last night and then the hated and humiliating physical he'd been subjected to earlier that morning. His face burned as he realized that he'd actually given voice to the lines from a Shakespearean sonnet that had popped into his head at the sight of her.
Such a confusion of emotions swirled around his brain, that he could barely focus on his assigned task, which was to glean as much information as he could about the murder investigation involving her nephew.
The Wielder had been surprisingly forthcoming about the status of the case, and her relief that an end to young Joseph's troubles appeared to be in sight was palpable. He sensed her surprise when he asked her about the severity of the tongue-lashing she'd no doubt received from her captain. Ian could not suppress a grimace at the irony of the euphemism she couched her response in, especially since the evidence of his own, unfortunately all-too-literal hiding was still causing him considerable pain.
He felt a stab of something very close to despair as her customary wariness returned after he offered her his services in bringing to justice the drug lord who'd murdered Paco Gutierrez -- although, to be perfectly honest, Ian knew that this Angel Medina's chances of actually being apprehended alive vastly increased if he were left out of the equation, and he was certain Lady Sara was aware of this.
When he finally worked up the courage to risk meeting her beautiful green eyes, he was stunned to see something akin to concern in them when she glimpsed his discomfort. But it disappeared so swiftly, he told himself he must have imagined it. Still, there could be no doubt that she did care about his well-being when she said "Well, it's getting kind of cold out here, so try to stay warm."
Ian decided they were both equally astonished at this pronouncement.
Unfortunately, the Wielder's temper inexplicably flared moments later when he admitted to being touched by her unwarranted concern about his exposure to the elements, and he sighed as she marched away haughtily after one last flippant remark.
Truth be told, however, the precipitous drop in the temperature became more and more noticeable as the day wore on, and he made a mental note to himself to wear his coat with the fur lining and collar on the morrow.
No, Ian wistfully acknowledged, with his aching back and inadequate clothing, Lady Sara was absolutely right in surmising that she wouldn't want to be him. And contrary to her assertion that she would see him later, it turned out that they did not meet face to face again that day.
Heedful of his master's instructions, particularly given the stinging physical reminders of what had happened the last time he'd failed to provide him with timely updates, he called and informed Irons of the latest developments in the case.
Ian felt a mild sense of surprise when, after he finished his report, his master asked him how he was feeling.
"Penitent," he replied prudently after only a moment's hesitation, and was rewarded with a rare chuckle from Irons.
And while this sound of genuine amusement hadn't afforded him the almost spiritual fortification that his Lady's smile had, it warmed him sufficiently to enable him to endure the remaining hours of his surveillance duties, during which the air temperature continued to plummet.
By the time he returned to the estate shortly before midnight, he felt as if the chill had settled in his very bones. A long shower, the water as hot as he could stand it, helped somewhat, but left him strangely enervated and exacerbated the still inflamed wounds on his back. It was with profound relief that he fell into his bed, only to have his sleep plagued by vivid nightmares of poisonous serpents sinking their fangs into him over and over again.
****
The next morning, slightly before 06:00, Ian was awakened by Irons summoning him to join him for breakfast.
A wave of dizziness gripped him as he sat up, and the room spun nauseatingly for several seconds. Alarmed, he started to reach for the bedside phone with the intention of calling Dr. Immo, but he hesitated as he realized that if Irons discovered he was unwell, he would in all likelihood order him to stay home for the day, leaving the Wielder unprotected.
Taking deep, cleansing breaths, Ian attempted to meditate, noting with concern the way his entire body ached, as though he'd been pummeled by several extremely angry men instead of whipped by one furious man two nights ago. There was also an irritating tickle at the back of his throat and his head felt as though it were filled with a gallon of thick liquid, some of which insisted on trickling out of his nose with maddening regularity. No matter how many times he blew it, his nose still oozed copious amounts of the viscous substance. The wounds on his back had formed scabs overnight, but any sudden move pulled at the deeper wounds, making them split open and begin bleeding afresh.
Ian's heart sank as he peered at his reflection in the mirror in the bathroom and noted the unnatural pallor of his skin and his bloodshot eyes. Irons was certain to notice that all was not well with his usually extremely healthy servant.
But there was nothing for it. He had been summoned and so he must attend his master. He took a quick shower in the hopes that it would clear the fog that seemed be to swaddling his brain, and was relieved when it seemed to help a bit. Although he knew he was taking far too long to join Irons, he took the time to trim his beard and mustache and comb his hair neatly. He also dressed with great care, hoping that his impeccable appearance would offset the slight glassiness of his eyes and too pale skin. Stuffing a wad of tissues into his pants pocket, he grabbed his overcoat and headed down to the dining room.
"Ah, here you are at last, young Nottingham," Kenneth Irons said, not looking up from his Financial Times at Ian's quiet entrance. "Help yourself to some food and sit down."
Ian dutifully took up a plate, but felt a swell of nausea at the sight and scent of the crepes, omelettes, bacon, sausage, fresh fruit, toast, and muffins laid out on the sideboard. However, not wanting to arouse his employer's suspicions by refusing nourishment, he loaded his plate and went to sit at his customary spot, halfway down the table, hoping he could pretend to eat heartily enough to fool his master into thinking all was well.
That hope was dashed when Irons glanced up and indicated the place setting immediately to his left. "Sit here, Ian, I want to discuss something with you," he ordered.
Silently, Ian took the specified seat and began methodically consuming the food that his body kept sending him emphatic signals it did not want. Surreptitiously, he wiped his runny nose as often as he thought it safe to do so.
After several minutes, he could feel Irons eyes on him as he ate, but he kept his own eyes on his almost empty plate
"You are awfully quiet this morning, young Nottingham," Kenneth said suddenly, almost making the younger man flinch.
Ian allowed his gaze to meet his master's for a split second. "You once told me you detested small talk, Master," he murmured, washing down the last bite of omelette with some water. His belly roiled unhappily, and he wondered miserably if his appearance fit the saying "green around the gills." Everything he had just eaten felt as though it was sitting right beneath his breastbone, and his stomach was threatening to expel it with Vesuvian force. For a moment, he fantasized about aiming the impending geyser of vomit at his employer, imagining with perverse delight the look of astonishment on Kenneth's face as he was covered with the foul stuff. For some reason, this imagery calmed his stomach, but it also almost made him burst out laughing -- something that probably would have shocked Irons to greater degree than being thrown up upon.
"Tell me, Ian, do you honestly think the Wielder will be content to sit by and do nothing as this drug bust takes place tonight?" his employer asked him.
"Doubtful, sir," Ian said without hesitation. "She will most likely be unable to resist going to the location and observing the operation, even if it is from afar. I doubt she will do anything to jeopardize the success of the endeavor, but she would probably step in if it looked like things were going badly for the law enforcement personnel involved."
"I concur. You must stay very close to her today and tonight, young Nottingham. Find out precisely where this drug bust is going to take place, and whatever happens, see to it that no harm befalls Sara Pezzini. And, Ian, keep me apprised of developments."
"Yes, Master."
With a flick of his newspaper, Irons dismissed his servant.
Ian left the estate shortly thereafter, but only after judiciously fortifying his arsenal of weapons.
Thankfully, his breakfast appeared to have settled in his stomach and he felt a little more clearheaded. It wasn't until he was halfway to the city that he remembered he had forgotten to wear his heavy winter coat even though it was even colder out today than it had been yesterday.
More to come. Keep that feedback coming. Please?