A Family Affair
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just fooling around. Enjoy!
Chapter 15.
Sara Pezzini clattered down the steps that led to the street from her loft. She was, as usual, running late. So late, she hadn't had time for more than two mugs of coffee and some toast for breakfast. Stale toast. But because she didn't want to risk the Wrath of Dante by showing up past 9:00 a.m., she had gulped down the two mugfuls hastily, nearly scalding her mouth in the process, and pounded the toast (dry, because she'd run out of butter, jam, and even her spread of last resort, chocolate syrup). She needed to go shopping in a big way.
The cold air hit her like a right hook, and she quickly zipped up her leather jacket, which really wasn't adequate protection against temperatures this low. Sara glanced up at the sky and her heart sank as she noticed that clouds were beginning to roll in on a wind that cut her exposed skin like a knife. The thin, wispy skeins were most likely the harbingers of the storm the forecasters kept insisting was coming. Ominously, the meteorologists were starting to use the "B" word on the TV and radio. She hated any kind of icy precipitation because it prevented her from riding her beloved motorcycle, but she prayed there wasn't going to be a blizzard. New York City tended to shut down when more than a foot of snow fell on it, and the predictions being thrown about were for in excess of two feet of the white stuff.
As Sara entered the alley where she always parked her Buell, she heard a loud sneeze, followed in quick succession by two more, equally as explosive as the first. The Witchblade stroked her wrist with warmth, pulsing gently.
"Nottingham?" she called, peering into the shadows toward the end of the alley. "Is that you?"
"Yes, my Lady."
Sara could not refrain from smiling at how nasal his voice sounded. "Um, sneezing that loud kinda ruins the whole stealthy stalker thing, you know. Maybe you should take a cold pill or something," she said.
"I do not have a cold," her stalker said, remaining in the shadows.
"Oh, we're in denial, are we?" she said, starting to walk toward him.
"You are going to be late for work, Sara," Nottingham said before she could take more than a couple of steps.
"Shit! You're right. Catch you later in the alley next to the house!"
'There's a whole world of things wrong with that last thing you said, woman,' Sara thought as she put her helmet on and straddled the Buell. 'Stay the hell away from that alley, Sara. Just walk on by and ignore your stalker,' she repeated sternly to herself as started the engine and then sped toward the 11th Precinct.
She got to her desk at 9:09, earning a glare from Dante but, thankfully, nothing else.
"Mornin', partner," Danny Woo said. "Oversleep?"
"More like overtossed. Took me until nearly 3:00 a.m. to finally fall asleep, then I had the most hellacious dream about getting bitten by a shitload of snakes. Woke back up at 4:30. Then I tossed and turned some more. Of course, just when I start to drift off again, BANG! The freakin' alarm goes off," she griped, plopping down at her desk and rubbing her face tiredly.
"Maybe this will help," her partner said, handing her a cup of Starbucks.
"You are a god, Daniel Woo," Sara said, practically snatching it from him. Although not as hot as she preferred it to be, the rich, dark coffee was excellent nonetheless. "Any word from our, um, source in narcotics?"
He shook his head. "Nothing yet. I would have already told you if there was, Pez."
"I know, I know. I'm just a little wired from lack of sleep and stress."
"Waiting around sucks. Weird how slow it's been, too. It's like the whole city is waiting for something big to happen."
"Hopefully, it'll be a good old-fashioned massacre instead of a damn blizzard."
"Want me to pick up a MetroCard for you tomorrow morning?" Danny teased her.
Sara pretended to glare at him. "Okay, you're officially out of my good graces, Woo."
"Wow, that was fast! Usually, a cup of Starbucks buys me at least three more wisecracks."
"Not today, oh, Wise Asian Master. This is only my third cup!"
"Shutting up now."
Sara settled in to do some more of the hated paperwork, but found it hard to concentrate. Her mind kept wandering to a certain alley that ran alongside the precinct, or, more accurately, to the sickly man who was most likely standing out there in the freezing cold. After a couple of hours, she couldn't stand it any longer.
"Going for a coffee run," she said, jumping up and grabbing her jacket.
"Yes, please!" Danny said, not even looking up from his own paperwork.
Before leaving, Sara rummaged around in her desk drawer until she found a knit cap that had been in there since last winter. Pulling it over her gleaming, chestnut-brown hair, she headed outside into the bitter cold.
As she came abreast of the alley next to the 11th Precinct, the Witchblade swirled warmly on her wrist, but it needn't have bothered: the sound of a hacking cough echoed through the shadowy passageway.
"Doesn't sound too good, Nottingham," she said, walking up to him before she could lose her nerve.
He didn't respond, just kept his face averted as he removed a wad of sodden tissues from his pants pocket and ineffectively wiped his streaming nose with them.
Sara frowned to see that his head was bare and that his too-thin coat was gaping open. "How long have you been feeling sick?"
"I am not sick," he rasped, and promptly went off on another coughing jag.
She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, really? Then what is with the coughing, sneezing, and runny nose?"
"It is a test," he said, so softly she wasn't sure she heard him correctly.
"Excuse me?" she said. "Did you say it's a test?"
But he didn't say anything else, just stood there looking miserable.
Sara threw up her hands in exasperation. "You should be home in bed, Nottingham. Not standing out here in the cold."
"I have my or--"
"Yeah, yeah, your freakin' orders, I know," she cut him off impatiently.
Sara stared at him, taking in his unhealthy pallor and the fact that, although he tried to hide it, he was shivering violently. She came to a decision. "Come on," she said, and started walking toward the mouth of the alley.
Nottingham did not move. "Where are you going?" he asked thickly.
"Just come on. You're supposed to stay close to me, right? Well, I've got to go check something out, so are you coming or not?"
"I thought you were restricted to desk duty, Sara," her stalker said, but he started to follow her, moving with little of his usual confident grace.
"This isn't police work. I need to go ask a friend for a favor. It's not far," she told him.
They walked the next few blocks in silence, punctuated only by the black-clad man's sneezing and coughing fits.
But when they approached a familiar building, Ian Nottingham stopped short, glancing up toward the third-story windows. "This is Gabriel Bowman's building," he said suspiciously.
"Yeah, and it's only four blocks from the station. I'm gonna ask Gabriel if you can hang out here until I get off work. You were right about me still being on desk duty, which means I'm not going anywhere. No reason you should stand out in the freezing cold when you could be inside someplace warm," she told him.
He shook his dark head. "I do not feel comfortable with this course of action, my Lady. Besides, Mr. Bowman and I have . . . issues. I very much doubt he will acquiesce to your suggestion."
"You mean like when you threatened to torture him to death if he didn't stop helping me learn about the Witchblade?" Sara said baldly.
"Yes, that is the incident that immediately comes to mind."
"Bygones," she said dismissively, ignoring his disbelieving look. "But just to be safe, maybe you'd better stay out of camera range until he buzzes me in."
Sara waited until the assassin had moved the necessary distance away before pushing the button marked "Talismaniac" on the intercom.
"Yo."
"Gabriel, it's me, Sara."
"Hey, Chief, long time no hear from!"
"Yeah, it's been killer, uh, really, really busy at work. Listen, can I come up? I need to ask you for a big favor."
"Sure thing, Chief."
He buzzed her in.
Ian Nottingham waited until just before the door had closed behind her to slip inside. They headed for the freight elevator. As it jerked into motion, Sara noticed the tall, dark-haired man swallow hard.
"Are you okay, Nottingham?"
"I really do not think this is a good idea, Lady Sara," he mumbled, absently rubbing his stomach.
"Yeah, well, call me crazy, but I just don't think somebody as sick as you obviously are should be standing out in the cold on my account, I don't care who ordered it," she said firmly.
The elevator reached the third floor, stopping with a slight bouncing motion. Sara thought she heard a soft moan escape the black-clad man next to her, and she saw that his face had taken on a ghastly greenish cast.
"You really don't look so hot," she told him, lifting the doors and stepping out of the elevator.
"I do not feel so hot," he surprised her by admitting, following her into the hallway.
The door to Gabriel's apartment was ajar. A sign on it said "Talismaniac." Music blasted from within. The Who's Baba O'Reilly.
"Wait out here while I go butter him up, Nottingham."
He nodded, sinking wearily to his haunches.
"Hey, Gabe, how's it going?" Sara shouted, as she entered the apartment that doubled as the young man's place of business.
Gabriel Bowman came out of his kitchen holding two mugs of coffee, one of which he offered to her. "Hey, Chief. Business is great. Just got in a shipment of stuff. How you been?"
"Good, good. Can you dial it down a bit, so we don't have to yell at each other?" she requested.
"For you, anything. Although this part right here rocks!" He did a goofy little dance as the insanely skirling instrumental segment of the song came to a crescendo, then mercifully turned the volume way down.
"Thanks," Sara muttered, taking a sip of her coffee, "and thanks for the java."
"Anytime. What can I do you for?" the dark-haired, extremely fair- skinned young man asked, setting his own mug down on one of the many display cases scattered throughout the main room of the apartment.
Gabriel Bowman was a self-made entrepreneur, buying and selling all manner of strange and intriguing esoterica, ranging from the macabre like the collection of shrunken heads staring creepily at Sara from across the room to more mundane items like Hollywood memorabilia. He was also a whiz on the computer and, in addition to telling her whatever he could learn about the ancient, sentient weapon she wore on her right wrist, had helped Sara research many of the arcane symbols and talismans that had begun to turn up at her crime scenes with distressing regularity ever since the Witchblade had chosen her as its next Wielder.
"I need to ask you for a huge favor, buddy," Sara said to him, noting with some amusement the blindingly bright Nehru jacket and paisley bell bottoms that he wore. The outfit could have come straight off a Jimi Hendrix album cover, and very well might have.
"Just how huge a favor are we talking about?"
"Gigantic. I will owe you big time if you do this for me," she told him.
"Shoot."
"I need you to let a . . . somebody crash here for a few hours. Just 'til I get off from work." Sara had barely caught herself before saying 'a friend.'
"A . . . somebody?" the young man said, picking up on her hesitation.
"Yeah. It's Nottingham," she blurted out, deciding to just go for it.
Gabriel stared at her incredulously. "You're joking, right?"
"No, I'm not. Look, Gabe, he's really sick and it's really cold outside. It would only be for a few hours," she said again, a pleading look on her face.
"We are talking about the same Ian Nottingham who not two months ago, in this very room, threatened to torture me to death, right? Tall, dark, homicidal tendencies? Oh, yeah, and, in case you forgot, who also happens to be stalking you!"
"Yeah, you know he's really sorry about the threatening-you-with- torture thing, aren't you, Nottingham?" Sara directed her words out the still open front door.
"No, not really," came the soft but clear reply from the hallway.
Gabriel's dark eyes widened in alarm. "Mr. I'd-Kill-You-Just-as-Soon- as-Look-at-You is out there in my hallway right now?"
"Yeah, I sort of let him in," Sara said apologetically. "Would a little remorse have killed you here, Nottingham?" she hissed out the door, frowning when all she heard in response from the assassin was another of those tiny moans.
"Let me get this straight, Chief. You're asking me to provide day care for your psychotic stalker because he's sick?"
She thought about this for a moment. "Yeah, that about covers it."
"Should I even question whether this is a Witchblade-inspired episode?"
Sara looked at the bracelet's gently glowing stone expectantly. "Well? Go on, answer him!" she prompted it, than sighed when, of course, nothing happened. "Did I mention that I'll really, really owe you for this and that it'll only be for five, six hours tops?"
Now it was Gabriel's turn to sigh. "You are so right about owing me for this, Chief."
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she beamed, giving him a hug. "Nottingham, you can come in now."
Gabriel couldn't stop himself from taking several steps back as the big, black-clad assassin suddenly appeared in the doorway.
'Wow! He really does look crappy. Kind of green around the gills,' the younger man thought, stunned by the man's haggard appearance.
Then Sara noticed that Nottingham's eyes were darting around the apartment rather wildly.
"What's wrong?" she asked, alarmed.
"I am . . . unwell," he said through clenched teeth. "Must . . . find . . . bathroom." And with no more warning than that, he doubled over and vomited copiously onto the floor.
Gabriel closed his eyes tight. "No, he did not just ralph all over my floor."
"Uh, Gabriel, you, um, might want to grab a bucket or something, 'cause I don't think he's done," Sara said, trying to breathe through her mouth so that her friend didn't have an even bigger mess to clean up. "Nottingham, don't try to hold it back," she advised, watching his pitiful struggle to keep the rest of his breakfast from coming up. "It's a force of nature and won't be denied." She started to reach out to rub his back comfortingly, but pulled her hand back at the last moment, only slightly freaked by the impulse.
"Sure, spew on my floor some more, why don't you? Be my guest!" their disgruntled host invited sarcastically. He was fumbling around behind one of the display cases, all the while muttering words that, although in another language, were still easily identifiable as curses.
"Here," Gabriel said, thrusting a silver bucket at the gagging man. "You owe me $3,000. That ice bucket was featured in Ocean's 11 -- the original version, of course -- and then it was given to the movie's star, Frank Sinatra. I had a client interested in it, too, but somehow I doubt re-christening it with puke is what she had in mind for it."
Ian looked up at Sara through mortified, watering eyes. "I am sorry, my Lady."
"S'okay, Nottingham," she told him, then winced when another spasm of nausea forced him to use Ol' Blue Eyes' ice bucket in a manner for which it had never been intended.
"I don't know why he's apologizing to you," Gabriel grumbled, "it's my floor he hurled on."
"At least you weren't in the danger zone," Sara said, looking at her boots and the bottom of her jeans, which were liberally spattered with the stuff that Nottingham's body was busy vigorously expelling. "Get me a mop and a bucket, and I'll clean this up," she told the miffed young man.
"Nah. You better get back to the station, Chief. I got this."
"You're a real peach, Gabe. Five hours, tops!" she promised, carefully stepping over the foul-smelling puddle and heading toward the door.
"Great. Then the Deadliest-Assassin-in-the-Solar-System's stalkee will come back, pick up her stalker, take him home, and tuck him into bed, earning points with his black-hearted bastard of a boss in the process. Is that it, Sara?" Gabriel said acidly.
Sara paused at the door, leveling a serious look at her friend. "Kenny gives me the warm and fuzzies, too, Gabriel. He must have known Nottingham was sick, but he still sent him out in the freezing cold to shadow me. I won't stand by and let anybody suffer on my account, not even my stalker," she said quietly. "You should know that about me by now."
Sighing, the young, rosy-cheeked businessman relented. "Yeah, I do know that about you. It's one of the reasons I'm glad you're my friend, Chief."
"I'll be back before you know it, kid," Sara smiled affectionately at him, then glanced at her sickly stalker. "Just try to rest, Nottingham. I'll call here in a couple of hours to see how you're feeling. And I'll be back at 5:10 on the dot, okay?"
"You are too kind to this worthless servant, my Lady," Ian whispered, tormented gaze trying but failing to meet hers.
"Don't thank me, thank Gabriel. And behave yourself. No threats!" she admonished him gently.
"Yes, my Lady," he said, bowing his head. "Please be careful. I would not be able to live with myself if harm were to come to you because of my weakness."
"The stationhouse is just four blocks away in broad daylight. Plus, have gun and Witchblade, will travel. I'll be fine," she assured him, getting the distinct and unsettling feeling that he literally meant what he said. "Later, Gabriel, and thanks again."
"Sure, Chief," the proprietor of Talismaniac said. "See you later."
"Please, Mr. Nottingham, come heave in the comfort of my place of business-slash-home," she heard Gabriel say to the other man as she headed out the door. "But just hold off for a few seconds while I empty your new ice bucket for you."
More to come. Feed me feedback! Please?
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just fooling around. Enjoy!
Chapter 15.
Sara Pezzini clattered down the steps that led to the street from her loft. She was, as usual, running late. So late, she hadn't had time for more than two mugs of coffee and some toast for breakfast. Stale toast. But because she didn't want to risk the Wrath of Dante by showing up past 9:00 a.m., she had gulped down the two mugfuls hastily, nearly scalding her mouth in the process, and pounded the toast (dry, because she'd run out of butter, jam, and even her spread of last resort, chocolate syrup). She needed to go shopping in a big way.
The cold air hit her like a right hook, and she quickly zipped up her leather jacket, which really wasn't adequate protection against temperatures this low. Sara glanced up at the sky and her heart sank as she noticed that clouds were beginning to roll in on a wind that cut her exposed skin like a knife. The thin, wispy skeins were most likely the harbingers of the storm the forecasters kept insisting was coming. Ominously, the meteorologists were starting to use the "B" word on the TV and radio. She hated any kind of icy precipitation because it prevented her from riding her beloved motorcycle, but she prayed there wasn't going to be a blizzard. New York City tended to shut down when more than a foot of snow fell on it, and the predictions being thrown about were for in excess of two feet of the white stuff.
As Sara entered the alley where she always parked her Buell, she heard a loud sneeze, followed in quick succession by two more, equally as explosive as the first. The Witchblade stroked her wrist with warmth, pulsing gently.
"Nottingham?" she called, peering into the shadows toward the end of the alley. "Is that you?"
"Yes, my Lady."
Sara could not refrain from smiling at how nasal his voice sounded. "Um, sneezing that loud kinda ruins the whole stealthy stalker thing, you know. Maybe you should take a cold pill or something," she said.
"I do not have a cold," her stalker said, remaining in the shadows.
"Oh, we're in denial, are we?" she said, starting to walk toward him.
"You are going to be late for work, Sara," Nottingham said before she could take more than a couple of steps.
"Shit! You're right. Catch you later in the alley next to the house!"
'There's a whole world of things wrong with that last thing you said, woman,' Sara thought as she put her helmet on and straddled the Buell. 'Stay the hell away from that alley, Sara. Just walk on by and ignore your stalker,' she repeated sternly to herself as started the engine and then sped toward the 11th Precinct.
She got to her desk at 9:09, earning a glare from Dante but, thankfully, nothing else.
"Mornin', partner," Danny Woo said. "Oversleep?"
"More like overtossed. Took me until nearly 3:00 a.m. to finally fall asleep, then I had the most hellacious dream about getting bitten by a shitload of snakes. Woke back up at 4:30. Then I tossed and turned some more. Of course, just when I start to drift off again, BANG! The freakin' alarm goes off," she griped, plopping down at her desk and rubbing her face tiredly.
"Maybe this will help," her partner said, handing her a cup of Starbucks.
"You are a god, Daniel Woo," Sara said, practically snatching it from him. Although not as hot as she preferred it to be, the rich, dark coffee was excellent nonetheless. "Any word from our, um, source in narcotics?"
He shook his head. "Nothing yet. I would have already told you if there was, Pez."
"I know, I know. I'm just a little wired from lack of sleep and stress."
"Waiting around sucks. Weird how slow it's been, too. It's like the whole city is waiting for something big to happen."
"Hopefully, it'll be a good old-fashioned massacre instead of a damn blizzard."
"Want me to pick up a MetroCard for you tomorrow morning?" Danny teased her.
Sara pretended to glare at him. "Okay, you're officially out of my good graces, Woo."
"Wow, that was fast! Usually, a cup of Starbucks buys me at least three more wisecracks."
"Not today, oh, Wise Asian Master. This is only my third cup!"
"Shutting up now."
Sara settled in to do some more of the hated paperwork, but found it hard to concentrate. Her mind kept wandering to a certain alley that ran alongside the precinct, or, more accurately, to the sickly man who was most likely standing out there in the freezing cold. After a couple of hours, she couldn't stand it any longer.
"Going for a coffee run," she said, jumping up and grabbing her jacket.
"Yes, please!" Danny said, not even looking up from his own paperwork.
Before leaving, Sara rummaged around in her desk drawer until she found a knit cap that had been in there since last winter. Pulling it over her gleaming, chestnut-brown hair, she headed outside into the bitter cold.
As she came abreast of the alley next to the 11th Precinct, the Witchblade swirled warmly on her wrist, but it needn't have bothered: the sound of a hacking cough echoed through the shadowy passageway.
"Doesn't sound too good, Nottingham," she said, walking up to him before she could lose her nerve.
He didn't respond, just kept his face averted as he removed a wad of sodden tissues from his pants pocket and ineffectively wiped his streaming nose with them.
Sara frowned to see that his head was bare and that his too-thin coat was gaping open. "How long have you been feeling sick?"
"I am not sick," he rasped, and promptly went off on another coughing jag.
She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, really? Then what is with the coughing, sneezing, and runny nose?"
"It is a test," he said, so softly she wasn't sure she heard him correctly.
"Excuse me?" she said. "Did you say it's a test?"
But he didn't say anything else, just stood there looking miserable.
Sara threw up her hands in exasperation. "You should be home in bed, Nottingham. Not standing out here in the cold."
"I have my or--"
"Yeah, yeah, your freakin' orders, I know," she cut him off impatiently.
Sara stared at him, taking in his unhealthy pallor and the fact that, although he tried to hide it, he was shivering violently. She came to a decision. "Come on," she said, and started walking toward the mouth of the alley.
Nottingham did not move. "Where are you going?" he asked thickly.
"Just come on. You're supposed to stay close to me, right? Well, I've got to go check something out, so are you coming or not?"
"I thought you were restricted to desk duty, Sara," her stalker said, but he started to follow her, moving with little of his usual confident grace.
"This isn't police work. I need to go ask a friend for a favor. It's not far," she told him.
They walked the next few blocks in silence, punctuated only by the black-clad man's sneezing and coughing fits.
But when they approached a familiar building, Ian Nottingham stopped short, glancing up toward the third-story windows. "This is Gabriel Bowman's building," he said suspiciously.
"Yeah, and it's only four blocks from the station. I'm gonna ask Gabriel if you can hang out here until I get off work. You were right about me still being on desk duty, which means I'm not going anywhere. No reason you should stand out in the freezing cold when you could be inside someplace warm," she told him.
He shook his dark head. "I do not feel comfortable with this course of action, my Lady. Besides, Mr. Bowman and I have . . . issues. I very much doubt he will acquiesce to your suggestion."
"You mean like when you threatened to torture him to death if he didn't stop helping me learn about the Witchblade?" Sara said baldly.
"Yes, that is the incident that immediately comes to mind."
"Bygones," she said dismissively, ignoring his disbelieving look. "But just to be safe, maybe you'd better stay out of camera range until he buzzes me in."
Sara waited until the assassin had moved the necessary distance away before pushing the button marked "Talismaniac" on the intercom.
"Yo."
"Gabriel, it's me, Sara."
"Hey, Chief, long time no hear from!"
"Yeah, it's been killer, uh, really, really busy at work. Listen, can I come up? I need to ask you for a big favor."
"Sure thing, Chief."
He buzzed her in.
Ian Nottingham waited until just before the door had closed behind her to slip inside. They headed for the freight elevator. As it jerked into motion, Sara noticed the tall, dark-haired man swallow hard.
"Are you okay, Nottingham?"
"I really do not think this is a good idea, Lady Sara," he mumbled, absently rubbing his stomach.
"Yeah, well, call me crazy, but I just don't think somebody as sick as you obviously are should be standing out in the cold on my account, I don't care who ordered it," she said firmly.
The elevator reached the third floor, stopping with a slight bouncing motion. Sara thought she heard a soft moan escape the black-clad man next to her, and she saw that his face had taken on a ghastly greenish cast.
"You really don't look so hot," she told him, lifting the doors and stepping out of the elevator.
"I do not feel so hot," he surprised her by admitting, following her into the hallway.
The door to Gabriel's apartment was ajar. A sign on it said "Talismaniac." Music blasted from within. The Who's Baba O'Reilly.
"Wait out here while I go butter him up, Nottingham."
He nodded, sinking wearily to his haunches.
"Hey, Gabe, how's it going?" Sara shouted, as she entered the apartment that doubled as the young man's place of business.
Gabriel Bowman came out of his kitchen holding two mugs of coffee, one of which he offered to her. "Hey, Chief. Business is great. Just got in a shipment of stuff. How you been?"
"Good, good. Can you dial it down a bit, so we don't have to yell at each other?" she requested.
"For you, anything. Although this part right here rocks!" He did a goofy little dance as the insanely skirling instrumental segment of the song came to a crescendo, then mercifully turned the volume way down.
"Thanks," Sara muttered, taking a sip of her coffee, "and thanks for the java."
"Anytime. What can I do you for?" the dark-haired, extremely fair- skinned young man asked, setting his own mug down on one of the many display cases scattered throughout the main room of the apartment.
Gabriel Bowman was a self-made entrepreneur, buying and selling all manner of strange and intriguing esoterica, ranging from the macabre like the collection of shrunken heads staring creepily at Sara from across the room to more mundane items like Hollywood memorabilia. He was also a whiz on the computer and, in addition to telling her whatever he could learn about the ancient, sentient weapon she wore on her right wrist, had helped Sara research many of the arcane symbols and talismans that had begun to turn up at her crime scenes with distressing regularity ever since the Witchblade had chosen her as its next Wielder.
"I need to ask you for a huge favor, buddy," Sara said to him, noting with some amusement the blindingly bright Nehru jacket and paisley bell bottoms that he wore. The outfit could have come straight off a Jimi Hendrix album cover, and very well might have.
"Just how huge a favor are we talking about?"
"Gigantic. I will owe you big time if you do this for me," she told him.
"Shoot."
"I need you to let a . . . somebody crash here for a few hours. Just 'til I get off from work." Sara had barely caught herself before saying 'a friend.'
"A . . . somebody?" the young man said, picking up on her hesitation.
"Yeah. It's Nottingham," she blurted out, deciding to just go for it.
Gabriel stared at her incredulously. "You're joking, right?"
"No, I'm not. Look, Gabe, he's really sick and it's really cold outside. It would only be for a few hours," she said again, a pleading look on her face.
"We are talking about the same Ian Nottingham who not two months ago, in this very room, threatened to torture me to death, right? Tall, dark, homicidal tendencies? Oh, yeah, and, in case you forgot, who also happens to be stalking you!"
"Yeah, you know he's really sorry about the threatening-you-with- torture thing, aren't you, Nottingham?" Sara directed her words out the still open front door.
"No, not really," came the soft but clear reply from the hallway.
Gabriel's dark eyes widened in alarm. "Mr. I'd-Kill-You-Just-as-Soon- as-Look-at-You is out there in my hallway right now?"
"Yeah, I sort of let him in," Sara said apologetically. "Would a little remorse have killed you here, Nottingham?" she hissed out the door, frowning when all she heard in response from the assassin was another of those tiny moans.
"Let me get this straight, Chief. You're asking me to provide day care for your psychotic stalker because he's sick?"
She thought about this for a moment. "Yeah, that about covers it."
"Should I even question whether this is a Witchblade-inspired episode?"
Sara looked at the bracelet's gently glowing stone expectantly. "Well? Go on, answer him!" she prompted it, than sighed when, of course, nothing happened. "Did I mention that I'll really, really owe you for this and that it'll only be for five, six hours tops?"
Now it was Gabriel's turn to sigh. "You are so right about owing me for this, Chief."
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she beamed, giving him a hug. "Nottingham, you can come in now."
Gabriel couldn't stop himself from taking several steps back as the big, black-clad assassin suddenly appeared in the doorway.
'Wow! He really does look crappy. Kind of green around the gills,' the younger man thought, stunned by the man's haggard appearance.
Then Sara noticed that Nottingham's eyes were darting around the apartment rather wildly.
"What's wrong?" she asked, alarmed.
"I am . . . unwell," he said through clenched teeth. "Must . . . find . . . bathroom." And with no more warning than that, he doubled over and vomited copiously onto the floor.
Gabriel closed his eyes tight. "No, he did not just ralph all over my floor."
"Uh, Gabriel, you, um, might want to grab a bucket or something, 'cause I don't think he's done," Sara said, trying to breathe through her mouth so that her friend didn't have an even bigger mess to clean up. "Nottingham, don't try to hold it back," she advised, watching his pitiful struggle to keep the rest of his breakfast from coming up. "It's a force of nature and won't be denied." She started to reach out to rub his back comfortingly, but pulled her hand back at the last moment, only slightly freaked by the impulse.
"Sure, spew on my floor some more, why don't you? Be my guest!" their disgruntled host invited sarcastically. He was fumbling around behind one of the display cases, all the while muttering words that, although in another language, were still easily identifiable as curses.
"Here," Gabriel said, thrusting a silver bucket at the gagging man. "You owe me $3,000. That ice bucket was featured in Ocean's 11 -- the original version, of course -- and then it was given to the movie's star, Frank Sinatra. I had a client interested in it, too, but somehow I doubt re-christening it with puke is what she had in mind for it."
Ian looked up at Sara through mortified, watering eyes. "I am sorry, my Lady."
"S'okay, Nottingham," she told him, then winced when another spasm of nausea forced him to use Ol' Blue Eyes' ice bucket in a manner for which it had never been intended.
"I don't know why he's apologizing to you," Gabriel grumbled, "it's my floor he hurled on."
"At least you weren't in the danger zone," Sara said, looking at her boots and the bottom of her jeans, which were liberally spattered with the stuff that Nottingham's body was busy vigorously expelling. "Get me a mop and a bucket, and I'll clean this up," she told the miffed young man.
"Nah. You better get back to the station, Chief. I got this."
"You're a real peach, Gabe. Five hours, tops!" she promised, carefully stepping over the foul-smelling puddle and heading toward the door.
"Great. Then the Deadliest-Assassin-in-the-Solar-System's stalkee will come back, pick up her stalker, take him home, and tuck him into bed, earning points with his black-hearted bastard of a boss in the process. Is that it, Sara?" Gabriel said acidly.
Sara paused at the door, leveling a serious look at her friend. "Kenny gives me the warm and fuzzies, too, Gabriel. He must have known Nottingham was sick, but he still sent him out in the freezing cold to shadow me. I won't stand by and let anybody suffer on my account, not even my stalker," she said quietly. "You should know that about me by now."
Sighing, the young, rosy-cheeked businessman relented. "Yeah, I do know that about you. It's one of the reasons I'm glad you're my friend, Chief."
"I'll be back before you know it, kid," Sara smiled affectionately at him, then glanced at her sickly stalker. "Just try to rest, Nottingham. I'll call here in a couple of hours to see how you're feeling. And I'll be back at 5:10 on the dot, okay?"
"You are too kind to this worthless servant, my Lady," Ian whispered, tormented gaze trying but failing to meet hers.
"Don't thank me, thank Gabriel. And behave yourself. No threats!" she admonished him gently.
"Yes, my Lady," he said, bowing his head. "Please be careful. I would not be able to live with myself if harm were to come to you because of my weakness."
"The stationhouse is just four blocks away in broad daylight. Plus, have gun and Witchblade, will travel. I'll be fine," she assured him, getting the distinct and unsettling feeling that he literally meant what he said. "Later, Gabriel, and thanks again."
"Sure, Chief," the proprietor of Talismaniac said. "See you later."
"Please, Mr. Nottingham, come heave in the comfort of my place of business-slash-home," she heard Gabriel say to the other man as she headed out the door. "But just hold off for a few seconds while I empty your new ice bucket for you."
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