A Family Affair
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Just playing. Enjoy!
Chapter 16.
Ian Nottingham parked his car two blocks from the building that housed Sara Pezzini's loft and reluctantly abandoned its warmth for the bitter cold outside. As he performed his customary perimeter check, he berated himself once again for forgetting to wear not only his heavy winter coat, but also a hat and a scarf. The sharpening wind found every bit of exposed skin, and the below freezing temperatures quickly caused him to start shivering. To make matters worse, instead of just running nonstop, his nose decided to start trying to expel the mucous clogging it with explosive force. He sneezed loudly and repeatedly. Soon, all of the tissues in his possession were a sodden mess.
Ian could never recall feeling quite so ill before, and it was this, combined with the sudden memory of his master's atypically solicitous inquiry regarding his health the day before, that led him to the realization that he had been poisoned.
Thanks to the genetic enhancements he'd undergone, his immune system was ironclad. He never caught colds or the flu. Stomach viruses were also unknown to him. Wounds and even broken bones healed with astounding swiftness, and although he could get infections, they rarely did more than cause him to spike a low-grade fever and almost never required antibiotics.
Ian abruptly remembered the injection Dr. Immo had given him yesterday right before beginning the detested physical, ostensibly to ward off infection from the wounds on his back. He recalled the brief burning pain at the injection site and became convinced that this was when he'd been slipped the toxin that was now wreaking havoc with his system.
Upon completing his perimeter check, Ian faded into the shadows of the alley where Lady Sara always parked her motorcycle, taking out his cell phone.
Kenneth Irons answered on the third ring. "Ah, young Nottingham. Calling with an update so soon?"
"No, Master. The Wielder is running late. She has yet to leave her abode."
"I see. To what, then, do I owe this call?"
"Do you mean for me to die, Master?"
"No, only to feel like you are going to," Irons said coldly, not even bothering to pretend he didn't know what his servant was talking about.
"And the lesson I am supposed to learn from this highly unpleasant experience?" Long ago, Ian had learned that there was almost always a lesson in the things his master did to him or had him do.
"That your perfect obedience and loyalty belong to me and me alone. You were born to protect the Wielder, Ian, but you belong to me. I made you who and what you are. Your very life is mine to do with what I wish. Never forget that."
"Yes, Master."
"Now, I trust your symptoms are not affecting your ability to perform your surveillance duties?"
"No, Master."
"Very good. I would be most disappointed in you if that were the case. Make no mistake, young Nottingham: This is a test, and the price of failure is your life." And with that, his master hung up.
A surge of impotent rage filled Ian as he stood there, freezing, in that alley. But then it drained away, leaving him exhausted and depressed. The bitter ring of truth behind Irons' words made it impossible for Ian to hold on to his anger. He acknowledged that he really had only himself to blame for his predicament. His inattention to his duties and pathetic infatuation with the woman he had been tasked with following had combined to force his master to take this drastic step. Deep down, Nottingham had known that Kenneth Irons would never tolerate even a hint of divided loyalties in his bodyguard and henchman. Ian was powerless to do anything other than suffer for as long as his master saw fit. And God help him if his "symptoms" worsened to the point where he was unable to perform his duties. He was under no illusions that Irons would forgive any sign of weakness in his perfectly obedient and loyal killing machine. So, Ian resolved to endure this ordeal with as much dignity as he could muster, to push away the discomfort of his stuffy head, runny nose, incessant sneezing, increasingly sore throat, and body aches. If only it were not so very cold outside and if only he had remembered to dress more warmly, he thought miserably.
Ian's heart rate accelerated as his sharp hearing detected the sound of Sara Pezzini exiting her loft and then descending the stairs to the street, the rapid cadence of her footsteps indicating her haste. Unfortunately, his red and itching nose chose the precise moment she entered the alley to unloose a volley of sneezes, the loud, wet sound of which seemed to linger on the cold air.
Lady Sara paused, peering into the shadows.
'Maybe she will not see me. Maybe she will think it was someone else," Ian thought, but that hope was short-lived as the Wielder identified him.
With her usual sarcasm, Sara rightfully pointed out that his uncontrollable sneezing rendered it impossible for him to remain undetected as was his wont. Typically, his rejection of her suggestion that he take some cold medication owing to the simple fact that he did not have a cold didn't go unchallenged by her. Only his hasty reminder of her impending tardiness forestalled her visual confirmation of the fact that he was indeed ailing. But before she left, the Wielder promised that she would see him in the alley next to the 11th Precinct's stationhouse later that day.
Ian heaved a sigh. He would linger outdoors in that shadowy passageway all day, if need be, just on the off-chance that his Lady might seek him out there.
As it turned out, he only had to wait two hours, during which he became thoroughly chilled despite his attempts to stay warm by pacing and wind-milling his arms. The cold air also tortured his raw throat, and what had formerly been an annoying tickle swiftly graduated into a full-fledged, phlegmy cough. It was in the midst of one particularly harsh coughing jag that the Wielder approached him, observing that this particular manifestation of his ill health did not sound good.
Embarrassed that she had once again caught him betraying a sign of weakness, Ian avoided making eye contact, feeling as though he might actually begin weeping if he looked into her beautiful green eyes and saw genuine concern there. Desperately, he tried to hide the nearly convulsive shivers gripping his body and to hold back the sneezes and coughs that threatened, but with little success.
Unwisely, he contradicted her assertion that he was sick, admitting the truth of the matter, which was that this was a test of his fortitude. He could tell that she did not understand what he meant by that and, as a result, she became exasperated with him. Her frustration deepened into irritation when he indicated that he could not abandon his surveillance duties unless his master expressly ordered him to do so. Or at least he started to inform her of this before she impatiently cut him off.
That was why it was so surprising when Sara invited him to accompany her to the nearby home of a friend from whom, she claimed, she needed to ask a favor. He hesitated, thinking of Irons' displeasure if he ever found out that instead of clandestinely following her at a distance as he'd been instructed to do, he had walked alongside her. But then Ian realized that, as Sara had pointed out earlier, his nonstop sneezing and coughing made any semblance of stealth impossible.
Perhaps it was a factor of just how poorly Ian was feeling that he did not have an inkling of their destination or of Sara Pezzini's plan until he found himself standing in front of Gabriel Bowman's apartment building with her. Then the Wielder stunned him by announcing her intention of having him stay in the young man's abode until she got off work, just so Ian could avoid continued exposure to the elements in his weakened state.
She brushed aside his objections as inconsequential, and proceeded to gain them admittance to the building on the pretext of needing to request the aforementioned favor of Mr. Bowman.
For his part, Ian's thoughts kept returning to his last visit to the younger man's residence. Kenneth Irons had ordered Nottingham to threaten the youthful entrepreneur with bodily harm if he did not immediately desist in his efforts to help the Wielder learn more about the Witchblade. Ian had not enjoyed carrying out the task, but neither had he objected to it.
If he were perfectly honest with himself, Nottingham would admit to a certain amount of jealousy over the friendship and obvious affection between Gabriel Bowman and Sara Pezzini. He begrudged the younger man each and every smile as well as the frequent laughter he seemed to elicit from her with such ease. Plus, he sensed that if given the opportunity, Mr. Bowman would not be at all adverse to deepening their relationship. For that, Ian could not forgive him even though he perfectly understood why it was so. Sara was the sun, moon, and stars. And, at least for Ian Nottingham, just as unattainable. Still, he knew it would destroy him if the other man succeeded where he never would even have the chance to fail.
The bumpy ride up in the large freight elevator, although brief, had the unfortunate effect of upsetting his stomach. Ian tasted bile at the back of his sore, sore throat, and swallowed convulsively, prompting a concerned inquiry from his Lady. Unconsciously rubbing his roiling belly in a futile attempt to soothe it, he reiterated his misgivings about her proposal. Once again, Sara demonstrated why he found her so worthy of his devotion with her honest, sensitive explanation of the reasoning behind her actions. However, as the elevator jounced to a stop on the third floor, Ian was unable to stifle a moan as vicious cramps suddenly twisted his insides.
Eyeing his pale, sweaty face, his Lady observed that he did not look at all well, and he sensed her surprise when he agreed that he felt awful.
He followed her down the hall to the door with the sign that said "Talismaniac" on it, which was slightly ajar, obviously in anticipation of her visit. Sara requested that he wait outside until she had a chance to overcome Mr. Bowman's undoubtedly strenuous objections to her request.
Ian acquiesced, sinking wearily to his haunches and concentrating on quelling the rapidly growing inclination to vomit.
Moments later, the volume on the music that had been blaring at uncomfortably high decibels was mercifully turned down, enabling his acute hearing to pick up the conversation between his Lady and an as yet unsuspecting Gabriel Bowman. When Sara finally came out with the enormity of the boon she was asking of her friend, the younger man immediately brought up the threat to his life that Nottingham had delivered at the behest of his master, just as Ian had expected him to do. He winced at Mr. Bowman's terse, scathing assessment of his mental stability, or lack thereof, and sarcastic reminder of the fact that he was Sara's stalker.
The Wielder then revealed Ian's presence outside the apartment by requesting that he concur with her that he felt remorse about threatening Gabriel.
Ian replied honestly that, no, he did not feel particularly remorseful about the incident, and then immediately felt churlish for doing so in light of what his Lady was attempting to do for him. However, her displeasure at his contrariness barely registered as the pain of his stomach cramps suddenly intensified. Another moan escaped him, and he clenched his teeth against the waves of nausea surging through his suffering body.
Too late, he realized that he was fighting a losing battle. Staggering to his feet, he rushed into Gabriel Bowman's apartment, eyes desperately searching for some indication of where the bathroom might be located.
Dimly, he noted the Wielder's look of alarm and the young entrepreneur's obvious fear. As if from a great distance, he heard Sara ask him what was wrong and thought he managed a reply, but then, to his everlasting shame, he doubled over and threw up at her feet, liberally splashing her boots and pants legs with the foul-smelling stuff that gushed out of him.
So great was his humiliation, he felt tears fill his eyes. But his intense embarrassment was not at an end. The cramps wracked him mercilessly, and he trembled with the effort to refrain from vomiting again.
He was absurdly grateful to hear his Lady's gentle advice not to fight the nausea, and then Gabriel Bowman handed him a receptacle in which to catch whatever else came up. Ian barely managed to utter a heartfelt apology for soiling the Wielder before following her suggestion and giving in to the overwhelming urge to expel the rest of his breakfast. He was vaguely aware that Sara and her friend were arguing, but the intensity of the spasms gripping his body made it impossible for him to focus on what they were saying.
The little silver pail had come perilously close to overflowing by the time Lady Sara left her extremely annoyed friend's apartment, instructing Ian to try and get some rest and to refrain from threatening Gabriel Bowman again. She promised to call in couple of hours to see how Nottingham was feeling, and to return to retrieve him at 17:10.
Unable to meet her eyes so deep was his mortification, Ian told her truthfully that her kindness was wasted on a worthless servant such as he. He implored her to take care on her return to the 11th Precinct, telling her that his own life would be forfeit if any harm were to befall her because of his lamentable weakness. Her assurances that she was armed and dangerous did little to allay his concerns, but he stayed behind just to please her.
Gabriel Bowman bid Sara good-bye, and then turned and eyed him warily.
"Please, Mr. Nottingham," he said, "come heave in the comfort of my place of business-slash-home. But just hold off for a few seconds while I empty your new ice bucket for you."
Gingerly, he took the brimming container from Ian and headed further into the apartment, turning down a hallway off of the display room. A minute later, Ian heard a toilet flush, and the young, dark-haired man returned carrying the empty pail.
"Here you go," Gabriel said cheerfully. "Come, crash on the couch. I'm going to make some mint tea. Calms the belly, you know."
"Thank you, Mr. Bowman," Ian rasped, following him into what would have been the dining room in a normal apartment setup, but was now more of a parlor.
Gratefully, he folded his cold, aching body onto a large, exceedingly comfortable overstuffed sofa. Unable to resist leaning his head back and closing his eyes, his shivered in misery, the burden of his virtual enslavement to Kenneth Irons weighing heavily upon him.
"Just going to perform, uh, cleanup duties while the water's on to boil," the younger man said, coming out of the kitchen with a roll of paper towels, a sponge mop, and a bucket of steaming, sudsy water in his rubber- gloved hands.
It took almost more energy than Ian possessed to open his eyes and watch this unenviable task being performed. But he forced himself to alertly examine the stark evidence of the depths of his wretchedness, silent tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
His reluctant host had almost finished cleaning the mess up by the time the kettle shrilled. Gabriel nipped into the kitchen, poured the hot water over the teabags, and then rushed back into the foyer again, plastic bag in hand. He shoveled the mound of sodden paper towels into the bag then carefully tied it closed.
"Be back in a sec," he promised, dashing out of the apartment.
Ian was granted privacy in which to heave into the little silver bucket once again, bringing up bile, but little else. The cramps in his stomach were excruciating. Although he highly doubted dry heaving would help matters much, he felt compelled to try it. As he had suspected, it did nothing to ease his extreme discomfort.
"Okay, mint tea to the rescue. I'll throw a couple of ice cubes in your mug so the remedy can be applied sooner," Mr. Bowman said, breezing back into his home and through to the kitchen. A minute later, he brought out a tray, setting it on the ebony-wood and black marble coffee table in front of the couch.
"Here you go. Honey-sweetened to soothe the bile-abused throat, peppermint to calm the upset tummy," the younger man said, handing him a steaming mug.
"Thank you," Ian murmured, accepting it.
Gabriel nodded, then brought over a box of tissues from the top of a nearby display case, setting them down next to the tray. He stood just out of arm's reach, shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously, and watching as Ian tentatively sipped his tea. After several minutes had elapsed and it became apparent that Nottingham's nausea had abated, the youthful entrepreneur cautiously edged onto the plush, deep purple velvet settee that was opposite the sofa.
"So, you can catch the flu," he said. "Bummer."
"Susceptible, apparently," Ian replied, "but not to the influenza virus."
"Ah, then you must be suffering from the effects of a toxin of some sort," Gabriel Bowman stunned Ian by immediately deducing.
"Yes," he admitted tersely. He had obviously underestimated both the keenness of the young businessman's intelligence and his knowledge of Ian's "special qualities."
"What the hell did you do to piss off your boss bad enough for him do something as lowdown as this to you?" the rosy-cheeked, deceptively innocent-looking man asked.
Ian lifted his head off the back of the sofa and leveled a stern look at the younger man, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the rivulet of snot that immediately ran down his face. Furiously, he snatched a bunch of tissues from the box on the coffee table and indulged in a thorough nose- blowing session before responding.
"My master's reasons are his own. Should he ever care to share them with you, rest assured, you would have your answer," Nottingham growled hoarsely.
"I think I know why he did it," Mr. Bowman unwisely pursued. "It's because of Sara and how you sometimes help her out. I think you know it, too."
Now Ian did glare menacingly at the other man. "I do not appreciate your useless speculation on this subject," he snapped, then immediately blunted the intended intimidation factor by taking a long slurp of peppermint tea. He was dehydrated and the tea appeared inclined to stay down. Plus, its welcome warmth was slowly but surely thawing him out.
"Yeah, well, I'm just calling it as I see it," Gabriel Bowman told him coolly.
"I threw up at her feet," Ian suddenly found himself saying in a low, infinitely weary voice. "How wretched is that? My humiliation is now complete."
"Yeah, sure, that sucked. But, hey, the Irish have a saying: 'Until you've vomited in someone's presence, they can't truly be called a friend.' At least you've gotten that out of the way with Sara," the young entrepreneur surprised him by stating.
"Me, Sara's friend," Nottingham said thoughtfully, sipping his rapidly cooling tea. "That is a novel concept. Her Protector and her friend."
"Wait a sec, you're the Wielder's Protector?"
Ian's tired eyes met Gabriel Bowman's. "Yes. As you are obviously aware, one such as me has been a part of the Wielder's life throughout the Witchblade's long history. Born to defend the Wielder from her enemies, the endless legion of which would destroy her just for the chance to possess the power that the gauntlet bestows."
"Holy shit! And Irons has got you by the balls!" the younger man observed baldly. "That's . . . that's just perverse, man. I called him a black-hearted bastard before, but that seals it for me: The man's evil."
Ian just stared at him listlessly, unable to summon the energy to refute his words, even if there had been a way to do so.
"May I please have another cup of peppermint tea?" he finally asked wearily, his head once again falling against the back of the sofa.
"Sure thing," his host said rising and taking Ian's mug from him. "Just relax, Mr. Nottingham, and make yourself comfortable. Maybe you want to take your coat off?"
"Not yet, thank you," Ian murmured, slightly alarmed to feel his eyelids growing heavy. "I am just beginning to feel warm again."
Gabriel Bowman handed him a fresh mug of tea a few minutes later, but he only managed to consume little more than half of it before nodding off.
****
The buzz of the apartment's intercom jerked Ian back to wakefulness. Disoriented, he flung off a quilt he did not remember being covered with and staggered to his feet.
"Whoa, whoa, sorry to disturb you there, Mr. Nottingham!" Gabriel Bowman said from the display room where he'd been quietly unpacking two large crates. "It's just a client I've been expecting."
"What time is it? Did I miss Lady Sara's call?" Ian asked, yawning and rubbing his face before slowly sinking back down onto the irresistibly comfy sofa again. Sleepily, he snuggled into the warmth of the quilt that his host must have placed over him while he slept.
"Almost 1:00 p.m. and, no, she hasn't called yet." The younger man glanced at the view of the building's entrance that was displayed on a small, wall-mounted monitor before pushing the intercom button that would let his visitor hear his voice. "Yo."
"Hello, Mr. Bowman? My name is Veronica Matthews. We spoke a couple of days ago about an Etruscan necklace you said you'd managed to acquire. We have a one o'clock appointment, I believe."
"Yes, I've been expecting you, Ms. Matthews. Take the freight elevator at the end of the hall to the third floor. Second apartment on the left." He buzzed her in.
Veronica Matthews turned out to be a young, attractive African- American woman.
"Welcome to Talismaniac, Ms. Matthews. I'm the owner, Gabriel Bowman," the young entrepreneur greeted her warmly. "Can I offer you something to drink? A cup of tea, perhaps?"
"Call me Ronnie, and, sure, I'd love one. It's freezing outside," she told him, shrugging out of her full-length down coat, which Gabriel took from her and hung up in a closet. "Oh! I didn't realize you had company," the young woman said, noticing Ian for the first time.
"Uh, yeah, that's my . . . cousin, Ian," their host said smoothly. "He's a little under the weather, so he's playing hooky from work and hanging out with me today."
"Hi, Ian, my name's Ronnie," the dark-skinned woman said, taking a seat on the settee across from him. "I'm sorry to hear you're not feeling well."
"Hello, Ronnie," Ian said shyly, self-conscious about the hoarseness of his voice. "Gabriel tells me you're interested in the Etruscan period of pre-Roman Italian history."
"Oh, yes. I minored in archaeology as an undergrad, and it was a favorite of mine. Now I work part-time as a curator in a museum in Minnesota, and I wanted to see if I could acquire this necklace for a permanent Etruscan exhibit the head curator and I are putting together," she told him.
For the next half an hour, Gabriel Bowman listened with growing admiration and surprise as Ian Nottingham conversed quite knowledgeably about ancient Etruscan society and culture with his client. All Gabe had to do was keep the tea coming and bring out the stunning example of that era's jewelry he had procured for his prospective customer. Less than 45 minutes later, he closed the sale. He got the feeling the discussion would have continued except for the fact that Ian's already hoarse voice finally gave out completely.
There was only one awkward moment, when Ronnie innocently started to reach into the little silver ice bucket on the coffee table for an ice cube to put in her piping hot peppermint tea. Both men startled the young woman by simultaneously lunging for the bucket. Gabriel beat Ian to it, mumbling that the ice cubes had melted and that he would fetch fresh ones from the kitchen. She chose not to remark upon the fact that he brought them out in a bowl rather than the lovely antique bucket.
"Ian, if you're ever in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area, drop by the museum. It's pretty small, but I think this exhibit will be worth a visit, especially with this addition," Ronnie Matthews said, rising from the settee with obvious reluctance.
"I would enjoy that. My work does not often allow me the liberty to visit museums, but I will be certain to make the time should I ever find myself in Minnesota," Ian whispered sincerely. He pocketed the business card the attractive young woman had given him, failing to notice that she had scribbled her home phone number on the back.
"Thanks, Ronnie," Gabriel said, helping her on with her coat and then escorting her to the door. "Maybe I'll drop by the museum one of these days, too, to see what you've done with my necklace. Please, come again, and don't hesitate to tell all of your friends about Talismaniac."
"I certainly will, Gabriel. It's been a pleasure doing business with you," Ronnie said. Then she grinned impishly and glanced meaningfully beyond him to the parlor. "In more ways than one! Bye, Ian!"
"Good-bye, Ronnie Matthews. Have a safe trip home," Ian rasped.
Gabriel turned from closing the door and waggled a finger at Ian. "You sly dog, you! I never would have guessed that you have a way with the ladies!"
"There is much about me you do not know, Mr. Bowman, but in this particular case, I think the fever may have eased my inhibitions somewhat," Ian responded.
Talismaniac's proprietor frowned. "You're running a fever?"
"I believe so. I am also fairly certain that it is what will eventually kill me unless I receive the antidote to the toxin," he whispered in his ravaged voice.
"Hang on a sec," Gabriel said, disappearing down the hallway that led to the bathroom and his private quarters. He came back moments later with a digital thermometer, which he disinfected with isopropyl rubbing alcohol before handing it to Ian. "Press the button, wait five seconds, and then pop it under your tongue. It'll beep when it's ready to be read. Fast, double-beeps mean you've got a fever."
Ian followed his instructions, and about two minutes later, the thing beeped: fast double-beeps.
"Uh-oh," Gabriel Bowman said, grabbing the thermometer out of Ian's mouth before he could and peering at the tiny LED readout. "You were right; 101.4. I don't suppose aspirin would do any good?"
"No."
A somber silence descended over the room, only to be broken minutes later by the ringing of the cordless phone that sat on a countertop in the display room.
"That is probably Lady Sara," Ian said. "Mr. Bowman, please do not tell her what you learned about the toxin," he requested urgently.
"Okay," Gabriel reluctantly agreed, "but she really should know that you're, uh, under a deadline, so to speak." He picked up the phone. "Talismaniac. Oh, hey Chief, I was just wondering when you'd call."
Sara must have asked how Ian was doing, because the next thing Gabriel said was "Not hurling anymore. Peppermint tea worked like a charm. Still coughing and sneezing, though. Oh, and he's pretty much lost his voice. Do you want to speak to -- ! Hey, hey, Invasion-of-Personal-Space Alert, Dude!" the younger, much shorter man said, startled to turn and find Ian inches away from him. He had failed to notice Nottingham rise from the sofa and cross the room.
Ian took the phone from him. "Hello, Sara," he whispered.
"How you feeling, Nottingham? Better than you sound, I hope," his Lady asked him gently.
"Warmer," Ian answered truthfully. "And my stomach has stopped hurting me."
"That's good news at least." She lowered her voice. "No word yet on exactly when and where this bust is gonna go down tonight. And things are still weirdly quiet around here. Dante hasn't seen fit to cut me loose from desk duty, either. So, looks like I'll see you at 5:10 like I promised. Take it easy 'til then, okay? And try and get some more rest."
"I will try, my Lady."
"Good. Now, put Gabe back on please."
He handed the phone back to a fidgety Gabriel Bowman, who had moved several feet away from him, then headed down the hallway to the bathroom. But his sharp hearing picked up the younger man's half of the ensuing conversation even from behind the closed door.
"He slept for about an hour, but then a client stopped by and woke him up."
Pause.
"Shocking as I know this is gonna sound, I actually think he kind of charmed her. He's very well-read, at least about ancient Etruscan civilization. They had tea and discussed the subject like a couple of college professors or something. I should probably pay him a commission 'cause I'm pretty sure he helped seal the deal."
Pause.
"Young, attractive, smart. And, of course, female. No accounting for taste, hunh?"
Pause.
"She was definitely into the Nottingham vibe. Who knew he could act normal? I sure as hell didn't. He blamed it on the fever, which is probably as close to making a joke as the guy ever comes."
Pause.
"Didn't I mention that he's running a fever? Guess I forgot."
Pause.
"Yeah, well, he probably didn't want to worry you."
Gabriel Bowman abruptly lowered his voice considerably, but not enough to prevent Ian from hearing him clearly. "Listen, Chief, Mr. Professional Killer becomes delirious in the next few hours, I'm out of here."
Pause.
"Well, no, it's not that high yet, but I'm just saying. My very well- developed sense of self-preservation is telling me that it might not be wise to stick around when the world's deadliest assassin is out of his head with fever. I'm positive he's armed to the teeth and then there's the fact that he could kill me with whatever's handy, like, oh, I don't know, his bare hands."
Longer pause.
"Well, yeah, sure, but that's because you're the Almighty Wielder and he's your Protector. Delirium hallucination Irons orders him to kill me, and I'm toast. End of story."
Pause.
"Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. See you in a few hours, Chief."
Ian flushed the toilet, washed his hands, put his gloves and ring back on, and returned to the parlor, taking a seat on the sinfully comfortable couch again.
Gabriel had resumed unpacking the crates. He glanced over at Ian. "Do you think you could eat something? Maybe a bowl of chicken soup?"
"I do not think that would be wise, but thank you for the offer," he refused. He gazed thoughtfully at the slender, dark-haired young man, although he clearly sensed that his silent scrutiny was making him uncomfortable.
"Mr. Bowman," he said after several minutes, causing the other man to jump. "You were right in supposing that my master poisoned me because of my divided loyalties. He thinks this will remind me of my place and exactly to whom I owe my allegiance. Yes, I am the Wielder's Protector, but I am also my master's instrument. It is extremely difficult for me to disobey him when he orders me to do something. Nearly impossible, in fact. However, I promise you that I would find a way to defy him if he ever ordered me to harm you," he told the nervous man.
"Why?" Gabriel Bowman asked instantly. "Because I gave you shelter?"
"No, because I know that should anything happen to you, it would hurt my Lady," he answered honestly.
"Deal," the younger man said swiftly. "Shake on it?" He crossed the room and held out his hand, his dark eyes serious.
Slowly and deliberately, Ian first removed the heavy silver ring he always wore on his right ring finger over his glove, and then the black glove itself, before grasping the young entrepreneur's hand and shaking it firmly.
"Now, how do you feel about being on call? You know, to help out with sales to the ladies?" Gabriel asked him. "There'd be a hefty commission in it for you."
More to come. Keep the feedback coming.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Just playing. Enjoy!
Chapter 16.
Ian Nottingham parked his car two blocks from the building that housed Sara Pezzini's loft and reluctantly abandoned its warmth for the bitter cold outside. As he performed his customary perimeter check, he berated himself once again for forgetting to wear not only his heavy winter coat, but also a hat and a scarf. The sharpening wind found every bit of exposed skin, and the below freezing temperatures quickly caused him to start shivering. To make matters worse, instead of just running nonstop, his nose decided to start trying to expel the mucous clogging it with explosive force. He sneezed loudly and repeatedly. Soon, all of the tissues in his possession were a sodden mess.
Ian could never recall feeling quite so ill before, and it was this, combined with the sudden memory of his master's atypically solicitous inquiry regarding his health the day before, that led him to the realization that he had been poisoned.
Thanks to the genetic enhancements he'd undergone, his immune system was ironclad. He never caught colds or the flu. Stomach viruses were also unknown to him. Wounds and even broken bones healed with astounding swiftness, and although he could get infections, they rarely did more than cause him to spike a low-grade fever and almost never required antibiotics.
Ian abruptly remembered the injection Dr. Immo had given him yesterday right before beginning the detested physical, ostensibly to ward off infection from the wounds on his back. He recalled the brief burning pain at the injection site and became convinced that this was when he'd been slipped the toxin that was now wreaking havoc with his system.
Upon completing his perimeter check, Ian faded into the shadows of the alley where Lady Sara always parked her motorcycle, taking out his cell phone.
Kenneth Irons answered on the third ring. "Ah, young Nottingham. Calling with an update so soon?"
"No, Master. The Wielder is running late. She has yet to leave her abode."
"I see. To what, then, do I owe this call?"
"Do you mean for me to die, Master?"
"No, only to feel like you are going to," Irons said coldly, not even bothering to pretend he didn't know what his servant was talking about.
"And the lesson I am supposed to learn from this highly unpleasant experience?" Long ago, Ian had learned that there was almost always a lesson in the things his master did to him or had him do.
"That your perfect obedience and loyalty belong to me and me alone. You were born to protect the Wielder, Ian, but you belong to me. I made you who and what you are. Your very life is mine to do with what I wish. Never forget that."
"Yes, Master."
"Now, I trust your symptoms are not affecting your ability to perform your surveillance duties?"
"No, Master."
"Very good. I would be most disappointed in you if that were the case. Make no mistake, young Nottingham: This is a test, and the price of failure is your life." And with that, his master hung up.
A surge of impotent rage filled Ian as he stood there, freezing, in that alley. But then it drained away, leaving him exhausted and depressed. The bitter ring of truth behind Irons' words made it impossible for Ian to hold on to his anger. He acknowledged that he really had only himself to blame for his predicament. His inattention to his duties and pathetic infatuation with the woman he had been tasked with following had combined to force his master to take this drastic step. Deep down, Nottingham had known that Kenneth Irons would never tolerate even a hint of divided loyalties in his bodyguard and henchman. Ian was powerless to do anything other than suffer for as long as his master saw fit. And God help him if his "symptoms" worsened to the point where he was unable to perform his duties. He was under no illusions that Irons would forgive any sign of weakness in his perfectly obedient and loyal killing machine. So, Ian resolved to endure this ordeal with as much dignity as he could muster, to push away the discomfort of his stuffy head, runny nose, incessant sneezing, increasingly sore throat, and body aches. If only it were not so very cold outside and if only he had remembered to dress more warmly, he thought miserably.
Ian's heart rate accelerated as his sharp hearing detected the sound of Sara Pezzini exiting her loft and then descending the stairs to the street, the rapid cadence of her footsteps indicating her haste. Unfortunately, his red and itching nose chose the precise moment she entered the alley to unloose a volley of sneezes, the loud, wet sound of which seemed to linger on the cold air.
Lady Sara paused, peering into the shadows.
'Maybe she will not see me. Maybe she will think it was someone else," Ian thought, but that hope was short-lived as the Wielder identified him.
With her usual sarcasm, Sara rightfully pointed out that his uncontrollable sneezing rendered it impossible for him to remain undetected as was his wont. Typically, his rejection of her suggestion that he take some cold medication owing to the simple fact that he did not have a cold didn't go unchallenged by her. Only his hasty reminder of her impending tardiness forestalled her visual confirmation of the fact that he was indeed ailing. But before she left, the Wielder promised that she would see him in the alley next to the 11th Precinct's stationhouse later that day.
Ian heaved a sigh. He would linger outdoors in that shadowy passageway all day, if need be, just on the off-chance that his Lady might seek him out there.
As it turned out, he only had to wait two hours, during which he became thoroughly chilled despite his attempts to stay warm by pacing and wind-milling his arms. The cold air also tortured his raw throat, and what had formerly been an annoying tickle swiftly graduated into a full-fledged, phlegmy cough. It was in the midst of one particularly harsh coughing jag that the Wielder approached him, observing that this particular manifestation of his ill health did not sound good.
Embarrassed that she had once again caught him betraying a sign of weakness, Ian avoided making eye contact, feeling as though he might actually begin weeping if he looked into her beautiful green eyes and saw genuine concern there. Desperately, he tried to hide the nearly convulsive shivers gripping his body and to hold back the sneezes and coughs that threatened, but with little success.
Unwisely, he contradicted her assertion that he was sick, admitting the truth of the matter, which was that this was a test of his fortitude. He could tell that she did not understand what he meant by that and, as a result, she became exasperated with him. Her frustration deepened into irritation when he indicated that he could not abandon his surveillance duties unless his master expressly ordered him to do so. Or at least he started to inform her of this before she impatiently cut him off.
That was why it was so surprising when Sara invited him to accompany her to the nearby home of a friend from whom, she claimed, she needed to ask a favor. He hesitated, thinking of Irons' displeasure if he ever found out that instead of clandestinely following her at a distance as he'd been instructed to do, he had walked alongside her. But then Ian realized that, as Sara had pointed out earlier, his nonstop sneezing and coughing made any semblance of stealth impossible.
Perhaps it was a factor of just how poorly Ian was feeling that he did not have an inkling of their destination or of Sara Pezzini's plan until he found himself standing in front of Gabriel Bowman's apartment building with her. Then the Wielder stunned him by announcing her intention of having him stay in the young man's abode until she got off work, just so Ian could avoid continued exposure to the elements in his weakened state.
She brushed aside his objections as inconsequential, and proceeded to gain them admittance to the building on the pretext of needing to request the aforementioned favor of Mr. Bowman.
For his part, Ian's thoughts kept returning to his last visit to the younger man's residence. Kenneth Irons had ordered Nottingham to threaten the youthful entrepreneur with bodily harm if he did not immediately desist in his efforts to help the Wielder learn more about the Witchblade. Ian had not enjoyed carrying out the task, but neither had he objected to it.
If he were perfectly honest with himself, Nottingham would admit to a certain amount of jealousy over the friendship and obvious affection between Gabriel Bowman and Sara Pezzini. He begrudged the younger man each and every smile as well as the frequent laughter he seemed to elicit from her with such ease. Plus, he sensed that if given the opportunity, Mr. Bowman would not be at all adverse to deepening their relationship. For that, Ian could not forgive him even though he perfectly understood why it was so. Sara was the sun, moon, and stars. And, at least for Ian Nottingham, just as unattainable. Still, he knew it would destroy him if the other man succeeded where he never would even have the chance to fail.
The bumpy ride up in the large freight elevator, although brief, had the unfortunate effect of upsetting his stomach. Ian tasted bile at the back of his sore, sore throat, and swallowed convulsively, prompting a concerned inquiry from his Lady. Unconsciously rubbing his roiling belly in a futile attempt to soothe it, he reiterated his misgivings about her proposal. Once again, Sara demonstrated why he found her so worthy of his devotion with her honest, sensitive explanation of the reasoning behind her actions. However, as the elevator jounced to a stop on the third floor, Ian was unable to stifle a moan as vicious cramps suddenly twisted his insides.
Eyeing his pale, sweaty face, his Lady observed that he did not look at all well, and he sensed her surprise when he agreed that he felt awful.
He followed her down the hall to the door with the sign that said "Talismaniac" on it, which was slightly ajar, obviously in anticipation of her visit. Sara requested that he wait outside until she had a chance to overcome Mr. Bowman's undoubtedly strenuous objections to her request.
Ian acquiesced, sinking wearily to his haunches and concentrating on quelling the rapidly growing inclination to vomit.
Moments later, the volume on the music that had been blaring at uncomfortably high decibels was mercifully turned down, enabling his acute hearing to pick up the conversation between his Lady and an as yet unsuspecting Gabriel Bowman. When Sara finally came out with the enormity of the boon she was asking of her friend, the younger man immediately brought up the threat to his life that Nottingham had delivered at the behest of his master, just as Ian had expected him to do. He winced at Mr. Bowman's terse, scathing assessment of his mental stability, or lack thereof, and sarcastic reminder of the fact that he was Sara's stalker.
The Wielder then revealed Ian's presence outside the apartment by requesting that he concur with her that he felt remorse about threatening Gabriel.
Ian replied honestly that, no, he did not feel particularly remorseful about the incident, and then immediately felt churlish for doing so in light of what his Lady was attempting to do for him. However, her displeasure at his contrariness barely registered as the pain of his stomach cramps suddenly intensified. Another moan escaped him, and he clenched his teeth against the waves of nausea surging through his suffering body.
Too late, he realized that he was fighting a losing battle. Staggering to his feet, he rushed into Gabriel Bowman's apartment, eyes desperately searching for some indication of where the bathroom might be located.
Dimly, he noted the Wielder's look of alarm and the young entrepreneur's obvious fear. As if from a great distance, he heard Sara ask him what was wrong and thought he managed a reply, but then, to his everlasting shame, he doubled over and threw up at her feet, liberally splashing her boots and pants legs with the foul-smelling stuff that gushed out of him.
So great was his humiliation, he felt tears fill his eyes. But his intense embarrassment was not at an end. The cramps wracked him mercilessly, and he trembled with the effort to refrain from vomiting again.
He was absurdly grateful to hear his Lady's gentle advice not to fight the nausea, and then Gabriel Bowman handed him a receptacle in which to catch whatever else came up. Ian barely managed to utter a heartfelt apology for soiling the Wielder before following her suggestion and giving in to the overwhelming urge to expel the rest of his breakfast. He was vaguely aware that Sara and her friend were arguing, but the intensity of the spasms gripping his body made it impossible for him to focus on what they were saying.
The little silver pail had come perilously close to overflowing by the time Lady Sara left her extremely annoyed friend's apartment, instructing Ian to try and get some rest and to refrain from threatening Gabriel Bowman again. She promised to call in couple of hours to see how Nottingham was feeling, and to return to retrieve him at 17:10.
Unable to meet her eyes so deep was his mortification, Ian told her truthfully that her kindness was wasted on a worthless servant such as he. He implored her to take care on her return to the 11th Precinct, telling her that his own life would be forfeit if any harm were to befall her because of his lamentable weakness. Her assurances that she was armed and dangerous did little to allay his concerns, but he stayed behind just to please her.
Gabriel Bowman bid Sara good-bye, and then turned and eyed him warily.
"Please, Mr. Nottingham," he said, "come heave in the comfort of my place of business-slash-home. But just hold off for a few seconds while I empty your new ice bucket for you."
Gingerly, he took the brimming container from Ian and headed further into the apartment, turning down a hallway off of the display room. A minute later, Ian heard a toilet flush, and the young, dark-haired man returned carrying the empty pail.
"Here you go," Gabriel said cheerfully. "Come, crash on the couch. I'm going to make some mint tea. Calms the belly, you know."
"Thank you, Mr. Bowman," Ian rasped, following him into what would have been the dining room in a normal apartment setup, but was now more of a parlor.
Gratefully, he folded his cold, aching body onto a large, exceedingly comfortable overstuffed sofa. Unable to resist leaning his head back and closing his eyes, his shivered in misery, the burden of his virtual enslavement to Kenneth Irons weighing heavily upon him.
"Just going to perform, uh, cleanup duties while the water's on to boil," the younger man said, coming out of the kitchen with a roll of paper towels, a sponge mop, and a bucket of steaming, sudsy water in his rubber- gloved hands.
It took almost more energy than Ian possessed to open his eyes and watch this unenviable task being performed. But he forced himself to alertly examine the stark evidence of the depths of his wretchedness, silent tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
His reluctant host had almost finished cleaning the mess up by the time the kettle shrilled. Gabriel nipped into the kitchen, poured the hot water over the teabags, and then rushed back into the foyer again, plastic bag in hand. He shoveled the mound of sodden paper towels into the bag then carefully tied it closed.
"Be back in a sec," he promised, dashing out of the apartment.
Ian was granted privacy in which to heave into the little silver bucket once again, bringing up bile, but little else. The cramps in his stomach were excruciating. Although he highly doubted dry heaving would help matters much, he felt compelled to try it. As he had suspected, it did nothing to ease his extreme discomfort.
"Okay, mint tea to the rescue. I'll throw a couple of ice cubes in your mug so the remedy can be applied sooner," Mr. Bowman said, breezing back into his home and through to the kitchen. A minute later, he brought out a tray, setting it on the ebony-wood and black marble coffee table in front of the couch.
"Here you go. Honey-sweetened to soothe the bile-abused throat, peppermint to calm the upset tummy," the younger man said, handing him a steaming mug.
"Thank you," Ian murmured, accepting it.
Gabriel nodded, then brought over a box of tissues from the top of a nearby display case, setting them down next to the tray. He stood just out of arm's reach, shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously, and watching as Ian tentatively sipped his tea. After several minutes had elapsed and it became apparent that Nottingham's nausea had abated, the youthful entrepreneur cautiously edged onto the plush, deep purple velvet settee that was opposite the sofa.
"So, you can catch the flu," he said. "Bummer."
"Susceptible, apparently," Ian replied, "but not to the influenza virus."
"Ah, then you must be suffering from the effects of a toxin of some sort," Gabriel Bowman stunned Ian by immediately deducing.
"Yes," he admitted tersely. He had obviously underestimated both the keenness of the young businessman's intelligence and his knowledge of Ian's "special qualities."
"What the hell did you do to piss off your boss bad enough for him do something as lowdown as this to you?" the rosy-cheeked, deceptively innocent-looking man asked.
Ian lifted his head off the back of the sofa and leveled a stern look at the younger man, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the rivulet of snot that immediately ran down his face. Furiously, he snatched a bunch of tissues from the box on the coffee table and indulged in a thorough nose- blowing session before responding.
"My master's reasons are his own. Should he ever care to share them with you, rest assured, you would have your answer," Nottingham growled hoarsely.
"I think I know why he did it," Mr. Bowman unwisely pursued. "It's because of Sara and how you sometimes help her out. I think you know it, too."
Now Ian did glare menacingly at the other man. "I do not appreciate your useless speculation on this subject," he snapped, then immediately blunted the intended intimidation factor by taking a long slurp of peppermint tea. He was dehydrated and the tea appeared inclined to stay down. Plus, its welcome warmth was slowly but surely thawing him out.
"Yeah, well, I'm just calling it as I see it," Gabriel Bowman told him coolly.
"I threw up at her feet," Ian suddenly found himself saying in a low, infinitely weary voice. "How wretched is that? My humiliation is now complete."
"Yeah, sure, that sucked. But, hey, the Irish have a saying: 'Until you've vomited in someone's presence, they can't truly be called a friend.' At least you've gotten that out of the way with Sara," the young entrepreneur surprised him by stating.
"Me, Sara's friend," Nottingham said thoughtfully, sipping his rapidly cooling tea. "That is a novel concept. Her Protector and her friend."
"Wait a sec, you're the Wielder's Protector?"
Ian's tired eyes met Gabriel Bowman's. "Yes. As you are obviously aware, one such as me has been a part of the Wielder's life throughout the Witchblade's long history. Born to defend the Wielder from her enemies, the endless legion of which would destroy her just for the chance to possess the power that the gauntlet bestows."
"Holy shit! And Irons has got you by the balls!" the younger man observed baldly. "That's . . . that's just perverse, man. I called him a black-hearted bastard before, but that seals it for me: The man's evil."
Ian just stared at him listlessly, unable to summon the energy to refute his words, even if there had been a way to do so.
"May I please have another cup of peppermint tea?" he finally asked wearily, his head once again falling against the back of the sofa.
"Sure thing," his host said rising and taking Ian's mug from him. "Just relax, Mr. Nottingham, and make yourself comfortable. Maybe you want to take your coat off?"
"Not yet, thank you," Ian murmured, slightly alarmed to feel his eyelids growing heavy. "I am just beginning to feel warm again."
Gabriel Bowman handed him a fresh mug of tea a few minutes later, but he only managed to consume little more than half of it before nodding off.
****
The buzz of the apartment's intercom jerked Ian back to wakefulness. Disoriented, he flung off a quilt he did not remember being covered with and staggered to his feet.
"Whoa, whoa, sorry to disturb you there, Mr. Nottingham!" Gabriel Bowman said from the display room where he'd been quietly unpacking two large crates. "It's just a client I've been expecting."
"What time is it? Did I miss Lady Sara's call?" Ian asked, yawning and rubbing his face before slowly sinking back down onto the irresistibly comfy sofa again. Sleepily, he snuggled into the warmth of the quilt that his host must have placed over him while he slept.
"Almost 1:00 p.m. and, no, she hasn't called yet." The younger man glanced at the view of the building's entrance that was displayed on a small, wall-mounted monitor before pushing the intercom button that would let his visitor hear his voice. "Yo."
"Hello, Mr. Bowman? My name is Veronica Matthews. We spoke a couple of days ago about an Etruscan necklace you said you'd managed to acquire. We have a one o'clock appointment, I believe."
"Yes, I've been expecting you, Ms. Matthews. Take the freight elevator at the end of the hall to the third floor. Second apartment on the left." He buzzed her in.
Veronica Matthews turned out to be a young, attractive African- American woman.
"Welcome to Talismaniac, Ms. Matthews. I'm the owner, Gabriel Bowman," the young entrepreneur greeted her warmly. "Can I offer you something to drink? A cup of tea, perhaps?"
"Call me Ronnie, and, sure, I'd love one. It's freezing outside," she told him, shrugging out of her full-length down coat, which Gabriel took from her and hung up in a closet. "Oh! I didn't realize you had company," the young woman said, noticing Ian for the first time.
"Uh, yeah, that's my . . . cousin, Ian," their host said smoothly. "He's a little under the weather, so he's playing hooky from work and hanging out with me today."
"Hi, Ian, my name's Ronnie," the dark-skinned woman said, taking a seat on the settee across from him. "I'm sorry to hear you're not feeling well."
"Hello, Ronnie," Ian said shyly, self-conscious about the hoarseness of his voice. "Gabriel tells me you're interested in the Etruscan period of pre-Roman Italian history."
"Oh, yes. I minored in archaeology as an undergrad, and it was a favorite of mine. Now I work part-time as a curator in a museum in Minnesota, and I wanted to see if I could acquire this necklace for a permanent Etruscan exhibit the head curator and I are putting together," she told him.
For the next half an hour, Gabriel Bowman listened with growing admiration and surprise as Ian Nottingham conversed quite knowledgeably about ancient Etruscan society and culture with his client. All Gabe had to do was keep the tea coming and bring out the stunning example of that era's jewelry he had procured for his prospective customer. Less than 45 minutes later, he closed the sale. He got the feeling the discussion would have continued except for the fact that Ian's already hoarse voice finally gave out completely.
There was only one awkward moment, when Ronnie innocently started to reach into the little silver ice bucket on the coffee table for an ice cube to put in her piping hot peppermint tea. Both men startled the young woman by simultaneously lunging for the bucket. Gabriel beat Ian to it, mumbling that the ice cubes had melted and that he would fetch fresh ones from the kitchen. She chose not to remark upon the fact that he brought them out in a bowl rather than the lovely antique bucket.
"Ian, if you're ever in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area, drop by the museum. It's pretty small, but I think this exhibit will be worth a visit, especially with this addition," Ronnie Matthews said, rising from the settee with obvious reluctance.
"I would enjoy that. My work does not often allow me the liberty to visit museums, but I will be certain to make the time should I ever find myself in Minnesota," Ian whispered sincerely. He pocketed the business card the attractive young woman had given him, failing to notice that she had scribbled her home phone number on the back.
"Thanks, Ronnie," Gabriel said, helping her on with her coat and then escorting her to the door. "Maybe I'll drop by the museum one of these days, too, to see what you've done with my necklace. Please, come again, and don't hesitate to tell all of your friends about Talismaniac."
"I certainly will, Gabriel. It's been a pleasure doing business with you," Ronnie said. Then she grinned impishly and glanced meaningfully beyond him to the parlor. "In more ways than one! Bye, Ian!"
"Good-bye, Ronnie Matthews. Have a safe trip home," Ian rasped.
Gabriel turned from closing the door and waggled a finger at Ian. "You sly dog, you! I never would have guessed that you have a way with the ladies!"
"There is much about me you do not know, Mr. Bowman, but in this particular case, I think the fever may have eased my inhibitions somewhat," Ian responded.
Talismaniac's proprietor frowned. "You're running a fever?"
"I believe so. I am also fairly certain that it is what will eventually kill me unless I receive the antidote to the toxin," he whispered in his ravaged voice.
"Hang on a sec," Gabriel said, disappearing down the hallway that led to the bathroom and his private quarters. He came back moments later with a digital thermometer, which he disinfected with isopropyl rubbing alcohol before handing it to Ian. "Press the button, wait five seconds, and then pop it under your tongue. It'll beep when it's ready to be read. Fast, double-beeps mean you've got a fever."
Ian followed his instructions, and about two minutes later, the thing beeped: fast double-beeps.
"Uh-oh," Gabriel Bowman said, grabbing the thermometer out of Ian's mouth before he could and peering at the tiny LED readout. "You were right; 101.4. I don't suppose aspirin would do any good?"
"No."
A somber silence descended over the room, only to be broken minutes later by the ringing of the cordless phone that sat on a countertop in the display room.
"That is probably Lady Sara," Ian said. "Mr. Bowman, please do not tell her what you learned about the toxin," he requested urgently.
"Okay," Gabriel reluctantly agreed, "but she really should know that you're, uh, under a deadline, so to speak." He picked up the phone. "Talismaniac. Oh, hey Chief, I was just wondering when you'd call."
Sara must have asked how Ian was doing, because the next thing Gabriel said was "Not hurling anymore. Peppermint tea worked like a charm. Still coughing and sneezing, though. Oh, and he's pretty much lost his voice. Do you want to speak to -- ! Hey, hey, Invasion-of-Personal-Space Alert, Dude!" the younger, much shorter man said, startled to turn and find Ian inches away from him. He had failed to notice Nottingham rise from the sofa and cross the room.
Ian took the phone from him. "Hello, Sara," he whispered.
"How you feeling, Nottingham? Better than you sound, I hope," his Lady asked him gently.
"Warmer," Ian answered truthfully. "And my stomach has stopped hurting me."
"That's good news at least." She lowered her voice. "No word yet on exactly when and where this bust is gonna go down tonight. And things are still weirdly quiet around here. Dante hasn't seen fit to cut me loose from desk duty, either. So, looks like I'll see you at 5:10 like I promised. Take it easy 'til then, okay? And try and get some more rest."
"I will try, my Lady."
"Good. Now, put Gabe back on please."
He handed the phone back to a fidgety Gabriel Bowman, who had moved several feet away from him, then headed down the hallway to the bathroom. But his sharp hearing picked up the younger man's half of the ensuing conversation even from behind the closed door.
"He slept for about an hour, but then a client stopped by and woke him up."
Pause.
"Shocking as I know this is gonna sound, I actually think he kind of charmed her. He's very well-read, at least about ancient Etruscan civilization. They had tea and discussed the subject like a couple of college professors or something. I should probably pay him a commission 'cause I'm pretty sure he helped seal the deal."
Pause.
"Young, attractive, smart. And, of course, female. No accounting for taste, hunh?"
Pause.
"She was definitely into the Nottingham vibe. Who knew he could act normal? I sure as hell didn't. He blamed it on the fever, which is probably as close to making a joke as the guy ever comes."
Pause.
"Didn't I mention that he's running a fever? Guess I forgot."
Pause.
"Yeah, well, he probably didn't want to worry you."
Gabriel Bowman abruptly lowered his voice considerably, but not enough to prevent Ian from hearing him clearly. "Listen, Chief, Mr. Professional Killer becomes delirious in the next few hours, I'm out of here."
Pause.
"Well, no, it's not that high yet, but I'm just saying. My very well- developed sense of self-preservation is telling me that it might not be wise to stick around when the world's deadliest assassin is out of his head with fever. I'm positive he's armed to the teeth and then there's the fact that he could kill me with whatever's handy, like, oh, I don't know, his bare hands."
Longer pause.
"Well, yeah, sure, but that's because you're the Almighty Wielder and he's your Protector. Delirium hallucination Irons orders him to kill me, and I'm toast. End of story."
Pause.
"Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. See you in a few hours, Chief."
Ian flushed the toilet, washed his hands, put his gloves and ring back on, and returned to the parlor, taking a seat on the sinfully comfortable couch again.
Gabriel had resumed unpacking the crates. He glanced over at Ian. "Do you think you could eat something? Maybe a bowl of chicken soup?"
"I do not think that would be wise, but thank you for the offer," he refused. He gazed thoughtfully at the slender, dark-haired young man, although he clearly sensed that his silent scrutiny was making him uncomfortable.
"Mr. Bowman," he said after several minutes, causing the other man to jump. "You were right in supposing that my master poisoned me because of my divided loyalties. He thinks this will remind me of my place and exactly to whom I owe my allegiance. Yes, I am the Wielder's Protector, but I am also my master's instrument. It is extremely difficult for me to disobey him when he orders me to do something. Nearly impossible, in fact. However, I promise you that I would find a way to defy him if he ever ordered me to harm you," he told the nervous man.
"Why?" Gabriel Bowman asked instantly. "Because I gave you shelter?"
"No, because I know that should anything happen to you, it would hurt my Lady," he answered honestly.
"Deal," the younger man said swiftly. "Shake on it?" He crossed the room and held out his hand, his dark eyes serious.
Slowly and deliberately, Ian first removed the heavy silver ring he always wore on his right ring finger over his glove, and then the black glove itself, before grasping the young entrepreneur's hand and shaking it firmly.
"Now, how do you feel about being on call? You know, to help out with sales to the ladies?" Gabriel asked him. "There'd be a hefty commission in it for you."
More to come. Keep the feedback coming.