A Family Affair
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just playing. Enjoy!
Author's Note: After much angst (okay, not that much), I decided to rewrite both Chapters 19 and 20. I was dissatisfied with the amount of exposition in Chapter 20, so I combined both characters' viewpoints and then split the resulting gigantic chapter into two. Sara and Ian are a team now anyway, right? What God hath joined, let no man put asunder (or something like that)! If you can't be bothered to reread both chappies, that's fine. I'll {sob} understand. For you first-timers, enjoy!
Chapter 19.
Sara Pezzini studied the man beside her whenever she thought he wasn't looking, which was pretty much always because Ian Nottingham had the peculiar habit of staring directly at the ground in front of him as he walked. Not once did he raise his eyes during the entire four-block walk back to the 11th Precinct, although she didn't doubt for an instant that he was acutely aware of his surroundings. There was a preternatural alertness about him, even with his bowed head and downcast eyes.
Virtually noiseless, he walked with an athlete's confident swagger, his weight balanced lightly on his combat-boot-shod feet, his black-gloved hands more often than not clasped behind his back. He suited his pace to Sara's brisk walk, although because his stride was so much longer than hers, it was as though he were taking a leisurely stroll. With some amusement, Sara noticed that he always made sure she walked on the inner, more protected part of the sidewalk.
Nottingham seemed to have some kind of built-in radar when it came to objects he needed to avoid, such as the couple that stepped into his path after getting out of a taxi. He didn't even glance up; he simply nimbly sidestepped them, never even breaking stride. Given his downward-facing gaze, Sara wondered how he could have possibly seen them. And weirder still, the couple acted as if they hadn't even noticed the tall, black-clad assassin, although they both glanced at Sara in the manner of people who enjoy people watching.
It was as though Kenneth Irons' bodyguard were invisible. Eerily, he nearly disappeared in the darkness between street lamps and was only a moving shadow beneath the widely spaced pools of light. Sara noted that the gazes of the few people who did notice him didn't linger, almost as though they realized they were better off pretending they hadn't seen him.
Ian Nottingham could sense the Wielder's scrutiny as they walked back to the stationhouse, and he decided that his atypically lighthearted interaction with her friend had intrigued her. Either that or she was wondering just how much of a freak he really was. Ian couldn't summon up the nerve to look at her and attempt to gauge her frame of mind, so he studiously kept his eyes on the pavement in front of him.
Just as they reached the place where her Buell was parked near the precinct, Sara's cell phone rang. Respectfully, Ian moved several yards away, although not far enough to prevent him from overhearing her side of the conversation.
"Pezzini. Go."
"Hey, Sara. It's Joe." She instantly recognized the voice of her surrogate father and godfather, Joe Siri, Sr.
"Joe! How are you?" Sara felt guilty that she hadn't called him since all the trouble with Joey, Jr. had started.
"I'm good, sweetheart. Marie asked me to invite you to dinner tonight. I'm sorry it's such short notice, but I got caught up in my napping duties and forgot to call you until just now. She's pretty PO'd at me, so please say you'll come," Joe said in his warm, gravelly voice.
Sara glanced at Nottingham, who had assumed his habitual parade rest stance several yards from her: feet spread wide, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. "Well, I was gonna come over tomorrow after work to garage the Buell for the winter, but I might as well bite the bullet and do it tonight," she sighed.
"Yeah, the forecast is not exactly great for motorcyclists for the next week or so. Or for any driver, actually. Looks like we're gonna get hit hard," Joe said. "Better stock up on groceries, kid."
"That reminds me: I need to go shopping in a big way. I'm out of practically everything. Oh, well, it'll have to wait until tomorrow night, when everybody and their uncle is gonna have the same idea 'cause of the storm," she half-groaned. "Is 6:30 okay, Joe? I need to stop by my apartment first."
"Yes, that's fine. Robbie, Paula, and the kids will be here, too. See you at 6:30, Sara."
"Wait! Joe?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Um, it is okay, if I, uh, bring somebody?"
"Sure. You know your godmother. There'll be plenty of food. Is it somebody we know?" he asked curiously.
"Um, Joey's met him."
"Oh, ho, 'him,' hunh?"
"He's just a friend, Joe," Sara said firmly. 'If you can call your freaky stalker a friend,' she thought wryly.
"Well, we'll set an extra place for your 'friend,' honey," her former captain chuckled.
"See you in a little while, Joe." Sara hung up.
Ian could hardly believe his ears when he heard the Wielder request permission to bring him along with her, his heart skipping a beat when she referred to him as a friend just before ending the call. After putting away her phone, she regarded him thoughtfully for a long minute, and Ian decided that she was regretting her impulsive decision. He found himself half hoping that she would change her mind and uninvite him.
Sara stared broodingly at the black-clad man standing several feet away, wondering what in the world had possessed her to include him in her dinner plans. Surely, his interaction with Gabriel Bowman's client earlier that day had seriously depleted his ability-to-act-normal reserves.
"I know you heard that, Nottingham," she told him. "I'm sorry. I really should have asked you first if you have a problem with joining me and my family for dinner."
"Your wish is my command, my Lady," he said quietly, glancing up at her through his ridiculously long and thick black lashes.
She had seriously startled Ian, first by telling him that she knew he'd overheard her side of the conversation and then by actually apologizing for not asking him beforehand whether or not he wanted to join her and her family for dinner. He didn't quite know what to make of this kinder, gentler Sara Pezzini. He kept expecting her to suddenly revert back to the hostile, acid-tongued woman he had come to know and love.
"By the way, Joey, Jr. will be there, too. And I hope you have an appetite, 'cause Marie Siri cooks enough to feed an army and she'll be insulted if you don't eat well," Sara said.
"Unfortunately, I seem to have no appetite at all, but if it will please you, I will consume something," he told her, glad to find that his voice was now only slightly hoarse.
"Yes, it would please me," Sara said, and was surprised to find that it was true.
"I will follow you back to your loft, my Lady," Nottingham said, "and from there, to Brooklyn." He resigned himself to eating yet another meal that his body did not want, fervently hoping there wouldn't be a repeat performance of what had happened at Gabriel Bowman's as a consequence.
"And I'll even let you keep me in sight this time," Sara said, smirking. "Not that I could ever shake you anyway."
"Ah, but your style of motorcycle riding has left me shaken on many occasions. It sometimes takes several minutes for my heart to return to my chest from where it routinely becomes lodged in my throat," he replied, totally straight-faced.
Sara couldn't help but grin. "Now you're just flattering me, Nottingham."
He glanced sideways at her, his pulse rate speeding up as he saw her wide smile. "You are a strange woman, Sara Pezzini."
She raised her eyebrows. "Um, pot calling the kettle black much?"
"Are you doing this out of pity?" he abruptly inquired, shocked by his own audacity.
"Whoa! Where did that come from?" she asked him, blinking in surprise at the completely unexpected question. His eyes were downcast and a slight frown creased his dark brows.
"I do not want or need your pity, Sara," he said stiffly. "You did not have to invite me to join you and your family for dinner. I can wait in my car until you are finished eating and visiting with them."
Frankly, Ian was somewhat befuddled by the thoroughly surreal quality of the whole situation. As a matter of fact, before today, if someone had told him that one day soon Sara Pezzini was gong to invite him to join her and her surrogate family for dinner, he would have drawn on them, convinced that he was being confronted by a deranged and quite possibly dangerous person.
Because she herself didn't understand her motivation for inviting him, Sara resorted to anger to hide her confusion.
"Get over yourself, Nottingham," she snapped. "I just thought you might be hungry, seeing as you yakked up your only meal of the day all over my boots this morning." He winced at this cruel reminder of his humiliation. "If you don't wanna come, don't. It makes no difference to me," she said, cramming her helmet on her head and straddling the Buell.
"I am sorry my question upset you, my Lady," he said very softly. "It is just that I do not understand why you are being so kind to me. I feel obligated to point out that, until very recently, you have never shown me anything but dislike and distrust."
"Have you ever heard the saying 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,' Nottingham?" Sara asked him.
"Of course." He risked a glance at her and saw that her green eyes were flashing with irritation.
"Well, it's freakin' cold out here, and I have to go home, change my jeans and coat, and then ride all the way out to Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, all in less than an hour. So, I'm heading to my loft now and then I'm gonna go join my family for dinner. If you don't think you can handle it, fine. Sit in your car. I'll tell them the truth, which is that you're not feeling well," she shrugged.
"It would be nice to see young Joseph again," Nottingham said slowly. Although he found her glib explanation to be less than satisfactory, he decided that it would not be prudent to press her any further.
Sara rolled her eyes. "So? Are you coming to dinner or not?"
"Yes, I accept your gracious invitation to join you and your family for dinner, my Lady," he said, with a slight bow.
"Okay, then. I'll follow you to where you parked your car. Lead on," she said, shutting her visor. The Buell's engine roared to life.
Sara was amazed at how quickly Nottingham walked without actually seeming to hurry. They had gone only a few blocks when she heard the distinctive chirp of a car alarm being deactivated and saw the lights of a silver, late-model BMW SUV blink. But Nottingham hesitated after opening the driver-side door and tossing the plastic bag containing his ice bucket inside. He closed the door and then jogged across the street to where several vendors had tables set up.
She watched him purchase a couple of items from one of them, an oddly familiar-looking older man with protruding wide-spaced eyes and long, wavy, yellow-grey hair peeking out from under a battered cap. No words appeared to pass between the two men, just money and merchandise, and then Nottingham was crossing to his car, pulling on a black knit watch cap and matching scarf as he went. The old man glanced over to where Sara sat astride the idling Buell, and his penetrating gaze met hers. She blinked in surprise as he inclined his head in what looked suspiciously like a nod of approval before turning away to serve another customer.
So rattled by the sudden turn of events was he, Ian barely remembered his intention of buying a hat and a scarf from one of the vendors across the street from where his car was parked. Strangely, moments after he approached his table, the vendor he chose handed him exactly what he had in mind to purchase. He gave the vaguely familiar man a ten-dollar bill, and the fellow nodded his thanks. Not a word was spoken during the brief transaction.
"Silver?" Sara couldn't resist observing as Nottingham unlocked the car again. "What a surprise."
"Lighter colors are cooler in the summer," he replied, deadpan.
"Ah, yes, and cutting down on gas consumption is obviously very important to Kenny," Sara cracked. "That's why he has, what, a dozen cars?"
"Ten to be precise. Not counting the chauffeured limousines," Nottingham said, opening the driver-side door. "This is his newest acquisition. It was delivered only yesterday. Normally, Mr. Irons considers SUVs vulgar, but in light of the weather forecast, he decided that purchasing another four-wheel drive vehicle would be prudent." He flushed, aware that he was babbling out of nervousness.
"Right. Thanks for that snapshot of the way the other half lives," Sara said snidely. "Let's get going, shall we?"
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the alley next to her building and parked the Buell. She jumped, startled, when Nottingham suddenly materialized next to her. She had neither seen nor heard his approach. His piercing hazel eyes scanned the dark passageway intently. Apparently satisfied that no immediate threat was present, he looked at her expectantly.
"I'll only be a few minutes, but you're welcome to come up and have something to drink," Sara said, then immediately regretted it. Inviting this tall, dark, and extremely dangerous man over to her extended family's home for dinner was one insanely impulsive thing, but inviting him up to her own space was something else entirely. Not that he hadn't been there before on a number of occasions, albeit uninvited. But it was too late to take back the invitation.
Hiding his amazement, Ian swiftly accepted the offer before she could change her mind. "Thank you, my Lady."
"Um, think you can handle coming in through the front door instead of the window for a change?" she asked him, removing her helmet.
"It will be surpassing strange," he agreed. "Almost as strange as not eating your dust for once was."
Sara laughed. "You just made a funny, Nottingham!"
Unfortunately, she noticed Ian's awestruck expression.
"What?"
"I had dreamed of one day making you laugh," he said truthfully. "But I never thought my dream would come true."
"Uh, yeah. Right." The intensity of his glittering gaze did weird things to the pit of Sara's stomach, especially the way it lingered on her mouth. "Following my every move and speaking in riddles practically every time you do decide to talk to me isn't what I'd call a laugh riot," she said, shaking her head at the bizarreness that her dealings with this man always seemed to devolve into. "You sometimes make me very nervous, Nottingham," Sara surprised herself by admitting.
"Only sometimes? That is an improvement," he said, following her as she started up the stairs that led to her loft.
"Now, see, there you had to go and prove that you have a sense of humor, shooting your 'cold, unfeeling killing machine' persona all to hell," she told him, unable to refrain from smiling at his latest quip.
"It seems I cannot help it. I do so love to see your smile, my Lady."
"You should try smiling yourself some time, Nottingham," Sara responded, then thought 'Whoa! Where the hell did that come from?'
"I do not have much to smile about," he replied soberly, effectively destroying the fragile mood of camaraderie with that cogent reminder of his situation as Kenneth Irons' virtual slave.
"No, I guess you don't," Sara murmured, putting her key in her lock and turning it. For just a few moments, she had forgotten exactly who it was she was talking to. Although Sara didn't understand the nature of Nottingham's relationship with the man he referred to as his master, she knew it was far, far more complicated than simply employer and employee. The fact that Kenneth Irons had poisoned his own bodyguard was stark proof of that.
Gently but firmly, the big, black-clad man shouldered her aside so he could enter her dark apartment first. Sara patiently waited outside the door, idly wondering why her hackles hadn't instantly gone up, which is what would have happened had anyone else tried this with her.
"Lady Sara, it is safe for you to come in," her stalker's soft voice called a minute later.
Sara flicked on the lights, only then realizing that Nottingham had done his security sweep in almost total darkness. Mentally, she added the ability to see in low light to her growing list of enhanced attributes the assassin apparently possessed.
He stood in the middle of her living room in his odd parade rest stance. Immediately the tension level in the room escalated, and suddenly her loft seemed a whole lot smaller.
"Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?" Sara asked, taking off her leather jacket and carelessly tossing it in the direction of the couch. She sidled around his large form, and entered her kitchen.
"Peppermint tea would be welcome," Ian said, eyes studying the floor. He noted that she didn't seem to notice or care that her jacket had missed the sofa by a good measure.
"Is your stomach bothering you again?" she inquired worriedly, filling her teapot.
"No. I happen to enjoy peppermint tea," he replied, her obvious concern warming his heart.
"Well, so do I, and you're in luck because it's one of the few things I do have," Sara told him ruefully, looking at her nearly bare cupboards. She put water on to boil and teabags in two mugs, deciding against more caffeine seeing as how she felt jumpy enough as it was.
Ian made a mental note to call the grocer that Kenneth Irons' patronized and arrange to have all of her favorite foods delivered to her home by the time she got off work tomorrow. Virtual enslavement notwithstanding, being the employee of a billionaire did have its perks.
"I'm just gonna go change my clothes. Would you mind pouring the water?" she asked over her shoulder, heading for her bedroom.
"Not at all," he replied, shooting her a quick glance from beneath his lashes. As soon as the bedroom door closed behind her, he took a deep, calming breath, willing his pounding heart to slow. He was more than a little overwhelmed by the fact that he was here in his Lady's apartment with her approval. Heretofore, he'd always been an uninvited guest and she an extremely unwilling hostess.
He was also very worried about the prospect of dining with her and her family. Although Ian had observed his master in social situations on countless occasions, his own interpersonal skills were nearly nonexistent and he was terribly afraid that he would embarrass Sara with his antisocial behavior. He stood there in the middle of her living room, staring into space and rocking as he only did when agitated, until the kettle started to whistle. Removing it from the flame, he poured the steaming water into the two mugs and then set them on the small kitchen table.
Restlessly, he moved to the window by which he normally gained entrance to Lady Sara's loft, pressing his hot forehead against the blessedly cool glass for a moment and gazing unseeingly out into the darkness.
Sara closed her bedroom door behind her, then leaned against it, willing her racing pulse to slow down. She didn't understand why she was so nervous about Nottingham's presence in her personal space. Removing her holstered gun and badge and tossing them on the bed, she took off her boots, jeans, and t-shirt, leaving them in a heap on the floor. She rummaged through her closet for something to wear, thankful that she had recently done several loads of laundry but irritated that she hadn't bothered to put any of it away. It was still in bags on the floor of her closet. After selecting then rejecting several nearly identical pairs of well-worn denims and various sweaters, she finally settled on a pair of black velvet jeans and a black velour, v-neck sweater.
She heard the kettle start to whistle, followed almost immediately by silence. Going into her bathroom, she studied her reflection critically for a minute. Telling herself she wanted to look nice for her family, she applied some mascara and a little lip gloss, although she decided there was nothing she could do about the dark circles beneath her eyes. After brushing her gleaming, just-past-shoulder-length chestnut hair, she started to put it back up in its customary ponytail, but then decided to leave it loose. Her motorcycle helmet fit better when she wore it that way, she justified, as she changed into her black suede dress boots.
Nottingham was standing at the window through which he normally broke and entered her apartment when she came out of her bedroom a minute later. When he did not immediately turn around, Sara felt a flash of irritation, but then she realized that he was studying her reflection in the glass.
Transfixed, Ian stared at her reflection in the window. Dressed entirely in black with her lustrous chestnut hair loose about her shoulders and a touch of makeup enhancing her natural beauty, she was breathtaking. "'In the old age black was not counted fair, or if it were, it bore not beauty's name; but now is black beauty's successive heir, and beauty slander'd with a bastard shame,'" he said, and then flushed with embarrassment at this lapse in self-control.
"Thank you," Sara said dubiously. "I think." She noted with some amazement that his already flushed cheeks had reddened with what was unmistakably a blush.
Eyes suddenly glued to the floor, he turned to face her and indicated the kitchen table. "Our tea is ready." He sensed her fascination with his discomfiture.
"Yeah, I guess we gotta leave pretty soon if we want to be there by 6:30," Sara said, thinking 'Joey was right: Nottingham is shy!'
For some reason, the realization that he was even more nervous than she was enabled her to relax. She sat down and took up a mug. "Have a seat, Nottingham. A few more minutes won't make much of a difference in the time we get there," she told him, shoving another chair away from the table with her foot.
Ian hesitated, uncomfortable with the intimacy of the setting, but then acquiesced, taking a cautious sip of his piping hot tea.
"So, how old are you, Nottingham?" Sara asked him. He had taken off his hat, and several long tendrils of dark hair had escaped his previously neat queue to curl riotously around the sharp planes of his face. For the first time, she noticed that blond streaks lightened his hair, especially in front.
"Thirty-two."
"And how long have you been with Irons?"
"Since I was eight years old."
"That long, hunh? So, basically, he raised you." 'What a shitty childhood that must have been!' she thought.
"Yes."
"Do you know what happened to your real parents?"
"Apparently, they died in a car accident when I was still an infant."
"Irons told you that?"
"Yes. I was in an orphanage for about five years before Mr. Irons found me. Before that, I am told I lived with my only other living relative, an elderly great-aunt, of whom I have virtually no memory. She died when I was three and I was placed in the orphanage."
"Five years, hunh? Why so long, do you think?"
"I know why." He suddenly raised his eyes to meet hers. "It was because of the visions the Witchblade sent me as a child."
Sara blinked uneasily at the febrile intensity of his hazel gaze. "You used to get visions from it when you were a little kid?"
"It still sends me visions, but, yes, I experienced them throughout my entire childhood. In fact, as long as I can remember, I have received visions from the Witchblade. Every Protector does."
Sara frowned. There was that term again. "So, these visions must have, uh, set you apart from the other kids at the orphanage."
"Yes, they tended to do that, but from everybody, not just the other children. People, couples mostly, would come to the orphanage and take an interest in me. But sooner or later, I would have a vision and they would suddenly change their minds about wanting to adopt me. For some reason, what unnerved them the most is when I would speak Latin. I was four years old the first time that happened. The other children were frightened of me, too. So were the nuns who ran the orphanage, although they tried to hide it. Then one day, Mr. Irons came. He sat and spoke with me for hours. He asked me all kinds of questions, and not once did he show any hint of fear or even uneasiness in my presence. In fact, he became more and more excited as the hours went by. We conversed in Latin, German, French, and Chinese -- both Mandarin and Cantonese dialects."
"But how is that possible?" Sara asked, pretty certain she already knew the answer.
"Anything is possible when you serve the Witchblade, Sara, as I was born to do," he told her, shrugging. "Mr. Irons took me with him when he left that day. That is how I came to be in his service." Glancing at the clock on the wall of her kitchen, he rose to his feet, observing "We must leave soon, or we will be very late for dinner. Please excuse me while I make use of your facilities, my Lady." With another of those graceful, courtly bows, he turned and entered her bedroom.
"You have a lot to answer for, Missy," Sara said sternly to the bracelet on her right wrist. The red stone had been quiescent since she had returned to Gabriel Bowman's place earlier that evening and collected her stalker. "Poor kid. He was an outcast from day one, all because of you."
Her words, although softly spoken, clearly reached Ian behind her closed bathroom door, bringing a smile to his weary face, her compassionate response to the lonely picture he had painted of his childhood reminding him of exactly why she was so worthy of his undying devotion.
More to come. Please submit feedback if you are so moved. I really appreciate it.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just playing. Enjoy!
Author's Note: After much angst (okay, not that much), I decided to rewrite both Chapters 19 and 20. I was dissatisfied with the amount of exposition in Chapter 20, so I combined both characters' viewpoints and then split the resulting gigantic chapter into two. Sara and Ian are a team now anyway, right? What God hath joined, let no man put asunder (or something like that)! If you can't be bothered to reread both chappies, that's fine. I'll {sob} understand. For you first-timers, enjoy!
Chapter 19.
Sara Pezzini studied the man beside her whenever she thought he wasn't looking, which was pretty much always because Ian Nottingham had the peculiar habit of staring directly at the ground in front of him as he walked. Not once did he raise his eyes during the entire four-block walk back to the 11th Precinct, although she didn't doubt for an instant that he was acutely aware of his surroundings. There was a preternatural alertness about him, even with his bowed head and downcast eyes.
Virtually noiseless, he walked with an athlete's confident swagger, his weight balanced lightly on his combat-boot-shod feet, his black-gloved hands more often than not clasped behind his back. He suited his pace to Sara's brisk walk, although because his stride was so much longer than hers, it was as though he were taking a leisurely stroll. With some amusement, Sara noticed that he always made sure she walked on the inner, more protected part of the sidewalk.
Nottingham seemed to have some kind of built-in radar when it came to objects he needed to avoid, such as the couple that stepped into his path after getting out of a taxi. He didn't even glance up; he simply nimbly sidestepped them, never even breaking stride. Given his downward-facing gaze, Sara wondered how he could have possibly seen them. And weirder still, the couple acted as if they hadn't even noticed the tall, black-clad assassin, although they both glanced at Sara in the manner of people who enjoy people watching.
It was as though Kenneth Irons' bodyguard were invisible. Eerily, he nearly disappeared in the darkness between street lamps and was only a moving shadow beneath the widely spaced pools of light. Sara noted that the gazes of the few people who did notice him didn't linger, almost as though they realized they were better off pretending they hadn't seen him.
Ian Nottingham could sense the Wielder's scrutiny as they walked back to the stationhouse, and he decided that his atypically lighthearted interaction with her friend had intrigued her. Either that or she was wondering just how much of a freak he really was. Ian couldn't summon up the nerve to look at her and attempt to gauge her frame of mind, so he studiously kept his eyes on the pavement in front of him.
Just as they reached the place where her Buell was parked near the precinct, Sara's cell phone rang. Respectfully, Ian moved several yards away, although not far enough to prevent him from overhearing her side of the conversation.
"Pezzini. Go."
"Hey, Sara. It's Joe." She instantly recognized the voice of her surrogate father and godfather, Joe Siri, Sr.
"Joe! How are you?" Sara felt guilty that she hadn't called him since all the trouble with Joey, Jr. had started.
"I'm good, sweetheart. Marie asked me to invite you to dinner tonight. I'm sorry it's such short notice, but I got caught up in my napping duties and forgot to call you until just now. She's pretty PO'd at me, so please say you'll come," Joe said in his warm, gravelly voice.
Sara glanced at Nottingham, who had assumed his habitual parade rest stance several yards from her: feet spread wide, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. "Well, I was gonna come over tomorrow after work to garage the Buell for the winter, but I might as well bite the bullet and do it tonight," she sighed.
"Yeah, the forecast is not exactly great for motorcyclists for the next week or so. Or for any driver, actually. Looks like we're gonna get hit hard," Joe said. "Better stock up on groceries, kid."
"That reminds me: I need to go shopping in a big way. I'm out of practically everything. Oh, well, it'll have to wait until tomorrow night, when everybody and their uncle is gonna have the same idea 'cause of the storm," she half-groaned. "Is 6:30 okay, Joe? I need to stop by my apartment first."
"Yes, that's fine. Robbie, Paula, and the kids will be here, too. See you at 6:30, Sara."
"Wait! Joe?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Um, it is okay, if I, uh, bring somebody?"
"Sure. You know your godmother. There'll be plenty of food. Is it somebody we know?" he asked curiously.
"Um, Joey's met him."
"Oh, ho, 'him,' hunh?"
"He's just a friend, Joe," Sara said firmly. 'If you can call your freaky stalker a friend,' she thought wryly.
"Well, we'll set an extra place for your 'friend,' honey," her former captain chuckled.
"See you in a little while, Joe." Sara hung up.
Ian could hardly believe his ears when he heard the Wielder request permission to bring him along with her, his heart skipping a beat when she referred to him as a friend just before ending the call. After putting away her phone, she regarded him thoughtfully for a long minute, and Ian decided that she was regretting her impulsive decision. He found himself half hoping that she would change her mind and uninvite him.
Sara stared broodingly at the black-clad man standing several feet away, wondering what in the world had possessed her to include him in her dinner plans. Surely, his interaction with Gabriel Bowman's client earlier that day had seriously depleted his ability-to-act-normal reserves.
"I know you heard that, Nottingham," she told him. "I'm sorry. I really should have asked you first if you have a problem with joining me and my family for dinner."
"Your wish is my command, my Lady," he said quietly, glancing up at her through his ridiculously long and thick black lashes.
She had seriously startled Ian, first by telling him that she knew he'd overheard her side of the conversation and then by actually apologizing for not asking him beforehand whether or not he wanted to join her and her family for dinner. He didn't quite know what to make of this kinder, gentler Sara Pezzini. He kept expecting her to suddenly revert back to the hostile, acid-tongued woman he had come to know and love.
"By the way, Joey, Jr. will be there, too. And I hope you have an appetite, 'cause Marie Siri cooks enough to feed an army and she'll be insulted if you don't eat well," Sara said.
"Unfortunately, I seem to have no appetite at all, but if it will please you, I will consume something," he told her, glad to find that his voice was now only slightly hoarse.
"Yes, it would please me," Sara said, and was surprised to find that it was true.
"I will follow you back to your loft, my Lady," Nottingham said, "and from there, to Brooklyn." He resigned himself to eating yet another meal that his body did not want, fervently hoping there wouldn't be a repeat performance of what had happened at Gabriel Bowman's as a consequence.
"And I'll even let you keep me in sight this time," Sara said, smirking. "Not that I could ever shake you anyway."
"Ah, but your style of motorcycle riding has left me shaken on many occasions. It sometimes takes several minutes for my heart to return to my chest from where it routinely becomes lodged in my throat," he replied, totally straight-faced.
Sara couldn't help but grin. "Now you're just flattering me, Nottingham."
He glanced sideways at her, his pulse rate speeding up as he saw her wide smile. "You are a strange woman, Sara Pezzini."
She raised her eyebrows. "Um, pot calling the kettle black much?"
"Are you doing this out of pity?" he abruptly inquired, shocked by his own audacity.
"Whoa! Where did that come from?" she asked him, blinking in surprise at the completely unexpected question. His eyes were downcast and a slight frown creased his dark brows.
"I do not want or need your pity, Sara," he said stiffly. "You did not have to invite me to join you and your family for dinner. I can wait in my car until you are finished eating and visiting with them."
Frankly, Ian was somewhat befuddled by the thoroughly surreal quality of the whole situation. As a matter of fact, before today, if someone had told him that one day soon Sara Pezzini was gong to invite him to join her and her surrogate family for dinner, he would have drawn on them, convinced that he was being confronted by a deranged and quite possibly dangerous person.
Because she herself didn't understand her motivation for inviting him, Sara resorted to anger to hide her confusion.
"Get over yourself, Nottingham," she snapped. "I just thought you might be hungry, seeing as you yakked up your only meal of the day all over my boots this morning." He winced at this cruel reminder of his humiliation. "If you don't wanna come, don't. It makes no difference to me," she said, cramming her helmet on her head and straddling the Buell.
"I am sorry my question upset you, my Lady," he said very softly. "It is just that I do not understand why you are being so kind to me. I feel obligated to point out that, until very recently, you have never shown me anything but dislike and distrust."
"Have you ever heard the saying 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,' Nottingham?" Sara asked him.
"Of course." He risked a glance at her and saw that her green eyes were flashing with irritation.
"Well, it's freakin' cold out here, and I have to go home, change my jeans and coat, and then ride all the way out to Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, all in less than an hour. So, I'm heading to my loft now and then I'm gonna go join my family for dinner. If you don't think you can handle it, fine. Sit in your car. I'll tell them the truth, which is that you're not feeling well," she shrugged.
"It would be nice to see young Joseph again," Nottingham said slowly. Although he found her glib explanation to be less than satisfactory, he decided that it would not be prudent to press her any further.
Sara rolled her eyes. "So? Are you coming to dinner or not?"
"Yes, I accept your gracious invitation to join you and your family for dinner, my Lady," he said, with a slight bow.
"Okay, then. I'll follow you to where you parked your car. Lead on," she said, shutting her visor. The Buell's engine roared to life.
Sara was amazed at how quickly Nottingham walked without actually seeming to hurry. They had gone only a few blocks when she heard the distinctive chirp of a car alarm being deactivated and saw the lights of a silver, late-model BMW SUV blink. But Nottingham hesitated after opening the driver-side door and tossing the plastic bag containing his ice bucket inside. He closed the door and then jogged across the street to where several vendors had tables set up.
She watched him purchase a couple of items from one of them, an oddly familiar-looking older man with protruding wide-spaced eyes and long, wavy, yellow-grey hair peeking out from under a battered cap. No words appeared to pass between the two men, just money and merchandise, and then Nottingham was crossing to his car, pulling on a black knit watch cap and matching scarf as he went. The old man glanced over to where Sara sat astride the idling Buell, and his penetrating gaze met hers. She blinked in surprise as he inclined his head in what looked suspiciously like a nod of approval before turning away to serve another customer.
So rattled by the sudden turn of events was he, Ian barely remembered his intention of buying a hat and a scarf from one of the vendors across the street from where his car was parked. Strangely, moments after he approached his table, the vendor he chose handed him exactly what he had in mind to purchase. He gave the vaguely familiar man a ten-dollar bill, and the fellow nodded his thanks. Not a word was spoken during the brief transaction.
"Silver?" Sara couldn't resist observing as Nottingham unlocked the car again. "What a surprise."
"Lighter colors are cooler in the summer," he replied, deadpan.
"Ah, yes, and cutting down on gas consumption is obviously very important to Kenny," Sara cracked. "That's why he has, what, a dozen cars?"
"Ten to be precise. Not counting the chauffeured limousines," Nottingham said, opening the driver-side door. "This is his newest acquisition. It was delivered only yesterday. Normally, Mr. Irons considers SUVs vulgar, but in light of the weather forecast, he decided that purchasing another four-wheel drive vehicle would be prudent." He flushed, aware that he was babbling out of nervousness.
"Right. Thanks for that snapshot of the way the other half lives," Sara said snidely. "Let's get going, shall we?"
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the alley next to her building and parked the Buell. She jumped, startled, when Nottingham suddenly materialized next to her. She had neither seen nor heard his approach. His piercing hazel eyes scanned the dark passageway intently. Apparently satisfied that no immediate threat was present, he looked at her expectantly.
"I'll only be a few minutes, but you're welcome to come up and have something to drink," Sara said, then immediately regretted it. Inviting this tall, dark, and extremely dangerous man over to her extended family's home for dinner was one insanely impulsive thing, but inviting him up to her own space was something else entirely. Not that he hadn't been there before on a number of occasions, albeit uninvited. But it was too late to take back the invitation.
Hiding his amazement, Ian swiftly accepted the offer before she could change her mind. "Thank you, my Lady."
"Um, think you can handle coming in through the front door instead of the window for a change?" she asked him, removing her helmet.
"It will be surpassing strange," he agreed. "Almost as strange as not eating your dust for once was."
Sara laughed. "You just made a funny, Nottingham!"
Unfortunately, she noticed Ian's awestruck expression.
"What?"
"I had dreamed of one day making you laugh," he said truthfully. "But I never thought my dream would come true."
"Uh, yeah. Right." The intensity of his glittering gaze did weird things to the pit of Sara's stomach, especially the way it lingered on her mouth. "Following my every move and speaking in riddles practically every time you do decide to talk to me isn't what I'd call a laugh riot," she said, shaking her head at the bizarreness that her dealings with this man always seemed to devolve into. "You sometimes make me very nervous, Nottingham," Sara surprised herself by admitting.
"Only sometimes? That is an improvement," he said, following her as she started up the stairs that led to her loft.
"Now, see, there you had to go and prove that you have a sense of humor, shooting your 'cold, unfeeling killing machine' persona all to hell," she told him, unable to refrain from smiling at his latest quip.
"It seems I cannot help it. I do so love to see your smile, my Lady."
"You should try smiling yourself some time, Nottingham," Sara responded, then thought 'Whoa! Where the hell did that come from?'
"I do not have much to smile about," he replied soberly, effectively destroying the fragile mood of camaraderie with that cogent reminder of his situation as Kenneth Irons' virtual slave.
"No, I guess you don't," Sara murmured, putting her key in her lock and turning it. For just a few moments, she had forgotten exactly who it was she was talking to. Although Sara didn't understand the nature of Nottingham's relationship with the man he referred to as his master, she knew it was far, far more complicated than simply employer and employee. The fact that Kenneth Irons had poisoned his own bodyguard was stark proof of that.
Gently but firmly, the big, black-clad man shouldered her aside so he could enter her dark apartment first. Sara patiently waited outside the door, idly wondering why her hackles hadn't instantly gone up, which is what would have happened had anyone else tried this with her.
"Lady Sara, it is safe for you to come in," her stalker's soft voice called a minute later.
Sara flicked on the lights, only then realizing that Nottingham had done his security sweep in almost total darkness. Mentally, she added the ability to see in low light to her growing list of enhanced attributes the assassin apparently possessed.
He stood in the middle of her living room in his odd parade rest stance. Immediately the tension level in the room escalated, and suddenly her loft seemed a whole lot smaller.
"Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?" Sara asked, taking off her leather jacket and carelessly tossing it in the direction of the couch. She sidled around his large form, and entered her kitchen.
"Peppermint tea would be welcome," Ian said, eyes studying the floor. He noted that she didn't seem to notice or care that her jacket had missed the sofa by a good measure.
"Is your stomach bothering you again?" she inquired worriedly, filling her teapot.
"No. I happen to enjoy peppermint tea," he replied, her obvious concern warming his heart.
"Well, so do I, and you're in luck because it's one of the few things I do have," Sara told him ruefully, looking at her nearly bare cupboards. She put water on to boil and teabags in two mugs, deciding against more caffeine seeing as how she felt jumpy enough as it was.
Ian made a mental note to call the grocer that Kenneth Irons' patronized and arrange to have all of her favorite foods delivered to her home by the time she got off work tomorrow. Virtual enslavement notwithstanding, being the employee of a billionaire did have its perks.
"I'm just gonna go change my clothes. Would you mind pouring the water?" she asked over her shoulder, heading for her bedroom.
"Not at all," he replied, shooting her a quick glance from beneath his lashes. As soon as the bedroom door closed behind her, he took a deep, calming breath, willing his pounding heart to slow. He was more than a little overwhelmed by the fact that he was here in his Lady's apartment with her approval. Heretofore, he'd always been an uninvited guest and she an extremely unwilling hostess.
He was also very worried about the prospect of dining with her and her family. Although Ian had observed his master in social situations on countless occasions, his own interpersonal skills were nearly nonexistent and he was terribly afraid that he would embarrass Sara with his antisocial behavior. He stood there in the middle of her living room, staring into space and rocking as he only did when agitated, until the kettle started to whistle. Removing it from the flame, he poured the steaming water into the two mugs and then set them on the small kitchen table.
Restlessly, he moved to the window by which he normally gained entrance to Lady Sara's loft, pressing his hot forehead against the blessedly cool glass for a moment and gazing unseeingly out into the darkness.
Sara closed her bedroom door behind her, then leaned against it, willing her racing pulse to slow down. She didn't understand why she was so nervous about Nottingham's presence in her personal space. Removing her holstered gun and badge and tossing them on the bed, she took off her boots, jeans, and t-shirt, leaving them in a heap on the floor. She rummaged through her closet for something to wear, thankful that she had recently done several loads of laundry but irritated that she hadn't bothered to put any of it away. It was still in bags on the floor of her closet. After selecting then rejecting several nearly identical pairs of well-worn denims and various sweaters, she finally settled on a pair of black velvet jeans and a black velour, v-neck sweater.
She heard the kettle start to whistle, followed almost immediately by silence. Going into her bathroom, she studied her reflection critically for a minute. Telling herself she wanted to look nice for her family, she applied some mascara and a little lip gloss, although she decided there was nothing she could do about the dark circles beneath her eyes. After brushing her gleaming, just-past-shoulder-length chestnut hair, she started to put it back up in its customary ponytail, but then decided to leave it loose. Her motorcycle helmet fit better when she wore it that way, she justified, as she changed into her black suede dress boots.
Nottingham was standing at the window through which he normally broke and entered her apartment when she came out of her bedroom a minute later. When he did not immediately turn around, Sara felt a flash of irritation, but then she realized that he was studying her reflection in the glass.
Transfixed, Ian stared at her reflection in the window. Dressed entirely in black with her lustrous chestnut hair loose about her shoulders and a touch of makeup enhancing her natural beauty, she was breathtaking. "'In the old age black was not counted fair, or if it were, it bore not beauty's name; but now is black beauty's successive heir, and beauty slander'd with a bastard shame,'" he said, and then flushed with embarrassment at this lapse in self-control.
"Thank you," Sara said dubiously. "I think." She noted with some amazement that his already flushed cheeks had reddened with what was unmistakably a blush.
Eyes suddenly glued to the floor, he turned to face her and indicated the kitchen table. "Our tea is ready." He sensed her fascination with his discomfiture.
"Yeah, I guess we gotta leave pretty soon if we want to be there by 6:30," Sara said, thinking 'Joey was right: Nottingham is shy!'
For some reason, the realization that he was even more nervous than she was enabled her to relax. She sat down and took up a mug. "Have a seat, Nottingham. A few more minutes won't make much of a difference in the time we get there," she told him, shoving another chair away from the table with her foot.
Ian hesitated, uncomfortable with the intimacy of the setting, but then acquiesced, taking a cautious sip of his piping hot tea.
"So, how old are you, Nottingham?" Sara asked him. He had taken off his hat, and several long tendrils of dark hair had escaped his previously neat queue to curl riotously around the sharp planes of his face. For the first time, she noticed that blond streaks lightened his hair, especially in front.
"Thirty-two."
"And how long have you been with Irons?"
"Since I was eight years old."
"That long, hunh? So, basically, he raised you." 'What a shitty childhood that must have been!' she thought.
"Yes."
"Do you know what happened to your real parents?"
"Apparently, they died in a car accident when I was still an infant."
"Irons told you that?"
"Yes. I was in an orphanage for about five years before Mr. Irons found me. Before that, I am told I lived with my only other living relative, an elderly great-aunt, of whom I have virtually no memory. She died when I was three and I was placed in the orphanage."
"Five years, hunh? Why so long, do you think?"
"I know why." He suddenly raised his eyes to meet hers. "It was because of the visions the Witchblade sent me as a child."
Sara blinked uneasily at the febrile intensity of his hazel gaze. "You used to get visions from it when you were a little kid?"
"It still sends me visions, but, yes, I experienced them throughout my entire childhood. In fact, as long as I can remember, I have received visions from the Witchblade. Every Protector does."
Sara frowned. There was that term again. "So, these visions must have, uh, set you apart from the other kids at the orphanage."
"Yes, they tended to do that, but from everybody, not just the other children. People, couples mostly, would come to the orphanage and take an interest in me. But sooner or later, I would have a vision and they would suddenly change their minds about wanting to adopt me. For some reason, what unnerved them the most is when I would speak Latin. I was four years old the first time that happened. The other children were frightened of me, too. So were the nuns who ran the orphanage, although they tried to hide it. Then one day, Mr. Irons came. He sat and spoke with me for hours. He asked me all kinds of questions, and not once did he show any hint of fear or even uneasiness in my presence. In fact, he became more and more excited as the hours went by. We conversed in Latin, German, French, and Chinese -- both Mandarin and Cantonese dialects."
"But how is that possible?" Sara asked, pretty certain she already knew the answer.
"Anything is possible when you serve the Witchblade, Sara, as I was born to do," he told her, shrugging. "Mr. Irons took me with him when he left that day. That is how I came to be in his service." Glancing at the clock on the wall of her kitchen, he rose to his feet, observing "We must leave soon, or we will be very late for dinner. Please excuse me while I make use of your facilities, my Lady." With another of those graceful, courtly bows, he turned and entered her bedroom.
"You have a lot to answer for, Missy," Sara said sternly to the bracelet on her right wrist. The red stone had been quiescent since she had returned to Gabriel Bowman's place earlier that evening and collected her stalker. "Poor kid. He was an outcast from day one, all because of you."
Her words, although softly spoken, clearly reached Ian behind her closed bathroom door, bringing a smile to his weary face, her compassionate response to the lonely picture he had painted of his childhood reminding him of exactly why she was so worthy of his undying devotion.
More to come. Please submit feedback if you are so moved. I really appreciate it.