A Family Affair
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just having fun. Enjoy!
Chapter 27.
Kenneth Irons sat before the roaring fire in his study, sipping brandy from a snifter, and brooding.
He had not been pleased to hear that Sara Pezzini had decided not to stake out the docks after all owing to the premonitory vision the Witchblade had sent her. Kenneth hated it when his plans went awry, even though this latest development merely delayed the inevitable confrontation between Ian Nottingham and the vengeance-minded force of Former Soviet Union mercenaries.
According to Dr. Immo, Ian still had at least 24 hours or so to receive the life-saving antidote to the poison in his system. The good doctor was very anxious to examine the ailing assassin as soon as he returned to the estate. He had babbled on incessantly about how the unpredictability of the toxin in combination with young Nottingham's genetic enhancements might spell disaster. Immo had come very close to pleading with Irons to let him administer the antidote as soon as Ian came home for the night. But Kenneth had already resolved to deny it to his bodyguard and henchman until after he had battled the Russians. He wanted this ordeal to be a true test of young Nottingham's resolve and endurance.
Earlier, when he had sensed the vision the Witchblade gave the Wielder, Kenneth had braced himself for the painful echo of Sara's anger that he was regularly punished with whenever Ian confronted the hot- tempered homicide detective. But there hadn't been the slightest twinge of discomfort, and this had both puzzled and disturbed him. Lately, he had begun to wonder what Ian did to so quickly mollify the Wielder when he did approach her. Within the space of just two days, Irons had gone from dreading his bodyguard's encounters with the Wielder because of the agonizing clarity with which the circular scars on his right hand invariably transmitted her ire to him to feeling nothing at all when the two of them did chance to meet. In fact, it if weren't for Ian's progress reports, Kenneth would never know that their paths had crossed.
With a growing sense of alarm, Kenneth speculated that perhaps, by some miracle, young Nottingham had succeeded where he himself had failed: in winning Sara's trust. What other explanation could there be for the complete absence of the hostility and anger on the beautiful homicide detective's part that had previously characterized their interactions? Bad enough as that possibility was, the only other alternative was unthinkable, which was that the Ian had somehow managed to befriend the Wielder. The very thought made Kenneth's blood pressure begin to rise, and in a fit of pique, he threw the brandy snifter into the fire, the alcohol making the flames leap higher and burn an eerie blue.
A short while later, only the slightest whisper of sound alerted Kenneth Irons to the fact that Ian Nottingham had entered the study. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearly 1:00 a.m.
"Ah, Ian, you have returned home at last," Irons said, without looking at him.
"Yes, Master."
"Did it turn out that Joaquin Medina is the shooter?"
"Yes, it did, sir."
"I take it Sara Pezzini was unsuccessful in locating him or his brother."
"Yes, Master."
"By any chance, did she share her plan of action for later today with you?"
"No, sir. However, I assume she is going to do everything in her power to keep her nephew from coming to harm at Joaquin Medina's hands."
"Undoubtedly. Tell me, Ian, why do you think the drug bust operation on the docks failed despite the fact that the Wielder was not there?"
After a moment's hesitation, the assassin said "I think it is because it was never the true pickup location in the first place."
"And what made you decide that?"
Ian shrugged. "Just a hunch, sir."
Irons finally turned his head to look at the younger man, who was standing in his customary spot a few feet behind his chair in his habitual parade rest stance. "Come closer to the fire and let me have a look at you, Ian."
Obediently, Nottingham moved to stand in front of Kenneth's chair. Cold, light-blue eyes studied his appearance critically.
"You look exhausted and feverish," Irons finally said.
"I am both, Master."
"Ah, I think I begin to understand," Irons said slowly, a smile that did not reach his eyes turning up the corners of his lips. Gracefully, he got to his feet, picking up the silver-handled walking stick that had been leaning against his chair.
Ian instantly tensed, surreptitiously eyeing the cane that the older man had begun twirling idly in his pale, elegant hands.
Kenneth began to slowly circle his bodyguard. "Ian, has the Wielder taken notice of your ill health?" he asked him.
"Yes, sir."
"What was her reaction to it?"
"She suggested that I take cold medication." Ian had to fight the urge to turn his head in order to keep the other man in sight as he moved behind him.
"And how did you respond to her suggestion?"
"I told her that I did not have a cold."
"I see. And how did she react to that?"
"She accused me of being in denial about my condition."
"What were your outward symptoms?"
Irons came back into his field of vision once again, still twirling the cane. The heat of the fire, combined with that of his fever, was starting to make Ian very uncomfortable. "Coughing, sneezing, and runny nose."
"Do you suppose she felt sorry for you, Ian?"
"Perhaps." Greatly daring, he asked "Why are you asking me about this, Master?"
Irons threw him a sharp look. "Did you ever wonder how it was that I always knew you had approached Sara Pezzini, Ian?" he asked, ignoring the question.
"I assumed your bond with the Witchblade alerted you to that fact." Ian unclasped his hands from behind his back and let them dangle at his sides as his employer once again circled behind him.
"You assumed correctly. The scar on my right hand would flare up most painfully with the force of her anger and resentment whenever you confronted her. Until recently, that is." Irons had stopped moving to stand directly behind Ian. "Tell me, Ian, why is it that Sara no longer becomes angry when you accost her?"
"I do not know," Ian lied.
"I think you do," Irons said.
Ian heard the whistling sound the cane made as it cut through the air. Without thinking, he whirled, put up a gloved hand, and caught the stout wooden length before it could strike him.
He did not know who was more shocked by this act, Kenneth Irons or himself. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, the only sound in the room the crackling of the fire in the hearth.
"Let go of the cane, Ian," Irons recovered first, his tone brooking no argument.
"I am sorry, Master. It must be the fever," Ian murmured, releasing the cane. He bowed his head, bracing himself for the blows he was certain were about to rain down upon him.
To his surprise, Irons simply lowered the cane and resumed his circling. "I think your obvious ill health has had the surprising effect of arousing the Wielder's sympathy, young Nottingham, and that is why she no longer resents your interference. It has humanized you in her eyes. I think you know it, too."
Ian said nothing, as no response appeared necessary. He was still reeling from the fact that he'd actually prevented his master from striking him. He had never done that before without Irons' tacit approval. Then again, he'd never had a fever in excess of 103 degrees before. The study was stifling, and he had to fight the almost irresistible urge to take off his overcoat along with perhaps one or two layers of clothing.
"Ian!"
He blinked, belatedly realizing that his master had apparently said something that did require a reply. "My apologies, sir. What did you ask me?"
"I asked you if you believe you have gained a measure of the Wielder's trust," Irons said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. First, the younger man had had the audacity to prevent him from hitting him, and now he wasn't even listening to what he was saying. To be perfectly honest, however, Kenneth was relieved that Ian had stopped him from beating him because, in his current mood, he might have seriously injured the assassin, rendering him incapable of battling the Russians later that day, which would have been disastrous.
"I suppose so," Ian said slowly. The airless room suddenly began to whirl. He put a gloved hand to his burning forehead, shaking his head in a futile effort to clear it.
"That is good" Kenneth lied, seething inside. "Maybe she is becoming more amenable. What is wrong?" he asked sharply, finally noticing his servant's discomfort.
"It . . . it is very hot in here," Ian said thickly. Black dots began to eat away at the edges of his vision.
"Move away from the fire, imbecile!" Irons snapped impatiently.
Ian tried to obey him, but he staggered and would have fallen if he hadn't caught hold of the heavy, carved wooden chair his master had been sitting in.
Kenneth frowned. "How pathetic!" he said, his voice dripping with disgust and, worse, disappointment. He waved a dismissive hand. "Go report to Dr. Immo, Ian. He is most eager to take a look at you."
"I need the antidote, Master," Ian whispered, swaying woozily.
"And you shall have it -- if you can keep the Wielder safe until she has apprehended this Angel Medina and his brother. Only then will Dr. Immo be allowed to give it to you. You still have not proven to me that you are worthy of the title of Protector, Ian. If you fail the Wielder because of your weakness, you fail me, too."
"And if Sara does not catch the Medina brothers?"
"Then what she saw in the vision will come true. Her nephew will die, and she will be devastated by his death. She might never completely recover from such a tragedy, and she most certainly would never forgive you for failing to prevent it from happening. You would not want that, would you, Ian? Do whatever you must to prevent Joaquin Medina from killing the boy," Irons told him. "Now, go see Dr. Immo."
"Yes, Master." Only slightly unsteady on his feet, Ian turned and left the study. Once outside the stuffy room, he took several deep, cleansing breaths of the markedly cooler, fresh air. His head rapidly cleared and he soon felt much better. Resignedly, he headed for Dr. Immo's lab.
An end to this ordeal was finally in sight, he thought with a vast sense of relief as he rode the elevator down to the basement sublevel. All he had to do to receive the antidote was get through the rest of the day, making certain that Angel and Joaquin Medina were taken down and that no harm befell Sara Pezzini, Joseph Siri, Jr., or Detective Tommy Fuller in the process. Piece of cake.
"There you are, young Nottingham! I have been anxiously awaiting your return," Dr. Immo said as soon as Ian appeared in the doorway to his lab. "How are you feeling?"
"How do you think I feel, Doctor? The toxin you injected me with is slowly killing me," Ian said coldly, glaring at him.
"I am well aware of that unfortunate fact, young man. Please understand that I was only following orders," the gray-haired man said quietly, guilt easily visible on his lined face. "Now, I need to document your symptoms, so, if you would, kindly relate them to me."
Careful to keep several feet between them, Nottingham rattled off the list of the symptoms he had suffered since awakening yesterday morning. He also told the doctor his latest temperature reading, although, of course, he neglected to mention who had taken it.
"Let's see how high your fever is now, shall we?"
Ian barely restrained himself from refusing to comply. He did not want the deceptively kindly looking physician to come near him ever again. Snatching the digital thermometer out of the older man's hand, he placed it in his own mouth, his febrile eyes warning the doctor to keep his distance. When the device beeped, he removed it and handed it to Dr. Immo without even glancing at the reading.
"Oh my, 103.1. What was the very first reading and what time did you take it?"
Ian frowned, finding it a struggle to remember. Had it really been only yesterday afternoon that Gabriel Bowman had first taken his temperature while Nottingham had been holed up at Talismaniac? It felt like it had been much longer ago than that. "It was 101.4 at approximately 14:00 hours yesterday," he finally informed the doctor.
"Hmmm," was Immo's only response to this information.
"How long to do I have, Doctor?" Ian asked quietly. "And I will know if you are lying."
"Well, assuming your temperature keeps rising at the same rate, it will most likely top 106 by this time Friday morning. If I'm not mistaken, the fever is already affecting your thought processes, and that will only worsen the higher it gets. If I had to guess, I would say you will probably become incapacitated by delirium when your temperature reaches the vicinity of 105, perhaps 106. The onset of ultimately fatal convulsions will occur shortly thereafter."
"Is there anything I can do that will buy me more time?" Ian inquired.
"If you were to soak in an ice-filled tub for as long as you could stand it, you might delay the inevitable by an hour or two. However, owing to the danger of hypothermia, I wouldn't recommend you try something like that unsupervised."
A faint smile turned up the corners of Ian's lips. 'Well,' he thought to himself, 'I was planning on taking a cold shower anyway. I might as well make it an extremely cold bath.'
Aloud, he said "An extra hour or two might make all the difference in the world, Doctor."
"I will prepare the bath for you. The stainless steel tub in the physical therapy room will be perfect for our purposes. Keep in that mind that physical exertion will drive the fever higher faster," the doctor cautioned him. "Try to stay as still and quiet as possible after you leave here to attend to your duties."
"Somehow, I do not think that will be possible, Dr. Immo," Ian replied wearily. "Still and quiet and Sara Pezzini just do not go together."
More to come. Thanks to everybody for the wonderful and extremely encouraging feedback. Keep it coming, please!
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just having fun. Enjoy!
Chapter 27.
Kenneth Irons sat before the roaring fire in his study, sipping brandy from a snifter, and brooding.
He had not been pleased to hear that Sara Pezzini had decided not to stake out the docks after all owing to the premonitory vision the Witchblade had sent her. Kenneth hated it when his plans went awry, even though this latest development merely delayed the inevitable confrontation between Ian Nottingham and the vengeance-minded force of Former Soviet Union mercenaries.
According to Dr. Immo, Ian still had at least 24 hours or so to receive the life-saving antidote to the poison in his system. The good doctor was very anxious to examine the ailing assassin as soon as he returned to the estate. He had babbled on incessantly about how the unpredictability of the toxin in combination with young Nottingham's genetic enhancements might spell disaster. Immo had come very close to pleading with Irons to let him administer the antidote as soon as Ian came home for the night. But Kenneth had already resolved to deny it to his bodyguard and henchman until after he had battled the Russians. He wanted this ordeal to be a true test of young Nottingham's resolve and endurance.
Earlier, when he had sensed the vision the Witchblade gave the Wielder, Kenneth had braced himself for the painful echo of Sara's anger that he was regularly punished with whenever Ian confronted the hot- tempered homicide detective. But there hadn't been the slightest twinge of discomfort, and this had both puzzled and disturbed him. Lately, he had begun to wonder what Ian did to so quickly mollify the Wielder when he did approach her. Within the space of just two days, Irons had gone from dreading his bodyguard's encounters with the Wielder because of the agonizing clarity with which the circular scars on his right hand invariably transmitted her ire to him to feeling nothing at all when the two of them did chance to meet. In fact, it if weren't for Ian's progress reports, Kenneth would never know that their paths had crossed.
With a growing sense of alarm, Kenneth speculated that perhaps, by some miracle, young Nottingham had succeeded where he himself had failed: in winning Sara's trust. What other explanation could there be for the complete absence of the hostility and anger on the beautiful homicide detective's part that had previously characterized their interactions? Bad enough as that possibility was, the only other alternative was unthinkable, which was that the Ian had somehow managed to befriend the Wielder. The very thought made Kenneth's blood pressure begin to rise, and in a fit of pique, he threw the brandy snifter into the fire, the alcohol making the flames leap higher and burn an eerie blue.
A short while later, only the slightest whisper of sound alerted Kenneth Irons to the fact that Ian Nottingham had entered the study. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearly 1:00 a.m.
"Ah, Ian, you have returned home at last," Irons said, without looking at him.
"Yes, Master."
"Did it turn out that Joaquin Medina is the shooter?"
"Yes, it did, sir."
"I take it Sara Pezzini was unsuccessful in locating him or his brother."
"Yes, Master."
"By any chance, did she share her plan of action for later today with you?"
"No, sir. However, I assume she is going to do everything in her power to keep her nephew from coming to harm at Joaquin Medina's hands."
"Undoubtedly. Tell me, Ian, why do you think the drug bust operation on the docks failed despite the fact that the Wielder was not there?"
After a moment's hesitation, the assassin said "I think it is because it was never the true pickup location in the first place."
"And what made you decide that?"
Ian shrugged. "Just a hunch, sir."
Irons finally turned his head to look at the younger man, who was standing in his customary spot a few feet behind his chair in his habitual parade rest stance. "Come closer to the fire and let me have a look at you, Ian."
Obediently, Nottingham moved to stand in front of Kenneth's chair. Cold, light-blue eyes studied his appearance critically.
"You look exhausted and feverish," Irons finally said.
"I am both, Master."
"Ah, I think I begin to understand," Irons said slowly, a smile that did not reach his eyes turning up the corners of his lips. Gracefully, he got to his feet, picking up the silver-handled walking stick that had been leaning against his chair.
Ian instantly tensed, surreptitiously eyeing the cane that the older man had begun twirling idly in his pale, elegant hands.
Kenneth began to slowly circle his bodyguard. "Ian, has the Wielder taken notice of your ill health?" he asked him.
"Yes, sir."
"What was her reaction to it?"
"She suggested that I take cold medication." Ian had to fight the urge to turn his head in order to keep the other man in sight as he moved behind him.
"And how did you respond to her suggestion?"
"I told her that I did not have a cold."
"I see. And how did she react to that?"
"She accused me of being in denial about my condition."
"What were your outward symptoms?"
Irons came back into his field of vision once again, still twirling the cane. The heat of the fire, combined with that of his fever, was starting to make Ian very uncomfortable. "Coughing, sneezing, and runny nose."
"Do you suppose she felt sorry for you, Ian?"
"Perhaps." Greatly daring, he asked "Why are you asking me about this, Master?"
Irons threw him a sharp look. "Did you ever wonder how it was that I always knew you had approached Sara Pezzini, Ian?" he asked, ignoring the question.
"I assumed your bond with the Witchblade alerted you to that fact." Ian unclasped his hands from behind his back and let them dangle at his sides as his employer once again circled behind him.
"You assumed correctly. The scar on my right hand would flare up most painfully with the force of her anger and resentment whenever you confronted her. Until recently, that is." Irons had stopped moving to stand directly behind Ian. "Tell me, Ian, why is it that Sara no longer becomes angry when you accost her?"
"I do not know," Ian lied.
"I think you do," Irons said.
Ian heard the whistling sound the cane made as it cut through the air. Without thinking, he whirled, put up a gloved hand, and caught the stout wooden length before it could strike him.
He did not know who was more shocked by this act, Kenneth Irons or himself. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, the only sound in the room the crackling of the fire in the hearth.
"Let go of the cane, Ian," Irons recovered first, his tone brooking no argument.
"I am sorry, Master. It must be the fever," Ian murmured, releasing the cane. He bowed his head, bracing himself for the blows he was certain were about to rain down upon him.
To his surprise, Irons simply lowered the cane and resumed his circling. "I think your obvious ill health has had the surprising effect of arousing the Wielder's sympathy, young Nottingham, and that is why she no longer resents your interference. It has humanized you in her eyes. I think you know it, too."
Ian said nothing, as no response appeared necessary. He was still reeling from the fact that he'd actually prevented his master from striking him. He had never done that before without Irons' tacit approval. Then again, he'd never had a fever in excess of 103 degrees before. The study was stifling, and he had to fight the almost irresistible urge to take off his overcoat along with perhaps one or two layers of clothing.
"Ian!"
He blinked, belatedly realizing that his master had apparently said something that did require a reply. "My apologies, sir. What did you ask me?"
"I asked you if you believe you have gained a measure of the Wielder's trust," Irons said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. First, the younger man had had the audacity to prevent him from hitting him, and now he wasn't even listening to what he was saying. To be perfectly honest, however, Kenneth was relieved that Ian had stopped him from beating him because, in his current mood, he might have seriously injured the assassin, rendering him incapable of battling the Russians later that day, which would have been disastrous.
"I suppose so," Ian said slowly. The airless room suddenly began to whirl. He put a gloved hand to his burning forehead, shaking his head in a futile effort to clear it.
"That is good" Kenneth lied, seething inside. "Maybe she is becoming more amenable. What is wrong?" he asked sharply, finally noticing his servant's discomfort.
"It . . . it is very hot in here," Ian said thickly. Black dots began to eat away at the edges of his vision.
"Move away from the fire, imbecile!" Irons snapped impatiently.
Ian tried to obey him, but he staggered and would have fallen if he hadn't caught hold of the heavy, carved wooden chair his master had been sitting in.
Kenneth frowned. "How pathetic!" he said, his voice dripping with disgust and, worse, disappointment. He waved a dismissive hand. "Go report to Dr. Immo, Ian. He is most eager to take a look at you."
"I need the antidote, Master," Ian whispered, swaying woozily.
"And you shall have it -- if you can keep the Wielder safe until she has apprehended this Angel Medina and his brother. Only then will Dr. Immo be allowed to give it to you. You still have not proven to me that you are worthy of the title of Protector, Ian. If you fail the Wielder because of your weakness, you fail me, too."
"And if Sara does not catch the Medina brothers?"
"Then what she saw in the vision will come true. Her nephew will die, and she will be devastated by his death. She might never completely recover from such a tragedy, and she most certainly would never forgive you for failing to prevent it from happening. You would not want that, would you, Ian? Do whatever you must to prevent Joaquin Medina from killing the boy," Irons told him. "Now, go see Dr. Immo."
"Yes, Master." Only slightly unsteady on his feet, Ian turned and left the study. Once outside the stuffy room, he took several deep, cleansing breaths of the markedly cooler, fresh air. His head rapidly cleared and he soon felt much better. Resignedly, he headed for Dr. Immo's lab.
An end to this ordeal was finally in sight, he thought with a vast sense of relief as he rode the elevator down to the basement sublevel. All he had to do to receive the antidote was get through the rest of the day, making certain that Angel and Joaquin Medina were taken down and that no harm befell Sara Pezzini, Joseph Siri, Jr., or Detective Tommy Fuller in the process. Piece of cake.
"There you are, young Nottingham! I have been anxiously awaiting your return," Dr. Immo said as soon as Ian appeared in the doorway to his lab. "How are you feeling?"
"How do you think I feel, Doctor? The toxin you injected me with is slowly killing me," Ian said coldly, glaring at him.
"I am well aware of that unfortunate fact, young man. Please understand that I was only following orders," the gray-haired man said quietly, guilt easily visible on his lined face. "Now, I need to document your symptoms, so, if you would, kindly relate them to me."
Careful to keep several feet between them, Nottingham rattled off the list of the symptoms he had suffered since awakening yesterday morning. He also told the doctor his latest temperature reading, although, of course, he neglected to mention who had taken it.
"Let's see how high your fever is now, shall we?"
Ian barely restrained himself from refusing to comply. He did not want the deceptively kindly looking physician to come near him ever again. Snatching the digital thermometer out of the older man's hand, he placed it in his own mouth, his febrile eyes warning the doctor to keep his distance. When the device beeped, he removed it and handed it to Dr. Immo without even glancing at the reading.
"Oh my, 103.1. What was the very first reading and what time did you take it?"
Ian frowned, finding it a struggle to remember. Had it really been only yesterday afternoon that Gabriel Bowman had first taken his temperature while Nottingham had been holed up at Talismaniac? It felt like it had been much longer ago than that. "It was 101.4 at approximately 14:00 hours yesterday," he finally informed the doctor.
"Hmmm," was Immo's only response to this information.
"How long to do I have, Doctor?" Ian asked quietly. "And I will know if you are lying."
"Well, assuming your temperature keeps rising at the same rate, it will most likely top 106 by this time Friday morning. If I'm not mistaken, the fever is already affecting your thought processes, and that will only worsen the higher it gets. If I had to guess, I would say you will probably become incapacitated by delirium when your temperature reaches the vicinity of 105, perhaps 106. The onset of ultimately fatal convulsions will occur shortly thereafter."
"Is there anything I can do that will buy me more time?" Ian inquired.
"If you were to soak in an ice-filled tub for as long as you could stand it, you might delay the inevitable by an hour or two. However, owing to the danger of hypothermia, I wouldn't recommend you try something like that unsupervised."
A faint smile turned up the corners of Ian's lips. 'Well,' he thought to himself, 'I was planning on taking a cold shower anyway. I might as well make it an extremely cold bath.'
Aloud, he said "An extra hour or two might make all the difference in the world, Doctor."
"I will prepare the bath for you. The stainless steel tub in the physical therapy room will be perfect for our purposes. Keep in that mind that physical exertion will drive the fever higher faster," the doctor cautioned him. "Try to stay as still and quiet as possible after you leave here to attend to your duties."
"Somehow, I do not think that will be possible, Dr. Immo," Ian replied wearily. "Still and quiet and Sara Pezzini just do not go together."
More to come. Thanks to everybody for the wonderful and extremely encouraging feedback. Keep it coming, please!