A Family Affair
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Witchblade characters. I'm just having a blast with them. Enjoy!
Author's Note: Warning: the angst quotient is extremely high in this chapter. Why, you might ask, is dragongrrl bothering to warn us now? Well, I just thought I'd let you prepare yourselves and have a box of Kleenex at the ready!
Chapter 40.
"Come," Kenneth Irons called in response to the soft knock at the door to the high-security safe-room. With difficulty, he tore his eyes away from the wall-mounted plasma television screen he'd been watching as his acting head of security, former Navy Seal, Lieutenant First Class Graham Hopkins, entered the room.
"Any change in the good doctor's condition, Lieutenant?" he demanded before the other man could speak.
"No, sir. He's still unconscious. The surgeon says it's a miracle the man is alive at all. If he'd been just a few feet closer to the helicopter when it exploded, he would have been killed instantly. They were able to remove all of the shrapnel and the internal bleeding has stopped, so he has a chance. The pilot was lucky as well. He's got some third-degree burns and may lose the sight in one eye, but he'll survive. I came to report that the enemy has been driven back. They've suffered heavy losses, but may be regrouping for one last assault. Local law enforcement officials have cut off all escape routes, so their backs are against the wall."
"As I'm sure you well know, Lieutenant, a wounded beast is at its most dangerous when cornered. However, it sounds as if it is only a matter of time before the Russians are defeated," he told the younger man. 'But time is something Ian is fast running out of,' he mused, feeling an unwelcome stab of something distressingly like guilt at the thought.
"Also, the communications technicians wanted to let you know that they were able to get a fix on Mr. Nottingham's location," Hopkins said.
"Why didn't you inform me of this immediately?" Irons snapped, frowning.
"Well, when you asked after the doctor -- "
"Get out!" Kenneth growled, snatching up the phone and calling upstairs to the communications room. Internal phone service had been restored, but incoming and outgoing calls were still impossible, and would be until the utility company could replace the equipment that the Russians had destroyed. Infuriatingly, cell phones were useless in the heavily shielded bunker. The room was luxuriously furnished and very comfortable, but inconvenient in the extreme in that one very important regard.
Disgusted by their failure to equip Nottingham's vehicle with the tracking device, Kenneth had ordered the two dimwitted communications technicians to stay at their posts despite the battle raging practically right outside their door. Apparently, they had known better than to disobey him.
"Yes, sir?" one of them answered on the first ring. Sporadic gunfire could be heard in the background.
"Where is Nottingham?" Kenneth asked without preamble.
"Well, using one of Vorschlag's GPS birds, we were able to lock onto Mr. Nottingham's cell phone signal, Mr. Irons. We successfully triangulated the signal to establish his location. Approximately ten minutes ago, he received a two-minute call at 151 East 68th Street, the Standish Arms apartment building," the first tech said. "He then made a call to the 11th Precinct, which lasted just over two minutes. No calls have been made or received since then."
"We did some checking, sir, and it turns out that a Dr. Vicky Po lives in the Standish Arms in apartment 11F," the second technician told him. "Her name is flagged in the database as being connected with Detective Sara Pezzini."
"Good work, gentlemen," Kenneth told them, pleased by this information. "I've been informed that the estate will be secure shortly. As soon as it is, I want to place a call to Nottingham in order to verify his position. In the meantime, keep monitoring his cell phone activity, and inform me immediately if he changes location." He hung up. 'So, Ian is holed up at the home of the 11th Precinct's Medical Examiner,' he thought. 'That makes sense, since Ms. Po is a medical doctor and young Nottingham mentioned that he was injured during his battle with the Russians. Perhaps there is still time to get him the antidote after all." He frowned at the distinct feeling of relief this last thought gave him.
Fortunately, Dr. Immo had kept detailed notes about the toxin and the antidote on his computer. One of his associates had been instructed to prepare another dose of the latter, seeing as the first one had been destroyed along with the helicopter. Kenneth decided to have Hopkins send out that team of men to retrieve Nottingham after all. If the assassin was still alive when they found him, one of them could administer the antidote before bringing him back to the estate. However, if Ian was already dead, they would be ordered to return with his body anyway, thereby avoiding the questions that an autopsy by the authorities would undoubtedly raise. The corpse would be kept on ice, and once Dr. Immo regained consciousness, he or one of his assistants could activate one of Nottingham's "brothers."
'This situation is not a total disaster,' Irons realized with satisfaction. He picked up the phone again and called Hopkins. When the man reappeared moments later, Kenneth told him to assemble the retrieval team.
"Send the men out via the escape tunnel that leads to the basement of a house approximately two miles from here. There's a fully equipped transport vehicle in the garage of the house, and with their military credentials they should be waved through any checkpoints the local authorities might have set up. Send them to Nottingham's last known location, 151 East 68th Street, Apartment 11F, and have them verify whether or not he is still there. If he is gone, have them stand by until they receive new coordinates. Once they have them, they are to retrieve Nottingham, dead or alive. If he's still alive when they find him, one of them is to immediately administer the contents of a syringe that you will supply them with. Obtain this syringe from Dr. Immo's lab as soon as you leave here," Irons said. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir. Might I ask why you chose not to avail yourself of this escape tunnel, sir?" Hopkins inquired curiously before leaving to carry out his orders.
"Because a few angry Russians aren't going to force me to flee my own home, that's why," Kenneth sniffed. "Now go assemble that team, Mr. Hopkins. And I want frequent progress reports. Dismissed."
Kenneth's gaze returned to the TV screen, where Allison Connors, the roving reporter for Vorschlag Cable Network, was reporting live on the ongoing battle. Ms. Connors was an attractive young woman, he thought idly, if not exactly a beauty. She was, however, an excellent reporter. Irons insisted on the best. After the media frenzy surrounding these lamentable events had died down and the inevitable scrutiny of his past and present business dealings with the Russians had failed to turn up anything illegal on his part, he decided that he would invite Ms. Connors over to the estate for dinner to thank her in person for her superb work covering the story. Everything would eventually return to normal. Ian Nottingham, in some form or the other, would be back at his side where he belonged, and, if Kenneth were incredibly lucky, the Witchblade would also be back in his possession.
****
For perhaps the hundredth time since they'd left Vicky Po's apartment nearly 45 minutes ago, Sara Pezzini anxiously glanced over at Ian Nottingham.
"We're almost there, Nottingham," she said, noticing that he was shivering.
"Where is 'there,' Sara?" he asked without opening his eyes. This was the first time he'd spoken in almost half an hour, having withdrawn into himself shortly after painfully climbing into the SUV.
"Well, last night during dinner, Paula mentioned that the apartment over their garage is empty because the grad student who was renting it came down with a severe case of mono and was forced to withdraw from his classes for this semester. I thought it would be the perfect place to take you," Sara told him.
"I d-do not agree. What if we have been f-followed? Your brother's f-family could be in d-danger, my Lady," he said through chattering teeth, opening glazed, bloodshot eyes.
'He's got the chills,' Sara thought worriedly. "I've been checking, and so far I haven't spotted a tail," she told him truthfully. "The only person who knows where we'll be is Danny, and he won't tell anybody. Jake thinks I'm at my place, and so does the job. You'll be safe there, Nottingham. Besides, the storm is about to make it nearly impossible for anybody to travel anywhere within the tri-state area for the next few days. Plus, it's a two-car garage, which means the SUV will be hidden from sight."
"I still d-do not like it. M-Mr. Irons will eventually f-figure out where I am, and I have no d-doubt he will send a retrieval t-team to get my b-body, I mean, m-me," he added swiftly as Sara frowned.
"Yeah, well, we don't have much choice at this point. I'll keep a close eye on the Witchblade. If it signals impending danger, we'll make a run for it. Robbie, Paula, and the kids can go stay at Joe and Marie's house if need be for a couple of days."
Ian sighed. "V-very well, my Lady." He pulled his overcoat closer around his aching body in a futile effort to ward off the chills gripping him. The nearly convulsive shivers were wreaking havoc with his injured shoulder and ribs, and it was only with a great degree of difficulty that he was able to maintain the pain block. However, he knew he could not do so for much longer. Between now and when he finally lost it, he had to figure out a way to send Sara away so that she would not have to witness his agonizing death throes.
"So, you don't think Irons was killed by the Russians?" Sara asked him.
"No. I would have sensed it if he had been. However, I am not so sure about poor, misguided Dr. Immo," he told her. "I have no doubt he instantly obeyed when ordered to board that helicopter."
"Wait a sec, isn't this the same guy who injected you with the toxin?" she frowned. "You should be glad that he got what he deserved rather than feeling sorry for him."
"He was only following orders. I am not the only one who finds it nearly impossible to disobey my master. Dr. Immo is not an evil man, just a weak one. He was always kind to me when I was a child, although I could never quite bring myself to like him because of the hell he put me through at my master's behest. Still, he was one of the few people who I sensed genuinely liked me when I was growing up."
"Here we are," Sara said, pulling into the driveway of Robert and Paula Siri's house in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. With every story the assassin shared about his nightmarish upbringing, her hatred of Kenneth Irons deepened. That Nottingham had suffered abuse -- psychological and, she was beginning to suspect, physical -- at the hands of his monstrous employer was abundantly clear. She wondered how, after everything he'd been put through, he could still be so forgiving toward people like Dr. Immo.
"Wait here for a few minutes while I go speak to them. I'm gonna tell them that your flu worsened, and that I didn't feel right leaving you on your own during the blizzard," she told Nottingham.
"They will undoubtedly have heard about the attack on both the warehouse and my employer's estate, Sara. How will you explain my injuries to them?" he inquired.
"Shit. You're right." She thought about this quandary for a few moments. "I'll just say you suffered a bad fall, and leave it at that. It's not far from the truth, right? Just hang tight. I'll be right back." Opening the car door, she hopped out.
The side entrance to the house opened before Sara could reach it, and Joey Siri, Jr. came hurrying out.
"Hey, Aunt Sara! I came to grab your bag for you," he said, peering beyond her at the silver BMW SUV.
"Come here, kid," Sara said, grabbing her nephew and giving him a quick hug. "Leave my bag for now, Joey, and come inside. I need to speak to your parents," she told him, hooking her arm through his.
"I know it's late, but I'm sure they wouldn't mind if Ian visited for a while," the boy said, waving at Ian, who lifted a gloved hand in response.
"That's kind of what I want to talk to your parents about, kiddo. Come on, I promise I'll explain everything," Sara told him, pulling him toward the house.
"Hey, Sara," Paula Siri said as Sara and her son entered the coatroom off the kitchen. "We were beginning to wonder whether you'd changed your mind about coming. Has it started snowing yet?"
"No, not yet. I need to talk to you and Robbie, Paula," she said to her sister-in-law, following her nephew into the warm, inviting kitchen.
Just then, Sara's surrogate older brother walked into the room. "There you are, Sara! What took you so long?" he greeted her, giving her a big hug. "Gina Marie tried to wait up for you, but she conked out about 20 minutes ago. I just finished tucking her in. Between us, me and my parents must have left a dozen messages on your answering machine at home. We were really worried when we saw on the news that a female detective was missing at the scene of a gun battle right across the street from where a major drug bust had just gone down. We thought it might have been you. But then they said the detective was found safe and sound."
"It was me," Sara admitted. "Long story. Right now, I have more pressing problems. Nottingham is outside in the car. His flu has gotten worse and on top of that, he suffered a dislocated shoulder and a couple of busted ribs in a nasty fall. The doctor who patched him up said he really shouldn't be left alone, so I volunteered to look after him. All he really needs is some R&R in a nice, quiet place. I remembered what Paula told me about your grad student moving back home, and I thought it might be okay if me and Nottingham stayed in the apartment above the garage for the next few days."
"Sure, that would be fine," Robbie and Paula said almost in unison.
"Poor guy," Paula murmured. "I recently gave the place a thorough cleaning. All you need to do is put sheets and blankets on the bed, uh, beds. There's also a futon in the living room."
"I'll go turn on the heat," Robbie said into the awkward silence that followed. He went into the coatroom and grabbed his coat off a hook. "It'll take about half an hour or so for the place to warm up. Maybe Ian could rest in the guest room until then?" he suggested.
"Yeah, that's a good idea. I'll go get him. And thanks, you guys. You're lifesavers," Sara told them. 'Let's just hope you are, too!' she thought at the Witchblade.
She was glad to see that Nottingham had stopped shivering when she got back into the SUV, but he still looked truly miserable. "It's all arranged. Robbie's turning on the heat in the apartment. Do you want to come inside the house and lay down in the guest room until the place warms up?" she asked him.
Ian shook his head. "No. If I lie down anywhere, I seriously doubt I would be able to get up again. I will just sit here and try to stay as still as possible. My shoulder and ribs do not hurt as badly when I remain motionless," he said. Suddenly, he felt his phone vibrate in his coat pocket. Taking it out, he glanced at the display, and Sara saw the color drain from his face.
"Yes, father," he answered it.
'Father!?!' Sara thought, stunned. 'Kenneth Irons is his father!?!'
"Ian, where are you?" Kenneth immediately asked him.
"I am dying, father," Ian told him, ignoring his question. "However, I am not at all surprised that you managed to survive the Russians' attack."
"Ian, if you tell me where you are, I can have the antidote brought to you within the hour," Irons told him.
"Did you ever love me, father?" Ian asked him wistfully.
"Tell me where you are, Ian. Now!" Irons demanded impatiently.
"On the knife's edge between life and death," Nottingham murmured, and then heaved a weary sigh. "I cannot serve two masters, father. I thought I could, but I have come to the realization that I cannot. The Wielder needs my protection in order to increase her odds of survival, but so long as you hold dominion over me, I cannot be the kind of Protector that she needs and deserves."
Abruptly, the fiery glow of the Witchblade's blood-red stone lit up the interior of the car in clear warning. "He's trying to trace our location through your cell phone, Nottingham!" Sara realized. "Hang up! Now!"
"You could have bound me to you forever if you had simply shown me a father's love, or even kindness from time to time," Ian told Kenneth Irons. "Goodbye, father." He ended the call, tears streaming down his haggard face.
The bracelet's stone went dark, and Sara heaved a sigh of relief. "I don't think he was successful, that scheming, manipulative bastard," she said, then winced. "I'm sorry, Nottingham. I didn't realize that he was your father."
"Whether or not he actually is my biological father is unclear. But he is the only parent I have ever known," Ian said sadly. "He never allowed himself to show me affection, except on rare occasions, when I did something that especially pleased him. His lust for power corrupted him, rendering him incapable of genuine emotion. However, I was so desperate for his approval, which I came to equate with a father's love, that I never stopped trying to please him. I can hardly believe that I will soon be free of him."
"Stop talking like that, Nottingham!" Sara shouted, pounding the steering wheel in frustration. "I'm gonna heal you with the Witchblade. Gabriel told me he found evidence that suggested past Wielders could use it to heal their Protectors."
He looked at her, eyes dark with sorrow and soul-deep weariness. "Even if by some miracle that works, I would still be under Kenneth Irons' thrall. He ruined me for you, Sara. I was born to protect the Bladewielder, but he took me and twisted me to his will. As long as he is alive, I can never be truly free of his grasp. Please, do not cry, my love," he begged her as tears filled her beautiful green eyes. "We will meet again in another lifetime. Perhaps then I can be the kind of champion that you deserve: Pure of heart and steadfast of purpose. In this life, I am merely a shadow of a man, one whose soul has been tainted. You said it yourself: I am a stone-cold killer. I have done things that would shock and repulse you. It is better this way. You cannot see that now, but, eventually, you will."
Sara angrily dashed away her tears, shaking her head. "No, I don't believe you are ruined, Nottingham. I believe you can redeem yourself. In fact, I know it. What better way to do so than to serve me, the Wielder of the Witchblade? I will never use Its power for evil, as Irons so badly wants me to do. That's why he's so eager to take It from me. With my Protector by my side, I could be nearly invincible, and he knows it. But I need you if I'm to survive, Nottingham. I realize that now. So, please, don't give up on me now. Please!" she pleaded with him.
"I am so tired, my Lady," he whispered, closing his eyes, his head falling back against the headrest. "And everything hurts -- this body, this soul, this life."
"So, that's it, hunh? You're just gonna let Irons win? Because that's what will happen if you die. He wins. I lose. Without you to protect me, it would only be a matter of time before he killed me and took back the Witchblade. And maybe the next Wielder won't be as scrupulous as me. Think of the thousands of innocent lives that would be lost if that happened," she told him. But she could see that her words were not having any effect. Slowly but surely, her Protector was slipping away from her. Desperate to rouse him from his deadly lethargy, she said scornfully "You once said you would do anything to please me, Nottingham. I guess that was just a line!"
"I really wish things had been different, Sara," he murmured, his pale, drawn face wet with tears. "I wish that Irons had never found me in that orphanage, and that you and I had met under different circumstances. But I am what he made me, and nothing you say or do can change that. I am unworthy of the title of Protector. Can you not see that?"
"Do you want to know what I see when I look at you, Ian?" Sara asked him, her voice low and intense. "I see a brilliant man with the heart of a warrior and the gentle soul of a poet. Nothing Irons did to you can change that. I was wrong when I said you were a stone-cold killer without a conscience. If you were, you would have killed Joey in that alley without a second thought. But you didn't. Sure, you've done things at Irons' behest that you're not proud of, but you stood up to him when it counted and helped me out. I would already be dead if it weren't for you. I believe that you are strong enough to break free of him, even if you don't. I believe in you, Ian. I know you are tired, but promise me you won't give up. Promise me!" she urged him.
He turned his head and looked at her, a heartbreaking smile on his lips. "You called me Ian. Twice," he whispered.
"Promise me!" she insisted.
"I promise, my Lady," he acquiesced. "But, in turn, you must promise me that if the attempt to heal me fails, you will not stay and watch me die. At least spare yourself that."
She shook her head. "No deal. Like it or not, we're in this together until the bitter end, which I refuse to believe is tonight."
"Very well," he sighed. "You are very stubborn, Sara."
"And you love that about me," she smiled tiredly. "Admit it."
"I love everything about you, not just that," he said softly, eyes roaming her features, as though memorizing them. "I have loved you since the moment I first laid eyes on you."
"But you didn't even know me!" she protested, squirming self-consciously.
"Yes, I did. Our souls have been connected throughout the Witchblade's existence. We are kindred spirits, if you will, for you, too, have the heart of a warrior, my Lady. I will understand if you cannot bring yourself to fall in love with me because of the terrible things I have done, but I wanted you to know how I feel about you in case . . . You may believe in me, but it is the Witchblade that will have the final say on whether my life will be spared. Ultimately, It must decide if I am worthy of the title of Protector."
"Yeah, well I've already accepted you, and I'm the Wielder. That's gotta count for something, right?" Sara jumped, startled, as Robert knocked on the driver-side window. She rolled it down.
"It should be warm enough in there by now. Here are the keys to the front door and the garage," he said, handing them to her. He glanced over at Nottingham. "Hey, Ian. Sorry to hear about your accident and that you're still sick. I hope you start to feel better soon. You and Sara are welcome to stay as long as you like," he told the ailing man
"Thank you, Robert. I am most grateful to you and your wife for your hospitality," Ian said. "I am also very glad that young Joseph is finally safe."
"We all are. I guess we'll really have something to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. Hopefully, you'll be well enough to join us for dinner at my parents' house. Sara, if you need anything, just give us a call, and we'll send Joey over," Robert told her.
"Thanks, Robbie," Sara said. She turned to Nottingham. "Let's get you settled upstairs, and then I'll put the car away and get my, uh, our bags."
"I'll put the car in the garage for you, Sara," Robert offered. "And I'll send Joey up with your bags and the car keys in a little while.
"I appreciate it," she said, getting out and handing him the SUV's keys. She went around to the passenger side, and opened the door for Nottingham. Moving gingerly, he got out, unable to bite back a groan as his ribs barked at him. By the time he got to the top of the stairs that led to the entrance to the apartment above the garage, he was swaying with exhaustion.
Sara unlocked the door and stood aside so Ian could enter first. "Just give me a couple of minutes to make up the bed," she told him, sensing that he was near total collapse.
It took her a few minutes to locate the sheets and then to put them on the queen-size bed in the bedroom. When she came back out to the living room, Nottingham was sitting on the futon.
"Come on, Ian," she said, taking off her down jacket. "I'll help you take off your coat and your clothes, and then we'll get you into bed."
"No," he refused. "If I sit here very still, just like this, the pain is almost bearable."
"You'll be more comfortable in bed," Sara told him, then realized that was probably untrue given how banged up he was. "Okay, maybe you won't be, but once the Witchblade heals you, I have a feeling you'll be out cold for a couple of days. You're too big and heavy for me to move you by myself, so you have to help me out here," she tried reasoning with him.
"My shoulder and ribs really, really hurt, Sara," he told her, grimacing. "I do not think I can handle you removing my sweater."
"We'll take it really slow, okay? Come on, I promise to make you feel better soon," she coaxed him.
"All right," he finally said, obviously struggling with fever-induced irrationality. It took him several minutes to lever himself up off of the sofa, and Sara winced sympathetically at the obvious agony his movements caused him.
Sara helped him out of his overcoat, which she slung over a nearby chair, before he carefully sat on the side of the bed and they began the slow, painful process of removing his sweater. At one point, he begged her to simply cut it off of him, but since it was the only warm clothing he had, she was reluctant to do so. She finally eased it off of him, pausing frequently to give his damaged shoulder's abused nerve-endings a chance to calm down. Trying not to gawk at his impressive, albeit bruised and heavily bandaged, physique, Sara helped him put the sling back on. Kneeling, she first unlaced and then removed his combat boots, setting them aside before pulling off his socks. But when she reached up to unbuckle his belt, he put his gloved right hand over the buckle.
"Come on, Ian, you'll be more comfortable, not to mention cooler, without wool pants on underneath the covers," she told him. "Plus, they're stiff with dried blood."
"Very well," he said after a minute, "but I want to keep my thermal underwear on."
She shook her head. "No can do. I have to be able to change the bandage on your thigh, and that'll be a whole lot easier to do if I don't have to fight with your long johns. Don't be shy, Nottingham. You don't have anything I haven't seen before." 'And from what I've seen so far, you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of!' she thought. 'Mercy!'
"I am extremely uncomfortable without several layers of clothing covering my body," he said stiffly, avoiding her gaze.
"Fair enough, but they're still gonna have to come off. I promise not to stare at you, okay?" Sara told him.
"All right," he reluctantly agreed. "But I will remove them myself in the bathroom. I need to use the toilet anyway."
"Okay," she said, rising and backing away from him. "Yell if you need any help."
Moments after the bathroom door closed behind him, Sara heard a knock at the door. She opened it to find Joey there with her knapsack, duffel bag, the first-aid kit, and the shopping bag containing Ian's discarded shirts and weapons harness.
"This is all there was in the car, Aunt Sara. Didn't Ian bring any luggage?"
"No. He was so feverish, he forgot to pack," Sara murmured.
"Well, Derek -- the guy who was renting this place -- left most of his stuff behind since he plans on coming back next semester. Him and Ian are about the same height and weight, so I bet he'd fit his clothes," he told her.
"That's a great idea. And thanks for bringing the bags up, Joey."
"Sure. Oh, and my mom is packing up a couple of bags of groceries for you and Ian, seeing as the blizzard is gonna make it hard for anybody to get to and from our house for the next couple of days. She told me to ask you if there was anything special you or Ian wanted. Like cookie dough, or something."
Sara thought about it for a moment. "Ask her if she has any peppermint tea."
"I will." The boy hesitated before leaving, glancing toward the closed bedroom door. "Do you think I could see Ian? Your friend Gabriel told me that the bulletproof vest he gave me to wear today was Ian's idea, and I wanted to thank him for looking out for me."
"I don't know about that, Joey," she told him. "He's running a very high fever and is in a lot of pain. Tell you what, while you're getting the groceries, I'll ask him if he feels up to a brief visit."
"Okay. I'll be back in a couple of minutes," Joey said. He left.
Sara opened the bedroom door to find Nottingham standing next to the bed, wearing only a pair of black briefs. He'd even removed his ubiquitous black leather gloves.
"You are staring, Sara," he said after nearly a full minute had passed. A blush reddened his already flushed cheeks.
Sara's jaw snapped shut. "Sorry," she muttered, hastily moving to turn down the top sheet on the bed. "Let's get you into bed. I'll throw a couple of blankets on top of you once you're between the sheets."
"I cannot lie flat. It would hurt too much. Could you prop me up with the pillows?" he requested, eyes downcast and face still burning.
"Sure. I spotted one of those reading pillows in the linen closet next to the blankets. I'll just get it," Sara told him. She grabbed the corduroy pillow, a couple of blankets and a down comforter from the closet next to the bathroom.
Groaning, Ian once again sat on the side of the bed as she positioned the pillow against the headboard. Sara froze as she noticed the half-healed welts and cuts that marred the skin of his back above and below the bandage around his ribs, as well as numerous older scars that were unmistakably the result of severe beatings. "Okay, lean back," she murmured, hiding her shock and revulsion with an effort. "I'll help you swing your legs up onto the bed."
"Ow, ow, ow!" he cried softly as his ribs stabbed at him cruelly.
Sara put another pillow behind him to support his head. "Better?"
"No. I am really hurting, Sara," he moaned, his face twisting with pain as the muscles in the area of his fractured collarbone started to spasm viciously. The pain block had failed with excruciating consequences.
"I know, I know. I promise to take the pain away soon," she soothed, brushing tendrils of dark hair away from his frighteningly hot forehead. As before, he turned his face into the coolness of her hand, blindly seeking comfort.
There came the sound of a knock at the front door. "That'll be Joey with some groceries to tide us over for the next few days. He wanted to thank you for lending him that bulletproof vest, Ian, but I'll tell him you're not feeling up to it," she told the suffering man.
"No, no, it is all right. I would like to see him," Ian said, barely catching himself before adding "one last time."
"Okay, but just for a minute. I've gotta make that attempt to heal you, and the sooner the better," Sara said. She went and opened the door, grabbing one of the bags of food from Joey and setting it on the counter of the tiny kitchenette.
"Can I see him?" the teenager asked, unzipping his coat. Beneath it, Sara saw that he wore the bulletproof vest. "I wanted to return this to him, too."
"Yes, but just for a minute, okay?"
Sara decided to wait in the living room, for fear that she might burst into tears again, upsetting her nephew and Ian. As she put away the groceries, she could hear the boy's rather subdued tones and the low rumble of Nottingham's voice in reply, but not what they said to each other. A few minutes later, Joey came out of the bedroom, face somber with concern.
"He's really sick and beat up, hunh?" he whispered, putting his coat back on.
"Yeah, he is," Sara whispered back. She enveloped the lanky youth in a tight hug, sending a devout prayer of thanks to the heavens above -- and to the Witchblade -- that he was still alive.
"Hey, look! It started snowing!" Joey said, when she finally let him go. He looked at his aunt's exhausted face, noticing that her eyes that were red and puffy from crying. "Don't worry, Aunt Sara, Ian is going to be okay. I just know it," he reassured her. "See you both in a couple of days!"
"See you, kiddo," she murmured, as the door closed behind him. "I truly hope you're right." For a few moments, she stood there staring out the window at the white flakes falling rapidly from the sky, and then turned and reentered the bedroom.
More to come! Thanks for your feedback and ongoing encouragement. The end of this, my inaugural Witchblade fanfic, is in sight!
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Witchblade characters. I'm just having a blast with them. Enjoy!
Author's Note: Warning: the angst quotient is extremely high in this chapter. Why, you might ask, is dragongrrl bothering to warn us now? Well, I just thought I'd let you prepare yourselves and have a box of Kleenex at the ready!
Chapter 40.
"Come," Kenneth Irons called in response to the soft knock at the door to the high-security safe-room. With difficulty, he tore his eyes away from the wall-mounted plasma television screen he'd been watching as his acting head of security, former Navy Seal, Lieutenant First Class Graham Hopkins, entered the room.
"Any change in the good doctor's condition, Lieutenant?" he demanded before the other man could speak.
"No, sir. He's still unconscious. The surgeon says it's a miracle the man is alive at all. If he'd been just a few feet closer to the helicopter when it exploded, he would have been killed instantly. They were able to remove all of the shrapnel and the internal bleeding has stopped, so he has a chance. The pilot was lucky as well. He's got some third-degree burns and may lose the sight in one eye, but he'll survive. I came to report that the enemy has been driven back. They've suffered heavy losses, but may be regrouping for one last assault. Local law enforcement officials have cut off all escape routes, so their backs are against the wall."
"As I'm sure you well know, Lieutenant, a wounded beast is at its most dangerous when cornered. However, it sounds as if it is only a matter of time before the Russians are defeated," he told the younger man. 'But time is something Ian is fast running out of,' he mused, feeling an unwelcome stab of something distressingly like guilt at the thought.
"Also, the communications technicians wanted to let you know that they were able to get a fix on Mr. Nottingham's location," Hopkins said.
"Why didn't you inform me of this immediately?" Irons snapped, frowning.
"Well, when you asked after the doctor -- "
"Get out!" Kenneth growled, snatching up the phone and calling upstairs to the communications room. Internal phone service had been restored, but incoming and outgoing calls were still impossible, and would be until the utility company could replace the equipment that the Russians had destroyed. Infuriatingly, cell phones were useless in the heavily shielded bunker. The room was luxuriously furnished and very comfortable, but inconvenient in the extreme in that one very important regard.
Disgusted by their failure to equip Nottingham's vehicle with the tracking device, Kenneth had ordered the two dimwitted communications technicians to stay at their posts despite the battle raging practically right outside their door. Apparently, they had known better than to disobey him.
"Yes, sir?" one of them answered on the first ring. Sporadic gunfire could be heard in the background.
"Where is Nottingham?" Kenneth asked without preamble.
"Well, using one of Vorschlag's GPS birds, we were able to lock onto Mr. Nottingham's cell phone signal, Mr. Irons. We successfully triangulated the signal to establish his location. Approximately ten minutes ago, he received a two-minute call at 151 East 68th Street, the Standish Arms apartment building," the first tech said. "He then made a call to the 11th Precinct, which lasted just over two minutes. No calls have been made or received since then."
"We did some checking, sir, and it turns out that a Dr. Vicky Po lives in the Standish Arms in apartment 11F," the second technician told him. "Her name is flagged in the database as being connected with Detective Sara Pezzini."
"Good work, gentlemen," Kenneth told them, pleased by this information. "I've been informed that the estate will be secure shortly. As soon as it is, I want to place a call to Nottingham in order to verify his position. In the meantime, keep monitoring his cell phone activity, and inform me immediately if he changes location." He hung up. 'So, Ian is holed up at the home of the 11th Precinct's Medical Examiner,' he thought. 'That makes sense, since Ms. Po is a medical doctor and young Nottingham mentioned that he was injured during his battle with the Russians. Perhaps there is still time to get him the antidote after all." He frowned at the distinct feeling of relief this last thought gave him.
Fortunately, Dr. Immo had kept detailed notes about the toxin and the antidote on his computer. One of his associates had been instructed to prepare another dose of the latter, seeing as the first one had been destroyed along with the helicopter. Kenneth decided to have Hopkins send out that team of men to retrieve Nottingham after all. If the assassin was still alive when they found him, one of them could administer the antidote before bringing him back to the estate. However, if Ian was already dead, they would be ordered to return with his body anyway, thereby avoiding the questions that an autopsy by the authorities would undoubtedly raise. The corpse would be kept on ice, and once Dr. Immo regained consciousness, he or one of his assistants could activate one of Nottingham's "brothers."
'This situation is not a total disaster,' Irons realized with satisfaction. He picked up the phone again and called Hopkins. When the man reappeared moments later, Kenneth told him to assemble the retrieval team.
"Send the men out via the escape tunnel that leads to the basement of a house approximately two miles from here. There's a fully equipped transport vehicle in the garage of the house, and with their military credentials they should be waved through any checkpoints the local authorities might have set up. Send them to Nottingham's last known location, 151 East 68th Street, Apartment 11F, and have them verify whether or not he is still there. If he is gone, have them stand by until they receive new coordinates. Once they have them, they are to retrieve Nottingham, dead or alive. If he's still alive when they find him, one of them is to immediately administer the contents of a syringe that you will supply them with. Obtain this syringe from Dr. Immo's lab as soon as you leave here," Irons said. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir. Might I ask why you chose not to avail yourself of this escape tunnel, sir?" Hopkins inquired curiously before leaving to carry out his orders.
"Because a few angry Russians aren't going to force me to flee my own home, that's why," Kenneth sniffed. "Now go assemble that team, Mr. Hopkins. And I want frequent progress reports. Dismissed."
Kenneth's gaze returned to the TV screen, where Allison Connors, the roving reporter for Vorschlag Cable Network, was reporting live on the ongoing battle. Ms. Connors was an attractive young woman, he thought idly, if not exactly a beauty. She was, however, an excellent reporter. Irons insisted on the best. After the media frenzy surrounding these lamentable events had died down and the inevitable scrutiny of his past and present business dealings with the Russians had failed to turn up anything illegal on his part, he decided that he would invite Ms. Connors over to the estate for dinner to thank her in person for her superb work covering the story. Everything would eventually return to normal. Ian Nottingham, in some form or the other, would be back at his side where he belonged, and, if Kenneth were incredibly lucky, the Witchblade would also be back in his possession.
****
For perhaps the hundredth time since they'd left Vicky Po's apartment nearly 45 minutes ago, Sara Pezzini anxiously glanced over at Ian Nottingham.
"We're almost there, Nottingham," she said, noticing that he was shivering.
"Where is 'there,' Sara?" he asked without opening his eyes. This was the first time he'd spoken in almost half an hour, having withdrawn into himself shortly after painfully climbing into the SUV.
"Well, last night during dinner, Paula mentioned that the apartment over their garage is empty because the grad student who was renting it came down with a severe case of mono and was forced to withdraw from his classes for this semester. I thought it would be the perfect place to take you," Sara told him.
"I d-do not agree. What if we have been f-followed? Your brother's f-family could be in d-danger, my Lady," he said through chattering teeth, opening glazed, bloodshot eyes.
'He's got the chills,' Sara thought worriedly. "I've been checking, and so far I haven't spotted a tail," she told him truthfully. "The only person who knows where we'll be is Danny, and he won't tell anybody. Jake thinks I'm at my place, and so does the job. You'll be safe there, Nottingham. Besides, the storm is about to make it nearly impossible for anybody to travel anywhere within the tri-state area for the next few days. Plus, it's a two-car garage, which means the SUV will be hidden from sight."
"I still d-do not like it. M-Mr. Irons will eventually f-figure out where I am, and I have no d-doubt he will send a retrieval t-team to get my b-body, I mean, m-me," he added swiftly as Sara frowned.
"Yeah, well, we don't have much choice at this point. I'll keep a close eye on the Witchblade. If it signals impending danger, we'll make a run for it. Robbie, Paula, and the kids can go stay at Joe and Marie's house if need be for a couple of days."
Ian sighed. "V-very well, my Lady." He pulled his overcoat closer around his aching body in a futile effort to ward off the chills gripping him. The nearly convulsive shivers were wreaking havoc with his injured shoulder and ribs, and it was only with a great degree of difficulty that he was able to maintain the pain block. However, he knew he could not do so for much longer. Between now and when he finally lost it, he had to figure out a way to send Sara away so that she would not have to witness his agonizing death throes.
"So, you don't think Irons was killed by the Russians?" Sara asked him.
"No. I would have sensed it if he had been. However, I am not so sure about poor, misguided Dr. Immo," he told her. "I have no doubt he instantly obeyed when ordered to board that helicopter."
"Wait a sec, isn't this the same guy who injected you with the toxin?" she frowned. "You should be glad that he got what he deserved rather than feeling sorry for him."
"He was only following orders. I am not the only one who finds it nearly impossible to disobey my master. Dr. Immo is not an evil man, just a weak one. He was always kind to me when I was a child, although I could never quite bring myself to like him because of the hell he put me through at my master's behest. Still, he was one of the few people who I sensed genuinely liked me when I was growing up."
"Here we are," Sara said, pulling into the driveway of Robert and Paula Siri's house in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. With every story the assassin shared about his nightmarish upbringing, her hatred of Kenneth Irons deepened. That Nottingham had suffered abuse -- psychological and, she was beginning to suspect, physical -- at the hands of his monstrous employer was abundantly clear. She wondered how, after everything he'd been put through, he could still be so forgiving toward people like Dr. Immo.
"Wait here for a few minutes while I go speak to them. I'm gonna tell them that your flu worsened, and that I didn't feel right leaving you on your own during the blizzard," she told Nottingham.
"They will undoubtedly have heard about the attack on both the warehouse and my employer's estate, Sara. How will you explain my injuries to them?" he inquired.
"Shit. You're right." She thought about this quandary for a few moments. "I'll just say you suffered a bad fall, and leave it at that. It's not far from the truth, right? Just hang tight. I'll be right back." Opening the car door, she hopped out.
The side entrance to the house opened before Sara could reach it, and Joey Siri, Jr. came hurrying out.
"Hey, Aunt Sara! I came to grab your bag for you," he said, peering beyond her at the silver BMW SUV.
"Come here, kid," Sara said, grabbing her nephew and giving him a quick hug. "Leave my bag for now, Joey, and come inside. I need to speak to your parents," she told him, hooking her arm through his.
"I know it's late, but I'm sure they wouldn't mind if Ian visited for a while," the boy said, waving at Ian, who lifted a gloved hand in response.
"That's kind of what I want to talk to your parents about, kiddo. Come on, I promise I'll explain everything," Sara told him, pulling him toward the house.
"Hey, Sara," Paula Siri said as Sara and her son entered the coatroom off the kitchen. "We were beginning to wonder whether you'd changed your mind about coming. Has it started snowing yet?"
"No, not yet. I need to talk to you and Robbie, Paula," she said to her sister-in-law, following her nephew into the warm, inviting kitchen.
Just then, Sara's surrogate older brother walked into the room. "There you are, Sara! What took you so long?" he greeted her, giving her a big hug. "Gina Marie tried to wait up for you, but she conked out about 20 minutes ago. I just finished tucking her in. Between us, me and my parents must have left a dozen messages on your answering machine at home. We were really worried when we saw on the news that a female detective was missing at the scene of a gun battle right across the street from where a major drug bust had just gone down. We thought it might have been you. But then they said the detective was found safe and sound."
"It was me," Sara admitted. "Long story. Right now, I have more pressing problems. Nottingham is outside in the car. His flu has gotten worse and on top of that, he suffered a dislocated shoulder and a couple of busted ribs in a nasty fall. The doctor who patched him up said he really shouldn't be left alone, so I volunteered to look after him. All he really needs is some R&R in a nice, quiet place. I remembered what Paula told me about your grad student moving back home, and I thought it might be okay if me and Nottingham stayed in the apartment above the garage for the next few days."
"Sure, that would be fine," Robbie and Paula said almost in unison.
"Poor guy," Paula murmured. "I recently gave the place a thorough cleaning. All you need to do is put sheets and blankets on the bed, uh, beds. There's also a futon in the living room."
"I'll go turn on the heat," Robbie said into the awkward silence that followed. He went into the coatroom and grabbed his coat off a hook. "It'll take about half an hour or so for the place to warm up. Maybe Ian could rest in the guest room until then?" he suggested.
"Yeah, that's a good idea. I'll go get him. And thanks, you guys. You're lifesavers," Sara told them. 'Let's just hope you are, too!' she thought at the Witchblade.
She was glad to see that Nottingham had stopped shivering when she got back into the SUV, but he still looked truly miserable. "It's all arranged. Robbie's turning on the heat in the apartment. Do you want to come inside the house and lay down in the guest room until the place warms up?" she asked him.
Ian shook his head. "No. If I lie down anywhere, I seriously doubt I would be able to get up again. I will just sit here and try to stay as still as possible. My shoulder and ribs do not hurt as badly when I remain motionless," he said. Suddenly, he felt his phone vibrate in his coat pocket. Taking it out, he glanced at the display, and Sara saw the color drain from his face.
"Yes, father," he answered it.
'Father!?!' Sara thought, stunned. 'Kenneth Irons is his father!?!'
"Ian, where are you?" Kenneth immediately asked him.
"I am dying, father," Ian told him, ignoring his question. "However, I am not at all surprised that you managed to survive the Russians' attack."
"Ian, if you tell me where you are, I can have the antidote brought to you within the hour," Irons told him.
"Did you ever love me, father?" Ian asked him wistfully.
"Tell me where you are, Ian. Now!" Irons demanded impatiently.
"On the knife's edge between life and death," Nottingham murmured, and then heaved a weary sigh. "I cannot serve two masters, father. I thought I could, but I have come to the realization that I cannot. The Wielder needs my protection in order to increase her odds of survival, but so long as you hold dominion over me, I cannot be the kind of Protector that she needs and deserves."
Abruptly, the fiery glow of the Witchblade's blood-red stone lit up the interior of the car in clear warning. "He's trying to trace our location through your cell phone, Nottingham!" Sara realized. "Hang up! Now!"
"You could have bound me to you forever if you had simply shown me a father's love, or even kindness from time to time," Ian told Kenneth Irons. "Goodbye, father." He ended the call, tears streaming down his haggard face.
The bracelet's stone went dark, and Sara heaved a sigh of relief. "I don't think he was successful, that scheming, manipulative bastard," she said, then winced. "I'm sorry, Nottingham. I didn't realize that he was your father."
"Whether or not he actually is my biological father is unclear. But he is the only parent I have ever known," Ian said sadly. "He never allowed himself to show me affection, except on rare occasions, when I did something that especially pleased him. His lust for power corrupted him, rendering him incapable of genuine emotion. However, I was so desperate for his approval, which I came to equate with a father's love, that I never stopped trying to please him. I can hardly believe that I will soon be free of him."
"Stop talking like that, Nottingham!" Sara shouted, pounding the steering wheel in frustration. "I'm gonna heal you with the Witchblade. Gabriel told me he found evidence that suggested past Wielders could use it to heal their Protectors."
He looked at her, eyes dark with sorrow and soul-deep weariness. "Even if by some miracle that works, I would still be under Kenneth Irons' thrall. He ruined me for you, Sara. I was born to protect the Bladewielder, but he took me and twisted me to his will. As long as he is alive, I can never be truly free of his grasp. Please, do not cry, my love," he begged her as tears filled her beautiful green eyes. "We will meet again in another lifetime. Perhaps then I can be the kind of champion that you deserve: Pure of heart and steadfast of purpose. In this life, I am merely a shadow of a man, one whose soul has been tainted. You said it yourself: I am a stone-cold killer. I have done things that would shock and repulse you. It is better this way. You cannot see that now, but, eventually, you will."
Sara angrily dashed away her tears, shaking her head. "No, I don't believe you are ruined, Nottingham. I believe you can redeem yourself. In fact, I know it. What better way to do so than to serve me, the Wielder of the Witchblade? I will never use Its power for evil, as Irons so badly wants me to do. That's why he's so eager to take It from me. With my Protector by my side, I could be nearly invincible, and he knows it. But I need you if I'm to survive, Nottingham. I realize that now. So, please, don't give up on me now. Please!" she pleaded with him.
"I am so tired, my Lady," he whispered, closing his eyes, his head falling back against the headrest. "And everything hurts -- this body, this soul, this life."
"So, that's it, hunh? You're just gonna let Irons win? Because that's what will happen if you die. He wins. I lose. Without you to protect me, it would only be a matter of time before he killed me and took back the Witchblade. And maybe the next Wielder won't be as scrupulous as me. Think of the thousands of innocent lives that would be lost if that happened," she told him. But she could see that her words were not having any effect. Slowly but surely, her Protector was slipping away from her. Desperate to rouse him from his deadly lethargy, she said scornfully "You once said you would do anything to please me, Nottingham. I guess that was just a line!"
"I really wish things had been different, Sara," he murmured, his pale, drawn face wet with tears. "I wish that Irons had never found me in that orphanage, and that you and I had met under different circumstances. But I am what he made me, and nothing you say or do can change that. I am unworthy of the title of Protector. Can you not see that?"
"Do you want to know what I see when I look at you, Ian?" Sara asked him, her voice low and intense. "I see a brilliant man with the heart of a warrior and the gentle soul of a poet. Nothing Irons did to you can change that. I was wrong when I said you were a stone-cold killer without a conscience. If you were, you would have killed Joey in that alley without a second thought. But you didn't. Sure, you've done things at Irons' behest that you're not proud of, but you stood up to him when it counted and helped me out. I would already be dead if it weren't for you. I believe that you are strong enough to break free of him, even if you don't. I believe in you, Ian. I know you are tired, but promise me you won't give up. Promise me!" she urged him.
He turned his head and looked at her, a heartbreaking smile on his lips. "You called me Ian. Twice," he whispered.
"Promise me!" she insisted.
"I promise, my Lady," he acquiesced. "But, in turn, you must promise me that if the attempt to heal me fails, you will not stay and watch me die. At least spare yourself that."
She shook her head. "No deal. Like it or not, we're in this together until the bitter end, which I refuse to believe is tonight."
"Very well," he sighed. "You are very stubborn, Sara."
"And you love that about me," she smiled tiredly. "Admit it."
"I love everything about you, not just that," he said softly, eyes roaming her features, as though memorizing them. "I have loved you since the moment I first laid eyes on you."
"But you didn't even know me!" she protested, squirming self-consciously.
"Yes, I did. Our souls have been connected throughout the Witchblade's existence. We are kindred spirits, if you will, for you, too, have the heart of a warrior, my Lady. I will understand if you cannot bring yourself to fall in love with me because of the terrible things I have done, but I wanted you to know how I feel about you in case . . . You may believe in me, but it is the Witchblade that will have the final say on whether my life will be spared. Ultimately, It must decide if I am worthy of the title of Protector."
"Yeah, well I've already accepted you, and I'm the Wielder. That's gotta count for something, right?" Sara jumped, startled, as Robert knocked on the driver-side window. She rolled it down.
"It should be warm enough in there by now. Here are the keys to the front door and the garage," he said, handing them to her. He glanced over at Nottingham. "Hey, Ian. Sorry to hear about your accident and that you're still sick. I hope you start to feel better soon. You and Sara are welcome to stay as long as you like," he told the ailing man
"Thank you, Robert. I am most grateful to you and your wife for your hospitality," Ian said. "I am also very glad that young Joseph is finally safe."
"We all are. I guess we'll really have something to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. Hopefully, you'll be well enough to join us for dinner at my parents' house. Sara, if you need anything, just give us a call, and we'll send Joey over," Robert told her.
"Thanks, Robbie," Sara said. She turned to Nottingham. "Let's get you settled upstairs, and then I'll put the car away and get my, uh, our bags."
"I'll put the car in the garage for you, Sara," Robert offered. "And I'll send Joey up with your bags and the car keys in a little while.
"I appreciate it," she said, getting out and handing him the SUV's keys. She went around to the passenger side, and opened the door for Nottingham. Moving gingerly, he got out, unable to bite back a groan as his ribs barked at him. By the time he got to the top of the stairs that led to the entrance to the apartment above the garage, he was swaying with exhaustion.
Sara unlocked the door and stood aside so Ian could enter first. "Just give me a couple of minutes to make up the bed," she told him, sensing that he was near total collapse.
It took her a few minutes to locate the sheets and then to put them on the queen-size bed in the bedroom. When she came back out to the living room, Nottingham was sitting on the futon.
"Come on, Ian," she said, taking off her down jacket. "I'll help you take off your coat and your clothes, and then we'll get you into bed."
"No," he refused. "If I sit here very still, just like this, the pain is almost bearable."
"You'll be more comfortable in bed," Sara told him, then realized that was probably untrue given how banged up he was. "Okay, maybe you won't be, but once the Witchblade heals you, I have a feeling you'll be out cold for a couple of days. You're too big and heavy for me to move you by myself, so you have to help me out here," she tried reasoning with him.
"My shoulder and ribs really, really hurt, Sara," he told her, grimacing. "I do not think I can handle you removing my sweater."
"We'll take it really slow, okay? Come on, I promise to make you feel better soon," she coaxed him.
"All right," he finally said, obviously struggling with fever-induced irrationality. It took him several minutes to lever himself up off of the sofa, and Sara winced sympathetically at the obvious agony his movements caused him.
Sara helped him out of his overcoat, which she slung over a nearby chair, before he carefully sat on the side of the bed and they began the slow, painful process of removing his sweater. At one point, he begged her to simply cut it off of him, but since it was the only warm clothing he had, she was reluctant to do so. She finally eased it off of him, pausing frequently to give his damaged shoulder's abused nerve-endings a chance to calm down. Trying not to gawk at his impressive, albeit bruised and heavily bandaged, physique, Sara helped him put the sling back on. Kneeling, she first unlaced and then removed his combat boots, setting them aside before pulling off his socks. But when she reached up to unbuckle his belt, he put his gloved right hand over the buckle.
"Come on, Ian, you'll be more comfortable, not to mention cooler, without wool pants on underneath the covers," she told him. "Plus, they're stiff with dried blood."
"Very well," he said after a minute, "but I want to keep my thermal underwear on."
She shook her head. "No can do. I have to be able to change the bandage on your thigh, and that'll be a whole lot easier to do if I don't have to fight with your long johns. Don't be shy, Nottingham. You don't have anything I haven't seen before." 'And from what I've seen so far, you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of!' she thought. 'Mercy!'
"I am extremely uncomfortable without several layers of clothing covering my body," he said stiffly, avoiding her gaze.
"Fair enough, but they're still gonna have to come off. I promise not to stare at you, okay?" Sara told him.
"All right," he reluctantly agreed. "But I will remove them myself in the bathroom. I need to use the toilet anyway."
"Okay," she said, rising and backing away from him. "Yell if you need any help."
Moments after the bathroom door closed behind him, Sara heard a knock at the door. She opened it to find Joey there with her knapsack, duffel bag, the first-aid kit, and the shopping bag containing Ian's discarded shirts and weapons harness.
"This is all there was in the car, Aunt Sara. Didn't Ian bring any luggage?"
"No. He was so feverish, he forgot to pack," Sara murmured.
"Well, Derek -- the guy who was renting this place -- left most of his stuff behind since he plans on coming back next semester. Him and Ian are about the same height and weight, so I bet he'd fit his clothes," he told her.
"That's a great idea. And thanks for bringing the bags up, Joey."
"Sure. Oh, and my mom is packing up a couple of bags of groceries for you and Ian, seeing as the blizzard is gonna make it hard for anybody to get to and from our house for the next couple of days. She told me to ask you if there was anything special you or Ian wanted. Like cookie dough, or something."
Sara thought about it for a moment. "Ask her if she has any peppermint tea."
"I will." The boy hesitated before leaving, glancing toward the closed bedroom door. "Do you think I could see Ian? Your friend Gabriel told me that the bulletproof vest he gave me to wear today was Ian's idea, and I wanted to thank him for looking out for me."
"I don't know about that, Joey," she told him. "He's running a very high fever and is in a lot of pain. Tell you what, while you're getting the groceries, I'll ask him if he feels up to a brief visit."
"Okay. I'll be back in a couple of minutes," Joey said. He left.
Sara opened the bedroom door to find Nottingham standing next to the bed, wearing only a pair of black briefs. He'd even removed his ubiquitous black leather gloves.
"You are staring, Sara," he said after nearly a full minute had passed. A blush reddened his already flushed cheeks.
Sara's jaw snapped shut. "Sorry," she muttered, hastily moving to turn down the top sheet on the bed. "Let's get you into bed. I'll throw a couple of blankets on top of you once you're between the sheets."
"I cannot lie flat. It would hurt too much. Could you prop me up with the pillows?" he requested, eyes downcast and face still burning.
"Sure. I spotted one of those reading pillows in the linen closet next to the blankets. I'll just get it," Sara told him. She grabbed the corduroy pillow, a couple of blankets and a down comforter from the closet next to the bathroom.
Groaning, Ian once again sat on the side of the bed as she positioned the pillow against the headboard. Sara froze as she noticed the half-healed welts and cuts that marred the skin of his back above and below the bandage around his ribs, as well as numerous older scars that were unmistakably the result of severe beatings. "Okay, lean back," she murmured, hiding her shock and revulsion with an effort. "I'll help you swing your legs up onto the bed."
"Ow, ow, ow!" he cried softly as his ribs stabbed at him cruelly.
Sara put another pillow behind him to support his head. "Better?"
"No. I am really hurting, Sara," he moaned, his face twisting with pain as the muscles in the area of his fractured collarbone started to spasm viciously. The pain block had failed with excruciating consequences.
"I know, I know. I promise to take the pain away soon," she soothed, brushing tendrils of dark hair away from his frighteningly hot forehead. As before, he turned his face into the coolness of her hand, blindly seeking comfort.
There came the sound of a knock at the front door. "That'll be Joey with some groceries to tide us over for the next few days. He wanted to thank you for lending him that bulletproof vest, Ian, but I'll tell him you're not feeling up to it," she told the suffering man.
"No, no, it is all right. I would like to see him," Ian said, barely catching himself before adding "one last time."
"Okay, but just for a minute. I've gotta make that attempt to heal you, and the sooner the better," Sara said. She went and opened the door, grabbing one of the bags of food from Joey and setting it on the counter of the tiny kitchenette.
"Can I see him?" the teenager asked, unzipping his coat. Beneath it, Sara saw that he wore the bulletproof vest. "I wanted to return this to him, too."
"Yes, but just for a minute, okay?"
Sara decided to wait in the living room, for fear that she might burst into tears again, upsetting her nephew and Ian. As she put away the groceries, she could hear the boy's rather subdued tones and the low rumble of Nottingham's voice in reply, but not what they said to each other. A few minutes later, Joey came out of the bedroom, face somber with concern.
"He's really sick and beat up, hunh?" he whispered, putting his coat back on.
"Yeah, he is," Sara whispered back. She enveloped the lanky youth in a tight hug, sending a devout prayer of thanks to the heavens above -- and to the Witchblade -- that he was still alive.
"Hey, look! It started snowing!" Joey said, when she finally let him go. He looked at his aunt's exhausted face, noticing that her eyes that were red and puffy from crying. "Don't worry, Aunt Sara, Ian is going to be okay. I just know it," he reassured her. "See you both in a couple of days!"
"See you, kiddo," she murmured, as the door closed behind him. "I truly hope you're right." For a few moments, she stood there staring out the window at the white flakes falling rapidly from the sky, and then turned and reentered the bedroom.
More to come! Thanks for your feedback and ongoing encouragement. The end of this, my inaugural Witchblade fanfic, is in sight!