A Family Affair
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. Just borrowing them a while! Enjoy!
Chapter 41.
It was obvious that Ian was in agony, but Sara did not understand why his pain was suddenly so severe. Up until just a few minutes ago, aside from winces and one or two soft groans, he had been remarkably stoic given the seriousness of his injuries. In fact, she had thought it strange that the assassin hadn't displayed more outward signs of discomfort. The dislocated shoulder alone would have laid most men low, yet Nottingham had barely batted an eye when she had popped the joint back in.
"What's going on here?" she murmured to herself. 'Aside from the hellish fever that's killing him,' she added mentally.
"I had been using a pain-blocking technique," Ian responded, voice rough with pain. "But it is only meant to be temporary, so that I can continue to fight or, alternatively, flee. Now that we have found refuge, the block has failed."
"Hmmm. Neat trick," Sara said. "But now payment has come due in a big way, hunh? Well, hopefully, you won't have to suffer much longer. I'm gonna try healing you with the Witchblade now," she told him, tucking one of the blankets she had brought out from the linen closet around his pain- wracked body before spreading the other blanket and the down comforter over him.
Sara sat down on the side of the bed. 'Well, here goes nothing,' she thought, and concentrated on willing the bracelet on her right wrist into gauntlet form. It morphed obediently, covering her hand and forearm in gleaming silver. The Witchblade's softly glowing red "eye" slowly opened, seeming to regard the sick and injured man on the bed with mild interest. Lifting her metal-encased hand, Sara placed it on Nottingham's burning forehead.
At first nothing happened, but then Ian stiffened, crying out, and the Witchblade threw them both into visions.
****
Sara found herself standing in the library of Kenneth Irons' estate in Westchester. In front of her was a structure she had failed to notice during her only previous visit to this room in the billionaire's home -- usually, he granted her an audience in his study. The boxy structure was about six feet by six feet in size and was enshrouded by heavy brocade curtains the same blood-red shade as the Witchblade's stone. Suddenly, some unseen mechanism caused the drapes to be drawn aside, revealing a glass-enclosed chamber. Frost patterned the inside of the glass, sparkling diamond-bright in the light from the fire in the hearth on the other side of the room. Sara gasped as she noticed the figure seated on a velvet chaise lounge that matched the color of the drapes. It was a woman, and she was dressed in a beautiful, emerald-green gown trimmed with ecru lace. But it was her face that had caused Sara's shocked inhalation, for it could have been that of her twin sister if she'd had one. Even her hair was the exact same chestnut hue as Sara's, except it was done up in a style that had been popular in a bygone era. The young woman's green eyes, also virtually identical to her own, were open and staring, her red lips slightly parted, as if she were about to speak or, perhaps, smile. Only her skin tone differed significantly from Sara's. It was a translucent alabaster, giving her the appearance of one of those incredibly lifelike statues found in wax museums. Sara cried out in surprise, stumbling back a few steps, when the woman's head turned toward her.
"I did not mean to frighten you, Wielder," she said, and even her low, husky voice was strikingly similar to her own. "You need never fear me."
"Who, who are you?" Sara stammered.
"I am Elizabeth Bronte," the woman introduced herself, and Sara jumped as she suddenly appeared next to her. She nodded toward the icy crypt. "And those are my earthly remains."
It was then Sara noticed that this Elizabeth Bronte was dressed differently than the corpse seated on the chaise. She wore an impeccably tailored, dove-gray suit that had probably been the height of fashion in the late 1930s/early 1940s. A matching hat sat on her upswept coif, throwing her hauntingly familiar features into shadow. She glanced at Sara and smiled warmly, her lips the dark red color that the goddesses of the silver screen had made popular during that same era. "I, too, was a Wielder. The last before you," she told her.
"So, that makes you, what, my grandmother?" Sara asked slowly. Up close, the resemblance between them was even more uncanny, and she felt a chill run up and down her spine.
"Something like that. We are of the same bloodline," Elizabeth Bronte said. Turning gracefully, she strolled over to the fire, holding white-gloved hands out to the flames.
Sara blinked as she saw her thrust her hands into the flames without any apparent ill effect. After several moments, she straightened, sighing, and turned to regard Sara again. "You are at a crossroads, Wielder, as is your Protector."
"I'm trying to heal him with the Witchblade," Sara told her. "Please tell me it's working!"
Elizabeth Bronte shook her head. "No. I am afraid your attempt, although noble, will fail. He will die."
"NO!" Sara shouted. "I refuse to believe that! I can't lose him! Not now. I need him. We need him!" she pleaded, holding up the bracelet, whose dark-red stone was glowing feebly.
"He will die," Elizabeth repeated, "unless he finds the will to live. And that is something only he can discover within himself."
Sara threw up her hands in frustration. "But he's my Protector! You said it yourself. Why won't the Witchblade heal him?" she asked her doppelganger.
"Because although what was done to him was undeniably evil, it was not done to him while he was protecting you. Only injuries the Protector receives in defense of the Wielder are capable of being healed by the Witchblade," Elizabeth told her.
"Oh. I guess I forgot to read the fine print," Sara mumbled. Despair filled her as she realized that she was helpless to save Nottingham. "So, what you're telling me is that he's going to die," she whispered, tears filling her eyes.
"Yes, unless he finds the will to live," Elizabeth repeated. "And if, by some chance, the Protector chooses life, he has an even more difficult task ahead of him. He must find the strength to do something I myself was unable to: Free himself from Kenneth Irons' grasp."
Suddenly, the white-haired billionaire materialized in front of Elizabeth Bronte's icy crypt -- right next to Sara. She flinched away from him in fear and revulsion, but he didn't seem to notice her as he gazed adoringly at the painstakingly preserved body of the last Wielder of the Witchblade.
"He was in love with you!" Sara was astonished to realize.
Elizabeth came to stand beside the oblivious Kenneth Irons, and a look of profound sadness crossed her lovely features as she studied his face.
"Yes," she murmured, "but it was a dark, obsessive love. What he really lusted after was the Witchblade and the power It bestows upon Its Wielder. He covets that power and will go to any lengths to possess it. I did not discover this until it was too late." She sighed, turning her back on her former lover and walking over to the hearth again. "But that is a story for another day. Now, you must listen very carefully to me if you want your Protector to survive. Do you truly want this and all that it entails, Wielder?"
"Yes," Sara answered without hesitation, joining her by the fire. It was only then that she realized she could neither feel the warmth of the flames nor hear their crackling roar. She remembered the other woman's trick with her hands, but could not bring herself to try it.
"As his title implies, your Protector's duty is to protect you, the Wielder, from your foes. It was what he was born to do. But you, in turn, are responsible for his wellbeing. If you continue to deny your destiny and refuse to learn how to expertly wield the Witchblade in all of Its many forms, you are doomed to the same fate as me, Sara Pezzini. If you die, your Protector will die, too. It is a heavy burden, I know. My own Protector was killed because of my folly, and without him to protect me, I did not outlive him very long," Elizabeth Bronte told her sadly.
"He's in love with me," Sara murmured. "What do I do about that little complication?"
Elizabeth smiled, green eyes sparkling with amusement. "What your heart tells you to do." She glanced toward Kenneth Irons who was still staring at her frozen corpse, and her smile slipped. Sara was stunned to see that there were tears on the billionaire's pale cheeks. Against her will, the sight elicited a pang of pity from her.
"You are right: he is undeserving of your pity," Elizabeth said coldly. "He is your enemy, Wielder. Never forget that. He would destroy you in a heartbeat to regain control of the Witchblade. And he holds sway over your Protector. You must do everything in your power to free him of the Iron Man's control. Only then can he serve you in the manner he was born to."
"But how can I help him do that? He thinks of him as his father, even though the twisted bastard treats him like a dog. And beats him like one, too. He beats him!" Sara said, feeling rage fill her at the memory of the fresh cuts and old scars she had discovered on Ian Nottingham's back just a short while ago.
Elizabeth nodded. "Yes, he is a cruel master. He always has been, even when he was still capable of love," she murmured, her gaze drifting back to Irons. "I cannot lie to you: Should your Protector choose life, which remains to be seen, it will not be easy for him to win his freedom from Kenneth Irons, Sara. His ability to inspire mindless loyalty and devotion despite his cruelty is legendary. He could have changed the course of history had he chosen to use this power for good instead of evil. Perhaps no one knows that better than me," she said, bitterness coating her words. Green eyes so eerily like her own met Sara's once again. "As for how you can help your Protector win his freedom, Sara, it is really rather simple: Never stop believing in him. Irons very nearly succeeded in turning him into a creature of darkness like himself, and despite Ian's basic decency, he eventually would have.
"But then the Witchblade chose you as Its next Wielder, and your Protector awoke as if from a bad dream. Your morality and honesty drew him like a moth to flame. To him, you are this shining light that can lead him out of the shadows forever. But it is your steadfast faith in him that just might make all the difference in whether or not he succeeds in this, the most difficult and important battle he has ever fought in his brief, unhappy existence. Teach him joy and laughter, Sara, something his life has been sadly lacking up until now. Your compassion and capacity for love is boundless, Wielder. That is why Kenneth Irons so badly wants to take the Witchblade from you. You care nothing for the power It gives you, and he cannot fathom this. He also knows that once Ian Nottingham discovers what true friendship and love are like, he will lose him forever. You were correct when you told your Protector that with him by your side, you could be nearly invincible. But he must be whole in spirit and in mind in order for this to come to pass. He must break the chains that bind him to the Iron Man."
"So, basically, what you're saying is all I have to do is give Nottingham some heartfelt nooky, and he'll leave Irons and be mine forever?" Sara asked, face reddening. "Honestly, do I even have a say in this? The way the Witchblade keeps egging me on, it sure doesn't feel like it."
Elizabeth Bronte smiled. "You must do what your heart tells you to do, Sara," she said again. "But choose wisely. Your life, and that of your Protector, depends on it." She approached Kenneth Irons again where he still stood gazing at her in her icy crypt. "Good luck to you and your Protector, Wielder."
"Wait! Will I see you again?" Sara asked her. "In another vision, I mean, not all dead and frozen," she clarified.
"If the Witchblade wills it and you have need of guidance, yes, you shall. Me or others like me."
"You mean other past Wielders?"
"Past and future. Time flows both ways," she said, her voice and image slowly beginning to fade away. "Remember, trust in your instincts, Sara Pezzini, and follow your heart." Sara could see through her slender figure now. Just before she disappeared entirely, Elizabeth Bronte leaned close to Kenneth Irons and whispered something in his ear, her ethereal hand rising to caress his tear-streaked face. Then she was gone.
Sara felt the familiar sensation of the vision beginning to release her, but not before she saw the white-haired billionaire flinch, then glance wildly around the empty room, before raising a trembling hand to touch his cheek.
****
Ian Nottingham stood on a battlefield, dressed entirely in armor. A ferocious battle raged all around him, and the dead and the dying lay at his blood-spattered feet. In his right hand, he held a double-edged broadsword whose gleaming silver blade was intricately etched with runes. He was stunned to see that the hilt of the sword was virtually indistinguishable from the elaborate gauntlet that covered his hand, and that the armor encasing his hand and arm seamlessly flowed together. A large blue stone, which glowed from within with a hypnotic pulsing light, was set in the gauntlet. With a jolt, Ian realized that he wielded Excalibur, the legendary blade of the First Protector.
Abruptly, an attacker came at him. Ian parried his opponent's sword thrust almost without thought. Their blades met with a sharp ringing sound, and through the slit in his visor, Ian saw the other knight's eyes widen in shock as his sword's blade shattered into several pieces. Excalibur's shining length sang a deadly song as it cut through the frosty air, parting the other man's armor as if it were paper and piercing his chest. He fell, mortally wounded, his heart's blood coloring the lines of the runes red, making them writhe and crawl. The stone in the gauntlet absorbed the color, turning the same dark red as the Witchblade's stone for an instant before changing back to blue. What felt like a mild electric shock went through Ian, and the colors, smells, sounds, and sights of the battlefield intensified. 'Well met, my love,' a voice said in his head, and his gaze was drawn to a nearby hilltop, where an armor-clad woman sat upon a coal-black charger. She raised her right hand in salute, and he saw that she wielded a very familiar broadsword. 'The foe you just defeated was my enemy's best swordsman. Soon, the rest of them will scatter before us like chaff in the wind,' she exulted, and he clearly sensed her satisfaction.
"Behold the last of your kind to wield Excalibur, Protector," another feminine voice said, and abruptly it was as though Ian were hovering above the battlefield, watching the man whose body he'd inhabited only moments before engage another opponent in battle. The voice seemed to echo inside his skull, or perhaps it was a trio of voices, those of an old crone, a young woman, and a girl child.
"He was a True Protector, the only kind permitted to wield Excalibur, which made him nearly invincible on the battlefield. You, on the other hand, have been judged and found wanting," the voices hissed. "Because of your weakness, the current Wielder will not survive much longer, and We will be forced to find another True Wielder, which could take decades. The bloodline is thin, and We had foolishly counted on you to safeguard the Bladewielder long enough for her to strengthen and extend it."
"But I am not dead yet," Ian protested. "Am I?"
Mocking laughter echoed through his fevered brain.
"It no longer matters, Protector," the voices spat the title derisively. "Without you to guard her, this Wielder will not live long enough to carry on the pure bloodline. Perhaps, in the next lifetime, you will be strong enough to fulfill your duty to her and to Us, guaranteeing that the line survives for another generation. Now death is your only certainty in this life, and soon. But that is what you secretly long for, is it not? An end to your miserable existence?"
"No!" Ian denied. "I do not want to die. I want to live. For her. She needs me. I am her Protector!"
"It is not enough to want to live for her. You must also want to live for you. It is the only way you can win your freedom from the Iron Man. And to truly serve Us and Our Wielder, you must be free. Are you strong enough for that, Protector?"
"Yes," he answered without hesitation. "I am strong enough."
"Prove it," the voices said, growing fainter. "Prove to Us that you are worthy to be called the Bladewielder's Protector."
"How?" Ian asked desperately, feeling the vision start to release him. "How can I prove it to you?"
"By living," the voices whispered. "By living."
****
Sara blinked, the disorientation that typically followed one of the Witchblade's visions much less severe than usual. Ian Nottingham moaned, and she quickly removed her gauntleted hand from his dry, extremely hot forehead.
"It did not work," he breathed, opening glassy, pain-darkened eyes.
"No, it didn't," Sara said softly, as the Witchblade returned to bracelet form. "I'm so sorry, Ian."
"It is all right, my Lady," he told her. "It was worth a try."
"Ian," Sara hesitated, reluctant to admit defeat. "There's still time to get the antidote from Irons," she finally said.
He started shaking his head even before she finished speaking. "No. After I received it, he would order me to be taken back to the estate -- by force, if necessary. It is too dangerous. You or your family could be killed."
"I'm not so easy to kill," she murmured, "but, unfortunately, you're right about my family being in harm's way."
"Besides," Ian sighed, "I have made my choice."
Sara gazed at him uneasily, remembering what Elizabeth Bronte had told her in the vision about his only chance for survival. She got the distinct feeling that he hadn't chosen life. Getting to her feet, she started pacing at the foot of the bed. "I can't just let you die, Ian. There must be something I can do," she muttered. A thought struck her. "This poison you were injected with, did Dr. Immo say it would definitely be fatal if you didn't receive the antidote?"
Nottingham did not answer right away and she glanced sharply at him, thinking he might have passed out. But she saw that his eyes were open, although he was staring off into space as if deep in thought -- or trapped in a fever-induced hallucination.
"Every cloud has a silver lining," he said slowly.
"Excuse me?" she said, terrified that he had finally lost his hold on reality.
"That is what Dr. Immo said to me right after he injected me with the toxin," Ian murmured, frowning. There was a maddening tickle at the back of his mind, and he struggled to figure out what his subconscious was trying to tell him, but the roar of the fever made it nearly impossible for him to concentrate. To make matters worse, his chills had returned, worsening the already severe pain of his ribs and shoulder.
"You didn't answer my question," Sara said, dismayed to notice that he'd begun shivering again.
With an effort, he focused on her. "He said the poison would k-kill me if I d-did not receive the antidote." He licked dry lips. "I am thirsty, S-Sara. Could you please m-make me some peppermint t-tea?" he asked her.
"Sure," Sara said, realizing that he was trying to spare her the pain of watching him suffer. "But that will take a while. How about a glass of water in the meantime?"
He shook his head. "There is s-some tea left in the th-thermos in the c-car. It will have b-become c-cold by now, but I d-do not m-mind."
"I'll go get it. Be right back," she said, barely holding back tears.
Feeling cowardly for taking the out he had offered, she put on her down jacket, hat, and scarf before grabbing the car keys and the keys to the garage off the countertop. Outside, the snow was coming down heavily, and the ground was already liberally coated with white. The stairs were treacherous but Sara flew down them with reckless haste. Her tears made it difficult to see the lock on the garage door and her bare fingers quickly became clumsy with cold, but finally she got the door open. The SUV's engine was still making the ticking sounds that car engines make as they cool down. Disarming the alarm, Sara opened the passenger-side door, flinching as she noticed that the seat was stained with Nottingham's blood. Without warning, her body began to convulse with great, gasping sobs, and she sagged against the car. Several minutes passed before she managed to regain control of herself, and she knew that it would be obvious that she'd been crying. But there was nothing for it. She got what she had come for, locked up the car and the garage, and wearily trudged through the snow and back up the stairs.
As soon as the door to the apartment had closed behind Sara, Ian Nottingham had given vent to a cry of pain. His battered body's inflamed nerve-endings were punishing him mercilessly and he felt so very, very cold, colder even than when he'd been submerged in the ice-water baths earlier that day. He didn't realize Sara had returned until he heard her say "Oh God," in a heartbroken little voice, and opened his eyes to see her standing at the foot of the bed holding a mug of the tea he had requested.
"S-so c-cold," he muttered through chattering teeth.
"I'll get you another blanket," she said, setting the mug down on the night table, and his heart contracted as he saw how red and puffy her eyes were in her pale, exhausted face.
Sara found another down comforter and a third thermal cotton blanket in the linen closet, both of which she threw over the trembling man. He was moaning softly, and the sound tore at her heart. She was pretty sure he wasn't even conscious that he was doing it. She stood there next to the bed, watching him inch closer to death with every passing minute, helpless to save him or to ease his suffering.
Ian drifted into a semiconscious stupor. Bizarre images began to flash through his overheated brain, and he realized that he was dangerously close to becoming delirious. One image in particular kept resurfacing: clouds rolling across a scintillating blue sky. With the last shreds of his sanity, he struggled to remember where he'd seen it before. Abruptly, words began to scroll across the image. 'Every cloud has a silver lining,' they said. As he watched, the word "lining" floated up and away from the others, growing larger and larger, and suddenly he remembered where he had seen the image before.
"Sara," he whispered, unable to summon the strength to open his eyes.
"Yes?" she said instantly, gently placing a blessedly cool hand on his forehead. True to her word, she had refused to leave his side, even though it must have been apparent that the end was near for him.
"My coat," he said. It took an enormous effort to form coherent words, and he could feel lucidity inexorably slipping away.
"What about it?" she asked, glancing toward the chair where she'd flung his overcoat earlier, noticing that Joey had placed the bulletproof vest on top of it.
"Antidote," he breathed, "in . . . lining."
"What?" she frowned in confusion. 'Oh God,' she thought, 'it's happened: He's delirious.'
"Immo put . . . antidote . . . in . . . lining," Ian forced out. "Look there."
Sara's eyes burned as she reached over and picked up his torn and dirty overcoat, but no tears came. She had cried herself dry. "Okay, Ian, I'm looking." Dutifully, she ran the bottom of the coat through her hand. "There's nothing there," she whispered sadly, then froze as her fingers brushed against an object in the very corner of the garment. "Wait a sec, I found something."
Hope blossomed in her heart, and she held her breath as she turned on the lamp that sat on the night table and examined the lining of Ian's overcoat more closely. It took nearly a minute for her to find the small slit in the satin material. It was about six inches above the hem and looked like it had been deliberately made, perhaps with a scalpel, the edges were so clean. Sara started to work the narrow, cylindrical object toward the tiny hole, then, rolling her eyes at her own stupidity, she ripped at the tear, making it much larger.
"It's a loaded syringe," she exhaled, holding it up for him to see. But his eyes remained closed.
"Inject me . . . with it," he told her.
"But how can you be sure it's the antidote, Ian?" she protested.
"Inject . . . me," Ian insisted, pulling his right arm from beneath the blankets with a monumental effort. "Have . . . no . . . other . . . choice."
"So true," she muttered. Uncapping the syringe, she flicked it to force any bubbles to the surface, then expelled a minute amount of the liquid along with any air, just as she'd seen doctors and nurses do on TV countless times. Taking a deep breath, she stuck the needle into Nottingham's arm and injected the contents of the syringe into his vein.
"Please work," she prayed. "Don't let it be too late."
The alarm clock on the night table said 11:11 p.m.
More to come. As always, thanks for all of the lovely feedback. We're in the home stretch, folks! Really!
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. Just borrowing them a while! Enjoy!
Chapter 41.
It was obvious that Ian was in agony, but Sara did not understand why his pain was suddenly so severe. Up until just a few minutes ago, aside from winces and one or two soft groans, he had been remarkably stoic given the seriousness of his injuries. In fact, she had thought it strange that the assassin hadn't displayed more outward signs of discomfort. The dislocated shoulder alone would have laid most men low, yet Nottingham had barely batted an eye when she had popped the joint back in.
"What's going on here?" she murmured to herself. 'Aside from the hellish fever that's killing him,' she added mentally.
"I had been using a pain-blocking technique," Ian responded, voice rough with pain. "But it is only meant to be temporary, so that I can continue to fight or, alternatively, flee. Now that we have found refuge, the block has failed."
"Hmmm. Neat trick," Sara said. "But now payment has come due in a big way, hunh? Well, hopefully, you won't have to suffer much longer. I'm gonna try healing you with the Witchblade now," she told him, tucking one of the blankets she had brought out from the linen closet around his pain- wracked body before spreading the other blanket and the down comforter over him.
Sara sat down on the side of the bed. 'Well, here goes nothing,' she thought, and concentrated on willing the bracelet on her right wrist into gauntlet form. It morphed obediently, covering her hand and forearm in gleaming silver. The Witchblade's softly glowing red "eye" slowly opened, seeming to regard the sick and injured man on the bed with mild interest. Lifting her metal-encased hand, Sara placed it on Nottingham's burning forehead.
At first nothing happened, but then Ian stiffened, crying out, and the Witchblade threw them both into visions.
****
Sara found herself standing in the library of Kenneth Irons' estate in Westchester. In front of her was a structure she had failed to notice during her only previous visit to this room in the billionaire's home -- usually, he granted her an audience in his study. The boxy structure was about six feet by six feet in size and was enshrouded by heavy brocade curtains the same blood-red shade as the Witchblade's stone. Suddenly, some unseen mechanism caused the drapes to be drawn aside, revealing a glass-enclosed chamber. Frost patterned the inside of the glass, sparkling diamond-bright in the light from the fire in the hearth on the other side of the room. Sara gasped as she noticed the figure seated on a velvet chaise lounge that matched the color of the drapes. It was a woman, and she was dressed in a beautiful, emerald-green gown trimmed with ecru lace. But it was her face that had caused Sara's shocked inhalation, for it could have been that of her twin sister if she'd had one. Even her hair was the exact same chestnut hue as Sara's, except it was done up in a style that had been popular in a bygone era. The young woman's green eyes, also virtually identical to her own, were open and staring, her red lips slightly parted, as if she were about to speak or, perhaps, smile. Only her skin tone differed significantly from Sara's. It was a translucent alabaster, giving her the appearance of one of those incredibly lifelike statues found in wax museums. Sara cried out in surprise, stumbling back a few steps, when the woman's head turned toward her.
"I did not mean to frighten you, Wielder," she said, and even her low, husky voice was strikingly similar to her own. "You need never fear me."
"Who, who are you?" Sara stammered.
"I am Elizabeth Bronte," the woman introduced herself, and Sara jumped as she suddenly appeared next to her. She nodded toward the icy crypt. "And those are my earthly remains."
It was then Sara noticed that this Elizabeth Bronte was dressed differently than the corpse seated on the chaise. She wore an impeccably tailored, dove-gray suit that had probably been the height of fashion in the late 1930s/early 1940s. A matching hat sat on her upswept coif, throwing her hauntingly familiar features into shadow. She glanced at Sara and smiled warmly, her lips the dark red color that the goddesses of the silver screen had made popular during that same era. "I, too, was a Wielder. The last before you," she told her.
"So, that makes you, what, my grandmother?" Sara asked slowly. Up close, the resemblance between them was even more uncanny, and she felt a chill run up and down her spine.
"Something like that. We are of the same bloodline," Elizabeth Bronte said. Turning gracefully, she strolled over to the fire, holding white-gloved hands out to the flames.
Sara blinked as she saw her thrust her hands into the flames without any apparent ill effect. After several moments, she straightened, sighing, and turned to regard Sara again. "You are at a crossroads, Wielder, as is your Protector."
"I'm trying to heal him with the Witchblade," Sara told her. "Please tell me it's working!"
Elizabeth Bronte shook her head. "No. I am afraid your attempt, although noble, will fail. He will die."
"NO!" Sara shouted. "I refuse to believe that! I can't lose him! Not now. I need him. We need him!" she pleaded, holding up the bracelet, whose dark-red stone was glowing feebly.
"He will die," Elizabeth repeated, "unless he finds the will to live. And that is something only he can discover within himself."
Sara threw up her hands in frustration. "But he's my Protector! You said it yourself. Why won't the Witchblade heal him?" she asked her doppelganger.
"Because although what was done to him was undeniably evil, it was not done to him while he was protecting you. Only injuries the Protector receives in defense of the Wielder are capable of being healed by the Witchblade," Elizabeth told her.
"Oh. I guess I forgot to read the fine print," Sara mumbled. Despair filled her as she realized that she was helpless to save Nottingham. "So, what you're telling me is that he's going to die," she whispered, tears filling her eyes.
"Yes, unless he finds the will to live," Elizabeth repeated. "And if, by some chance, the Protector chooses life, he has an even more difficult task ahead of him. He must find the strength to do something I myself was unable to: Free himself from Kenneth Irons' grasp."
Suddenly, the white-haired billionaire materialized in front of Elizabeth Bronte's icy crypt -- right next to Sara. She flinched away from him in fear and revulsion, but he didn't seem to notice her as he gazed adoringly at the painstakingly preserved body of the last Wielder of the Witchblade.
"He was in love with you!" Sara was astonished to realize.
Elizabeth came to stand beside the oblivious Kenneth Irons, and a look of profound sadness crossed her lovely features as she studied his face.
"Yes," she murmured, "but it was a dark, obsessive love. What he really lusted after was the Witchblade and the power It bestows upon Its Wielder. He covets that power and will go to any lengths to possess it. I did not discover this until it was too late." She sighed, turning her back on her former lover and walking over to the hearth again. "But that is a story for another day. Now, you must listen very carefully to me if you want your Protector to survive. Do you truly want this and all that it entails, Wielder?"
"Yes," Sara answered without hesitation, joining her by the fire. It was only then that she realized she could neither feel the warmth of the flames nor hear their crackling roar. She remembered the other woman's trick with her hands, but could not bring herself to try it.
"As his title implies, your Protector's duty is to protect you, the Wielder, from your foes. It was what he was born to do. But you, in turn, are responsible for his wellbeing. If you continue to deny your destiny and refuse to learn how to expertly wield the Witchblade in all of Its many forms, you are doomed to the same fate as me, Sara Pezzini. If you die, your Protector will die, too. It is a heavy burden, I know. My own Protector was killed because of my folly, and without him to protect me, I did not outlive him very long," Elizabeth Bronte told her sadly.
"He's in love with me," Sara murmured. "What do I do about that little complication?"
Elizabeth smiled, green eyes sparkling with amusement. "What your heart tells you to do." She glanced toward Kenneth Irons who was still staring at her frozen corpse, and her smile slipped. Sara was stunned to see that there were tears on the billionaire's pale cheeks. Against her will, the sight elicited a pang of pity from her.
"You are right: he is undeserving of your pity," Elizabeth said coldly. "He is your enemy, Wielder. Never forget that. He would destroy you in a heartbeat to regain control of the Witchblade. And he holds sway over your Protector. You must do everything in your power to free him of the Iron Man's control. Only then can he serve you in the manner he was born to."
"But how can I help him do that? He thinks of him as his father, even though the twisted bastard treats him like a dog. And beats him like one, too. He beats him!" Sara said, feeling rage fill her at the memory of the fresh cuts and old scars she had discovered on Ian Nottingham's back just a short while ago.
Elizabeth nodded. "Yes, he is a cruel master. He always has been, even when he was still capable of love," she murmured, her gaze drifting back to Irons. "I cannot lie to you: Should your Protector choose life, which remains to be seen, it will not be easy for him to win his freedom from Kenneth Irons, Sara. His ability to inspire mindless loyalty and devotion despite his cruelty is legendary. He could have changed the course of history had he chosen to use this power for good instead of evil. Perhaps no one knows that better than me," she said, bitterness coating her words. Green eyes so eerily like her own met Sara's once again. "As for how you can help your Protector win his freedom, Sara, it is really rather simple: Never stop believing in him. Irons very nearly succeeded in turning him into a creature of darkness like himself, and despite Ian's basic decency, he eventually would have.
"But then the Witchblade chose you as Its next Wielder, and your Protector awoke as if from a bad dream. Your morality and honesty drew him like a moth to flame. To him, you are this shining light that can lead him out of the shadows forever. But it is your steadfast faith in him that just might make all the difference in whether or not he succeeds in this, the most difficult and important battle he has ever fought in his brief, unhappy existence. Teach him joy and laughter, Sara, something his life has been sadly lacking up until now. Your compassion and capacity for love is boundless, Wielder. That is why Kenneth Irons so badly wants to take the Witchblade from you. You care nothing for the power It gives you, and he cannot fathom this. He also knows that once Ian Nottingham discovers what true friendship and love are like, he will lose him forever. You were correct when you told your Protector that with him by your side, you could be nearly invincible. But he must be whole in spirit and in mind in order for this to come to pass. He must break the chains that bind him to the Iron Man."
"So, basically, what you're saying is all I have to do is give Nottingham some heartfelt nooky, and he'll leave Irons and be mine forever?" Sara asked, face reddening. "Honestly, do I even have a say in this? The way the Witchblade keeps egging me on, it sure doesn't feel like it."
Elizabeth Bronte smiled. "You must do what your heart tells you to do, Sara," she said again. "But choose wisely. Your life, and that of your Protector, depends on it." She approached Kenneth Irons again where he still stood gazing at her in her icy crypt. "Good luck to you and your Protector, Wielder."
"Wait! Will I see you again?" Sara asked her. "In another vision, I mean, not all dead and frozen," she clarified.
"If the Witchblade wills it and you have need of guidance, yes, you shall. Me or others like me."
"You mean other past Wielders?"
"Past and future. Time flows both ways," she said, her voice and image slowly beginning to fade away. "Remember, trust in your instincts, Sara Pezzini, and follow your heart." Sara could see through her slender figure now. Just before she disappeared entirely, Elizabeth Bronte leaned close to Kenneth Irons and whispered something in his ear, her ethereal hand rising to caress his tear-streaked face. Then she was gone.
Sara felt the familiar sensation of the vision beginning to release her, but not before she saw the white-haired billionaire flinch, then glance wildly around the empty room, before raising a trembling hand to touch his cheek.
****
Ian Nottingham stood on a battlefield, dressed entirely in armor. A ferocious battle raged all around him, and the dead and the dying lay at his blood-spattered feet. In his right hand, he held a double-edged broadsword whose gleaming silver blade was intricately etched with runes. He was stunned to see that the hilt of the sword was virtually indistinguishable from the elaborate gauntlet that covered his hand, and that the armor encasing his hand and arm seamlessly flowed together. A large blue stone, which glowed from within with a hypnotic pulsing light, was set in the gauntlet. With a jolt, Ian realized that he wielded Excalibur, the legendary blade of the First Protector.
Abruptly, an attacker came at him. Ian parried his opponent's sword thrust almost without thought. Their blades met with a sharp ringing sound, and through the slit in his visor, Ian saw the other knight's eyes widen in shock as his sword's blade shattered into several pieces. Excalibur's shining length sang a deadly song as it cut through the frosty air, parting the other man's armor as if it were paper and piercing his chest. He fell, mortally wounded, his heart's blood coloring the lines of the runes red, making them writhe and crawl. The stone in the gauntlet absorbed the color, turning the same dark red as the Witchblade's stone for an instant before changing back to blue. What felt like a mild electric shock went through Ian, and the colors, smells, sounds, and sights of the battlefield intensified. 'Well met, my love,' a voice said in his head, and his gaze was drawn to a nearby hilltop, where an armor-clad woman sat upon a coal-black charger. She raised her right hand in salute, and he saw that she wielded a very familiar broadsword. 'The foe you just defeated was my enemy's best swordsman. Soon, the rest of them will scatter before us like chaff in the wind,' she exulted, and he clearly sensed her satisfaction.
"Behold the last of your kind to wield Excalibur, Protector," another feminine voice said, and abruptly it was as though Ian were hovering above the battlefield, watching the man whose body he'd inhabited only moments before engage another opponent in battle. The voice seemed to echo inside his skull, or perhaps it was a trio of voices, those of an old crone, a young woman, and a girl child.
"He was a True Protector, the only kind permitted to wield Excalibur, which made him nearly invincible on the battlefield. You, on the other hand, have been judged and found wanting," the voices hissed. "Because of your weakness, the current Wielder will not survive much longer, and We will be forced to find another True Wielder, which could take decades. The bloodline is thin, and We had foolishly counted on you to safeguard the Bladewielder long enough for her to strengthen and extend it."
"But I am not dead yet," Ian protested. "Am I?"
Mocking laughter echoed through his fevered brain.
"It no longer matters, Protector," the voices spat the title derisively. "Without you to guard her, this Wielder will not live long enough to carry on the pure bloodline. Perhaps, in the next lifetime, you will be strong enough to fulfill your duty to her and to Us, guaranteeing that the line survives for another generation. Now death is your only certainty in this life, and soon. But that is what you secretly long for, is it not? An end to your miserable existence?"
"No!" Ian denied. "I do not want to die. I want to live. For her. She needs me. I am her Protector!"
"It is not enough to want to live for her. You must also want to live for you. It is the only way you can win your freedom from the Iron Man. And to truly serve Us and Our Wielder, you must be free. Are you strong enough for that, Protector?"
"Yes," he answered without hesitation. "I am strong enough."
"Prove it," the voices said, growing fainter. "Prove to Us that you are worthy to be called the Bladewielder's Protector."
"How?" Ian asked desperately, feeling the vision start to release him. "How can I prove it to you?"
"By living," the voices whispered. "By living."
****
Sara blinked, the disorientation that typically followed one of the Witchblade's visions much less severe than usual. Ian Nottingham moaned, and she quickly removed her gauntleted hand from his dry, extremely hot forehead.
"It did not work," he breathed, opening glassy, pain-darkened eyes.
"No, it didn't," Sara said softly, as the Witchblade returned to bracelet form. "I'm so sorry, Ian."
"It is all right, my Lady," he told her. "It was worth a try."
"Ian," Sara hesitated, reluctant to admit defeat. "There's still time to get the antidote from Irons," she finally said.
He started shaking his head even before she finished speaking. "No. After I received it, he would order me to be taken back to the estate -- by force, if necessary. It is too dangerous. You or your family could be killed."
"I'm not so easy to kill," she murmured, "but, unfortunately, you're right about my family being in harm's way."
"Besides," Ian sighed, "I have made my choice."
Sara gazed at him uneasily, remembering what Elizabeth Bronte had told her in the vision about his only chance for survival. She got the distinct feeling that he hadn't chosen life. Getting to her feet, she started pacing at the foot of the bed. "I can't just let you die, Ian. There must be something I can do," she muttered. A thought struck her. "This poison you were injected with, did Dr. Immo say it would definitely be fatal if you didn't receive the antidote?"
Nottingham did not answer right away and she glanced sharply at him, thinking he might have passed out. But she saw that his eyes were open, although he was staring off into space as if deep in thought -- or trapped in a fever-induced hallucination.
"Every cloud has a silver lining," he said slowly.
"Excuse me?" she said, terrified that he had finally lost his hold on reality.
"That is what Dr. Immo said to me right after he injected me with the toxin," Ian murmured, frowning. There was a maddening tickle at the back of his mind, and he struggled to figure out what his subconscious was trying to tell him, but the roar of the fever made it nearly impossible for him to concentrate. To make matters worse, his chills had returned, worsening the already severe pain of his ribs and shoulder.
"You didn't answer my question," Sara said, dismayed to notice that he'd begun shivering again.
With an effort, he focused on her. "He said the poison would k-kill me if I d-did not receive the antidote." He licked dry lips. "I am thirsty, S-Sara. Could you please m-make me some peppermint t-tea?" he asked her.
"Sure," Sara said, realizing that he was trying to spare her the pain of watching him suffer. "But that will take a while. How about a glass of water in the meantime?"
He shook his head. "There is s-some tea left in the th-thermos in the c-car. It will have b-become c-cold by now, but I d-do not m-mind."
"I'll go get it. Be right back," she said, barely holding back tears.
Feeling cowardly for taking the out he had offered, she put on her down jacket, hat, and scarf before grabbing the car keys and the keys to the garage off the countertop. Outside, the snow was coming down heavily, and the ground was already liberally coated with white. The stairs were treacherous but Sara flew down them with reckless haste. Her tears made it difficult to see the lock on the garage door and her bare fingers quickly became clumsy with cold, but finally she got the door open. The SUV's engine was still making the ticking sounds that car engines make as they cool down. Disarming the alarm, Sara opened the passenger-side door, flinching as she noticed that the seat was stained with Nottingham's blood. Without warning, her body began to convulse with great, gasping sobs, and she sagged against the car. Several minutes passed before she managed to regain control of herself, and she knew that it would be obvious that she'd been crying. But there was nothing for it. She got what she had come for, locked up the car and the garage, and wearily trudged through the snow and back up the stairs.
As soon as the door to the apartment had closed behind Sara, Ian Nottingham had given vent to a cry of pain. His battered body's inflamed nerve-endings were punishing him mercilessly and he felt so very, very cold, colder even than when he'd been submerged in the ice-water baths earlier that day. He didn't realize Sara had returned until he heard her say "Oh God," in a heartbroken little voice, and opened his eyes to see her standing at the foot of the bed holding a mug of the tea he had requested.
"S-so c-cold," he muttered through chattering teeth.
"I'll get you another blanket," she said, setting the mug down on the night table, and his heart contracted as he saw how red and puffy her eyes were in her pale, exhausted face.
Sara found another down comforter and a third thermal cotton blanket in the linen closet, both of which she threw over the trembling man. He was moaning softly, and the sound tore at her heart. She was pretty sure he wasn't even conscious that he was doing it. She stood there next to the bed, watching him inch closer to death with every passing minute, helpless to save him or to ease his suffering.
Ian drifted into a semiconscious stupor. Bizarre images began to flash through his overheated brain, and he realized that he was dangerously close to becoming delirious. One image in particular kept resurfacing: clouds rolling across a scintillating blue sky. With the last shreds of his sanity, he struggled to remember where he'd seen it before. Abruptly, words began to scroll across the image. 'Every cloud has a silver lining,' they said. As he watched, the word "lining" floated up and away from the others, growing larger and larger, and suddenly he remembered where he had seen the image before.
"Sara," he whispered, unable to summon the strength to open his eyes.
"Yes?" she said instantly, gently placing a blessedly cool hand on his forehead. True to her word, she had refused to leave his side, even though it must have been apparent that the end was near for him.
"My coat," he said. It took an enormous effort to form coherent words, and he could feel lucidity inexorably slipping away.
"What about it?" she asked, glancing toward the chair where she'd flung his overcoat earlier, noticing that Joey had placed the bulletproof vest on top of it.
"Antidote," he breathed, "in . . . lining."
"What?" she frowned in confusion. 'Oh God,' she thought, 'it's happened: He's delirious.'
"Immo put . . . antidote . . . in . . . lining," Ian forced out. "Look there."
Sara's eyes burned as she reached over and picked up his torn and dirty overcoat, but no tears came. She had cried herself dry. "Okay, Ian, I'm looking." Dutifully, she ran the bottom of the coat through her hand. "There's nothing there," she whispered sadly, then froze as her fingers brushed against an object in the very corner of the garment. "Wait a sec, I found something."
Hope blossomed in her heart, and she held her breath as she turned on the lamp that sat on the night table and examined the lining of Ian's overcoat more closely. It took nearly a minute for her to find the small slit in the satin material. It was about six inches above the hem and looked like it had been deliberately made, perhaps with a scalpel, the edges were so clean. Sara started to work the narrow, cylindrical object toward the tiny hole, then, rolling her eyes at her own stupidity, she ripped at the tear, making it much larger.
"It's a loaded syringe," she exhaled, holding it up for him to see. But his eyes remained closed.
"Inject me . . . with it," he told her.
"But how can you be sure it's the antidote, Ian?" she protested.
"Inject . . . me," Ian insisted, pulling his right arm from beneath the blankets with a monumental effort. "Have . . . no . . . other . . . choice."
"So true," she muttered. Uncapping the syringe, she flicked it to force any bubbles to the surface, then expelled a minute amount of the liquid along with any air, just as she'd seen doctors and nurses do on TV countless times. Taking a deep breath, she stuck the needle into Nottingham's arm and injected the contents of the syringe into his vein.
"Please work," she prayed. "Don't let it be too late."
The alarm clock on the night table said 11:11 p.m.
More to come. As always, thanks for all of the lovely feedback. We're in the home stretch, folks! Really!