Disclaimer: Same as the previous chapters. Enjoy!
Chapter 66.
No one knows what it's like
To be the sad man
To be the bad man
Behind blue eyes
No one knows what it's like
To be hated
To be fated
To telling only lies
But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be
I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free
From "Behind Blue Eyes" by Pete Townshend
Kenneth Irons sat in his darkened study, staring sightlessly into the roaring fire. He was his hale, hearty, and blessedly youthful self again, thanks to a minute infusion of the current Wielder's blood. He was also fit to be tied. How could Ian have done this to him? He'd given the boy everything: an unparalleled education, fine clothing, food, and lodging, and the best martial arts and military training money could buy. But the traitorous assassin had abandoned him to be with that bitch Sara Pezzini. She had well and truly ensorcelled him, and Kenneth was forced to admit that now that Ian had tasted the heretofore forbidden pleasures of the flesh, there was no going back. He'd made the egregious error of believing that Sara would never see Ian as a man, much less as a prospective mate. Yet, inconceivably, she had.
Courtesy of the cursed link he shared with the tart, Kenneth all too clearly sensed the intense pleasure she found in Ian Nottingham's embrace time and time again. In fact, he'd barely had time to revel in his miraculously swift recovery before sensing the apparently insatiable Wielder's passion flare again. Luckily, nobody had been around to witness his extreme discomfiture. The episode had been blessedly short in duration but no less passionate for its brevity, and had left his body bowstring tight with unrelieved sexual tension. That it was Ian who was gratifying Sara -- and was doubtlessly receiving gratification in turn -- only added insult to injury. But short of drinking himself into a stupor -- something Dr. Immo had strictly forbidden him to do following his recent near-death experience -- Kenneth was helpless to block out the second-hand sensations. Nor did he have a convenient outlet for his frustration. First, his rapidly deteriorating health had prevented him from seeking succor from any of his usual bedmates. Then, after he had recovered, the dire weather forecast and already treacherous roads had prevented any of them from traveling to the estate. Yet as punishing as the unrewarding libidinous stimulus was, even worse was the heightened level of anxiety he'd sensed from Sara shortly after sitting down for his evening meal. It had lasted only briefly, but the intensity of the emotion had tied his stomach in knots, ruining his appetite. With a disgusted sigh, he'd pushed away the untouched food and retreated to his study to sulk in private.
So sunk in brooding introspection was he, that Kenneth almost failed to notice the tiny displacement of air that signaled the intrusion of someone into his inner sanctum. He was on the point of snapping at whoever it was for their presumption when he suddenly realized that the infinitesimal breeze had come from the opposite direction of the study's entrance, meaning the intruder had entered the room by a secret passageway, the existence of which was known only to himself and one other person.
"So, the prodigal son returns," Kenneth murmured, now realizing what had caused the Wielder's acute distress: Her Protector had abandoned her to return to his rightful master. He was stunned by the rush of happiness that abruptly filled him at this unexpected development.
"Yes, father."
"You don't seem surprised to find me restored, Ian."
"No, sir."
"Obviously, you surmised that Dr. Immo could prepare a treatment from the scant few blood cells that Sara so carelessly left behind."
"I had hoped so." Ian came around into Kenneth's field of vision for the first time. "I am glad to see that I was right."
"And what if you had been wrong, eh? Would this have been a farewell visit?" Kenneth said, his sharp eyes taking in the younger man's appearance and instantly noting the lack of submissiveness in his posture. "Or do I dare hope that you've come to your senses and brought me the Witchblade?"
"I have indeed come to my senses, father," Ian agreed. "As for the Witchblade, It remains where It belongs. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of me."
"Your place is at my side, Ian!" Kenneth hissed, jumping to his feet.
"Not anymore."
Pale blue eyes clashed with unflinching hazel eyes.
To his everlasting shame, Kenneth was the first to look away. "Pah!" Waving a dismissive hand, he retook his seat. "These are the rantings of a willful child who has tasted both freedom and a deceitful woman's charms for the first time."
"I am not a child, father," Ian dared to contradict him. "And Sara has been nothing but honest with me from the moment I met her, which, incidentally, is also when I gave her my heart and, indeed, my very soul. I am in love with her. We belong together."
"Love!" Kenneth spat scornfully. "What do you know of love, Ian? She is a True Wielder. You perhaps better than anyone should know that love and happiness are not in her destiny. They rarely are where the Witchblade is concerned." Involuntarily, his gaze went to the alcove that housed the enclosure where his beloved Elizabeth Bronte reclined in frozen splendor on her chaise lounge.
"Rarely, yes," Ian was forced to admit, "but it is not unheard of." He made a pleading gesture with his gloved hands. "I love her, father, and I will do everything in my power to make her happy -- even turn my back on you."
"You've already made that abundantly clear," Kenneth snapped, hating how peevish his voice sounded even to his own ears.
"Please do not force me to choose between you and Sara, father. You would lose."
"What are you proposing? That I conscience this union simply because you wish it? Tell me something, Ian: Has Sara told you that she loves you in return?"
A look of such unmitigated joy passed over the younger man's features, that Kenneth shockingly found himself actually feeling glad for his son.
"Yes, she has," he said softly. "And I believe her."
Kenneth's brief feeling of goodwill evaporated. "Of course you do." He shook his head sadly. "You are so very gullible, Ian, and heartbreakingly innocent. Despite what you might think, I was only looking out for your best interests when I drilled into you that isolation is safety and virginity is invulnerability."
"Yes, while feeling free to indulge in your own pleasures whenever the mood struck you," Ian pointed out. "I could not have asked for a better role model."
Kenneth could not help but smile at his sarcasm. "Well, I never did believe in practicing what I preach," he sniffed. "But I would have been remiss in my duties as a father and as a mentor if I hadn't warned you about the dangers of the flesh. You fancy yourself in love, Ian, but you don't realize what you've let yourself in for. Do you really think you can satisfy Sara, or that she'll be content with you as her only lover for the rest of her days? Mark my words, Ian: the Wielder will use you up and then discard you when she tires of you."
"I am her Protector. She will never abandon me, just as I shall never abandon her. And although I will admit I am as yet far from an expert in such matters, I seem to be extremely capable of satisfying her, as I am sure you are well aware." For a split second, his gaze flicked to the raised scar on the back of his father's right hand before defiantly meeting his eyes again.
Ian's smug tone and newfound confidence caused Kenneth's blood pressure to shoot up, so much so, his head started pounding. With a mighty effort, he managed to unclench his fists and relax his jaw long enough to get his next words out. "Your insolence is unbecoming, Ian. If you are trying to curry favor with me, this is not the way to go about it," he snarled.
"My apologies, father. My intent was not to antagonize you," Ian lied.
Kenneth heaved an aggrieved sigh. "I made you what you are, Ian, perhaps the most feared assassin in the world. Without my patronage, you wouldn't even have the clothes on your back, much less the training that allows you to keep your precious Wielder safe. What's more, Sara barely makes enough money on her detective's salary to support herself, much less the two of you. Think very carefully before you walk out on me."
"Yes, it is true that your wealth has enabled me to travel the world, to go places and to experience things most people will never have the opportunity to visit or do," Ian admitted slowly. "Yes, I am indebted to you for instilling in me an abiding love of knowledge, history, and art. And, yes, I have you to thank for making me an extremely efficient warrior, the better to do my duty, which is first and foremost to protect the Wielder. For that, you have my undying gratitude. But you have never seen fit to give me the one thing I have always desired from you, the one thing all the money in the world cannot buy, but should have been given freely."
"And what is that, Ian?" Kenneth asked, a look of utter boredom on his face as he examined the fingernails of his right hand.
"Your love," he replied quietly. "If, as you say, I walk out on you, I may no longer have your vast wealth and all that comes with it at my disposal, but I will have something you will never have: Sara's love. And that makes me a far richer man than you will ever be."
Kenneth smirked derisively. "How touching. And how predictably naïve. Love will not put food on the table or keep a roof over your head, Ian. How long would it be before Sara began to resent the burden that you'd quickly become, hmm?"
"We would figure something out," Ian said staunchly. "I could get a job."
"Doing what, pray tell?"
"Security work."
"Oh, and who would protect the Wielder while you toiled away at your minimum wage security guard job?"
Ian remained silent.
"You see, my dear boy, real life is a great deal more complicated than you realize. You are wholly unprepared to deal with the workaday world."
"And whose fault is that?" Ian queried bitterly. "I have spent my entire adult life putting your needs before my own, father. For years, I have unswervingly defended you from your enemies without a thought for my own safety. Yes, you provided a roof over my head and the clothes on my back, but my needs and desires never once crossed your mind. Well, the time has come for you to realize that I am more than just your bodyguard and henchman. I am your son. Does that truly count for nothing?"
"I could ask the same thing of you. For all you knew, the blood cells on that lancet might not have been enough to rejuvenate me, yet you left me to my fate without so much as a by-your-leave," Kenneth retorted, voice rising in anger. "Tell me, was that the act of a loving son?"
Ian had the grace to look ashamed. "Dr. Immo assured me that you were in no immediate danger of dying," he murmured. "And did you not hear me tell Sara that I would not stop trying to persuade her to change her mind about giving you her blood?"
"I believe your exact words were 'I will not stop appealing for his life until you change your mind or I learn of his death,'" Kenneth quoted testily.
"Then you will also recall that I begged her to reconsider her decision to deny you her blood. Had our positions been reversed, I find it very hard to believe that you would have begged for my life, father. As a matter of fact, that toxin you ordered Dr. Immo to inject me with very nearly cost me my life. It was a miracle that I survived," Ian reminded him. "Sara saw how close I came to dying because of you. Perhaps that is why she is so reluctant to show you any mercy."
"There were no miracles involved, Ian, and you know it," Kenneth said dismissively, and for a moment, Ian was afraid that he'd somehow discovered Dr. Immo's subterfuge with the antidote. But then he continued speaking. "The genetic enhancements you underwent -- at no small cost to Vorschlag Industries, mind you -- are to thank for your survival."
"Yet another way you demonstrated your peerless paternal instincts," Ian interjected scathingly, "by subjecting your young son to excruciatingly painful experimental procedures."
"Such gratitude," Kenneth sighed, shaking his head. "You are stronger, faster, and smarter than practically every other human being on earth, Ian. In fact, you're virtually indestructible. You recovered in mere days from an illness and injuries that would have put most men out of commission for weeks, if not permanently. The Wielder could not want for a better Protector. You should be thanking me instead of petulantly complaining about what was done to you as a child."
"You do not want my gratitude, father, nor, apparently, my love," Ian replied sadly. "You want my unswerving devotion and obedience. You cannot tolerate the fact that my allegiance has shifted to the Wielder, even though protecting her is my birthright. I came here tonight to begin the process of winning my freedom from you. Every minute I am apart from Sara is like an eternity, and I will do everything in my power to return to her side, even if it means walking out of here tonight into a raging blizzard without even the clothes on my back. I now realize that it was foolish of me to hope that you could understand how I feel about Sara because you, too, once loved a Wielder." He turned his head and looked toward Elizabeth's icy, see-through mausoleum.
"Don't you dare compare this childish infatuation to what I felt for Elizabeth!" Kenneth thundered, jumping to his feet again. In a blind fury, he snatched up his silver-handled cane, intending to strike Ian with it. But in a blur of movement it was ripped it from his hand before he could even raise it to shoulder level.
"No," Ian said, tossing the cane across the room, "you must never again raise a hand against me. My bond with Sara would instantly let her know that you beat me, and then you would never get another drop of her blood."
"Ah." With a gargantuan effort, Kenneth regained his composure. "There it is: Your trump card, as it were."
"This is not a game, father," Ian said, making an impatient slashing gesture with one gloved hand. "This is your life we are talking about."
"Indeed." Kenneth moved closer to the fire, briefly holding his hands out to the flames before rubbing the raised scar on the back of the right one. It itched and throbbed with Sara's simmering anxiety at being separated from her Protector/lover.
"You will probably consider this a deplorable weakness, but I cannot just stop caring about you, father," Ian said softly. "You were my entire world for far, far too long for me to be able to do that."
A brief silence fell between them, during which Kenneth struggled to overcome an alarming impulse to give his son a comforting hug. He blamed this moment of insanity on the younger man's forlorn expression and damnably expressive eyes. As a young child, that particular look had often earned Ian a reprieve from punishment for various minor infractions. But he had long since learned to hide his emotions behind subserviently downcast eyes and an expressionless mask for fear of appearing weak in his father's eyes. Now, however, apparently all gloves were off. For someone who prided themselves on being a heartless bastard as Kenneth Irons did, it was galling that this kind of blatant emotional manipulation should affect him to this degree. For a moment, he wondered if he was still suffering from the lingering after-affects of his brush with death. How else to explain this uncharacteristic emotionalism?
"I have given much thought to the proposal Sara laid out for me before she suffered a change of heart and consigned me to death," Kenneth finally admitted with obvious reluctance.
"Given time, I am certain I can persuade her to reconsider. Just give me the chance and I will prove it to you," Ian said earnestly.
"And all you ask in return is that I leave the two of you alone, is that it?"
"Yes."
"But what if you don't succeed in persuading her to change her mind?" Kenneth turned to look at him, watching his face closely. "What then? Dr. Immo says the effects of the latest treatment might begin to wear off soon, which means I will need another infusion, perhaps in as little as two weeks."
"Fine. Give me two weeks to change her mind," Ian responded instantly. "I am positive I can do it so long as you in turn give us your promise that you will stop interfering in our lives, as well as those of Sara's friends and family."
"Sara's friends and family," Kenneth murmured silkily, his inference impossible to miss. "You would do well to remember that I am the only family you have, Ian. Do you honestly think you can ever truly be a part of her world? She is a police officer, as are her closest friends and confidantes. You, on the other hand, are a professional assassin. How do you think her fellow officers will react when they discover the truth about you?"
"We will cross that bridge when we come to it," Ian said after several moments, injecting just the right amount of uncertainty into his tone.
"Do you want to know what I think will happen, Ian?" Kenneth went on smoothly. "I think Sara will abandon you when her friends and colleagues ostracize her for taking up with someone like you. She will come to hate you for who you are, and I seriously doubt that you'll be able handle her eventual rejection. I think it would destroy you. Please believe me when I say I would rather spare you that fate."
"And please forgive me for being skeptical about your motives, father -- especially since you nearly did succeed in destroying me, first by arranging for me to be ambushed by your enemies and then, for good measure, by poisoning me," Ian murmured, his uncharacteristically direct gaze hardening. But then he shrugged unconcernedly. "Besides, Sara already knows who I am, yet she still fell in love with me. We know that making our relationship work will not be easy, but we genuinely love and trust each other, and that is enough for both of us."
"For your sake, young Nottingham, I truly hope it is," Kenneth said softly, and was shocked to realize that he actually meant it.
Just then the doors to the study burst open, and Lieutenant Graham Hopkins came charging in, followed by a team of heavily armed guards, guns drawn.
"A passing servant heard you shouting, Mr. Irons," Hopkins said, leveling his weapon at Ian Nottingham. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes, yes, Lieutenant," Kenneth waved a hand dismissively. "Everything is fine. As you can see, Ian has returned to us."
Hopkins gave the black-clad man a curt nod. "Nottingham."
Ian returned the gesture. "Lieutenant."
"Well, Ian, I hear the weather outside has deteriorated badly, which means it would be wise of you to spend the night," Kenneth said briskly. "I suggest we continue our conversation over breakfast."
"That would be agreeable," Ian acquiesced.
"Excellent. Good night, son. And welcome home."
"Good night, father."
Graham Hopkins blinked. 'What the --!?! "Son!?!" "Father!?!" "Welcome home!?!"' He tensed as Nottingham approached him.
"Impressive shiners," the assassin murmured as he passed him on his way to the door.
But the contingent of armed guards still blocked the exit, weapons at the ready. His men glanced toward Hopkins uneasily, obviously unnerved by Nottingham's unblinking stare and proximity but unwilling to make a move without an express order from their commanding officer. They'd heard about this morning's confrontation from several of the walking wounded, and were well aware of how many of their number had ended up in the infirmary.
"Stand down," Graham muttered nasally, gingerly touching the bandage on the bridge of his swollen, cotton-packed nose. 'Smug bastard!'
The men broke ranks, and Nottingham strode from the room without a backward glance.
As soon as the doors closed behind him, Kenneth Irons gestured for the lieutenant to come closer to him.
Realizing that he wished to speak to him in private, Graham said, "Dismissed."
Irons waited until the men had filed out of the room before speaking. "I want Ian's every move monitored, Lieutenant," he said, the flickering flames in the hearth adding absolutely no warmth to his cold blue eyes. "See to it personally and report back to me."
"Yes, sir."
Irons returned to contemplating the fire, effectively dismissing the lieutenant.
Graham turned on his heel and stalked from the room. 'Can't say I envy Nottingham having him as a father,' he thought grimly. 'Talk about Daddy Dearest!'
Once he was alone again, Kenneth pondered this latest turn of events. Try as he might, he simply could not deny the fact that he was happy that Ian had returned home. But the younger man's talk of winning his freedom from him disturbed him greatly. Never for a single moment had Kenneth ever doubted his son's loyalty until the Witchblade had chosen Sara Pezzini as Its next Wielder. After that, it had quickly become apparent that Nottingham was smitten with her. Now he'd made it painfully clear that he'd chosen her over him, and this was terribly hard for Kenneth to swallow. Unfortunately, as things now stood, it would seem he had no alternative but to tolerate Ian's relationship with Sara. Not if he wanted to ensure his continued survival, which was contingent on his erstwhile bodyguard persuading the witch to willingly part with her precious blood. So, swallow his pride he would -- until he could figure out a way to regain the upper hand, that was. And even if it took him years to do so, Kenneth Irons solemnly swore to himself that he would.
As he headed toward his quarters, Ian telepathically contacted Sara.
(Sara?)
(Yeah?)
(I'm here, safe and sound, and I've already spoken with my father, who, by the way, is fully rejuvenated. Our talk went a lot better than I thought it would, but, as you might imagine, he's not at all pleased with me.)
(Poor Kenny. I feel for him,) Sara said acerbically. (Ian, it's really storming out, so I guess you're gonna spend the night there, hunh?) she queried, her disappointment and apprehension palpable.
(Yes. We did not get a chance to finish our discussion, but I think I've managed to convince him to give me two weeks to persuade you to change your mind about providing him with a regular supply of your blood, in return for which he must promise to stop interfering with our lives,) Ian told her. (Of course, we cannot trust him to keep that promise, but it's a start.)
(Yeah, it's a start.) Skepticism colored her "voice." (Listen, Ian, I meant it when I said I want you to contact me once an hour, even if it means neither of us gets much sleep tonight,) Sara reiterated. (Not that it matters; I won't be able to rest easy with you under Irons' roof instead of here with me where you belong.)
(I, too, doubt that I'll be able to fall asleep without you next to me, my love,) Ian replied longingly. (However, if it's any consolation, I don't think my father would dare do anything to me while I slept. I made it crystal clear to him that if he ever lifts a hand against me again, he'll never get another drop of your blood.)
(Damn straight!) she growled. (So, where are you now?)
(On my way to my quarters. I'm going to change into sweats and then head for the gym. It's been too long since I had a good workout.)
(Yeah, me, too. But don't wear yourself out completely. You and me have a "phone sex" date later,) Sara reminded him.
(Hmmm. On second thought, maybe I'll just do a light workout. Something tells me I'm going to need my energy!)
(You got that right!) Sara chuckled. (I'm gonna try my best to give new meaning to the term "psychic hotline"!)
Ian's amusement thrummed across their connection. (I'll be in touch shortly, he said. (No pun intended!)
Sara shouted out loud with laughter. (Oh, this is gonna be fun! Later, Cowboy!)
On the way to the gym, Ian stopped in to visit Dr. Immo in the infirmary, which he could not help but notice was a lot more crowded than it had been that morning -- so crowded, in fact, a couple of gurneys had been left in the hallway, on which lay injured soldiers. As Nottingham passed by one of them, he opened his eyes, which widened in horrified recognition. He made a strangled noise that sounded very much like "eep!" and shrank as far away from Ian as he could.
"Ian!" Dr. Immo said with genuine pleasure when Ian pushed open the door to his room. "So kind of you to visit me again!" He put aside the book he'd been reading.
"Yes, I wanted to apologize for the Wielder's impertinence in striking you earlier," Ian told him. "I am afraid she is a bit overprotective when it comes to me."
"Apology accepted, although complete unnecessary. I meant what I said earlier about deserving it," Immo said, absently fingering the bruise on his cheek. "I take it you've spoken with your father."
"Yes. We have managed to smooth over our differences for the moment. He has all but agreed to give me some time to try and persuade Sara to change her mind about denying him her blood. I expect a decision from him shortly, perhaps as soon as tomorrow morning."
"That is good news. It was fortuitous that the Wielder's blood was left behind. At first, I had my doubts that the minute amount would be enough, but, as you saw for yourself, the treatment was completely restorative," the doctor said. "The process was much more rapid than it had been with Elizabeth's blood. In fact, it was astonishing how quickly Kenneth became rejuvenated."
Ian hesitated for a moment, fully aware that their conversation was being monitored. "Tell me, Doctor, what effect, if any, would a pregnancy have on the effectiveness of Sara's blood in rejuvenating my father?" he asked.
Dr. Immo's grey-blue eyes widened behind his glasses. "Is that a possibility at this juncture, Ian?"
"Hypothetically speaking, Doctor."
"Oh. Well, of course, a woman's blood chemistry does undergo certain changes when she conceives. However, I'm afraid I haven't had the opportunity to find out what effect, if any, it would have on Mr. Irons. You see, Elizabeth was very careful not to become pregnant, given her precarious situation during the war." He paused. "But since this is a hypothetical question, can I safely assume you took precautions to prevent an accidental pregnancy, Ian?"
"Both Sara and I have concluded that it is doubtful the Witchblade would allow her to conceive given her own rather precarious situation at present," Ian replied. "But to answer your question, no, we did not take precautions. However, I suspect I may be unable to father children owing to the fact that I suffered from an extremely high fever for a prolonged period of time. I once read that this has been known to render males sterile."
"True," Immo agreed. "But given your genetic enhancements, specifically your accelerated healing ability, I would say you have absolutely nothing to worry about in that regard. Henceforth, Ian, I would strongly advise that you and Sara use protection," the older man cautioned him. "Condoms will do in a pinch, but there are other options to consider. I would be happy to go over them with you if you like."
"Thank you for answering my question, Doctor," Ian said, unable to refrain from smiling at the other man's implication that there would be future occasions in which he and Sara would need to use contraceptives. If his father was in fact eavesdropping, he'd gotten an earful. He was also undoubtedly livid at the prospect that Ian had impregnated Sara.
"Any time, my boy," Dr. Immo replied fondly. "Will you please stop by and see me again before you leave?"
"Certainly. Hopefully, you will soon be well enough to leave the infirmary."
"I hope so, too."
"See you later, Dr. Immo." Ian left and headed for the gym, two levels up.
In the past, Ian would have gone out of his way to avoid upsetting his father for fear of retribution. The scars on his back were proof that it was not wise to provoke the capricious billionaire. But now Ian could not care less about ruffling his feathers. In fact, the thought that Kenneth Irons was at this very moment beside himself with rage was curiously satisfying. It was empowering to know that he had the ability to get under his father's skin. Ian had not been fooled for a moment by Irons' superciliously detached façade as they'd talked. Several times, he'd clearly sensed his former master's irritation at Ian's newfound confidence and impertinent responses. Still, it had been shocking how completely his father's urbane mask had slipped when Ian had mentioned his lost love, Elizabeth Bronte. Could it be possible that some old wounds had never healed? He didn't like thinking about this possibility because it made Kenneth Irons somehow more human.
Ian had finished his warm-up exercises and was in the process of selecting a katana from the extensive collection displayed on the wall when he became aware of someone else's presence in the spacious, well-equipped gymnasium. He glanced over his shoulder to see Graham Hopkins tossing a towel onto the bench of a weight machine on the other side of the gym. Like Ian, the lieutenant was dressed in sweats. The younger man began warming up, apparently intending to work out, too. However, Ian was not fooled in the least by his sudden appearance; he figured Hopkins had been ordered to keep a close eye on him and was simply following orders.
Ignoring him, Ian began to perform a series of katas with the katana he'd chosen. He spared a few moments to lament the loss of the blade he'd been forced to abandon on the roof of the warehouse last Thursday night. He had a vague memory of tossing it onto the roof of the adjacent building seconds before the Russian stinger missile had exploded, but he couldn't be certain that this wasn't some delusion his feverish mind had created in an effort to ease the pain of losing such a magnificent weapon. It was one of three that had been specially made for him by a master swordmaker in Kyoto many, many years ago. That man was now dead, and his art was slowly dying out, too. There were only a handful of people left on earth who could legitimately be called master swordmakers. Even fewer could be considered true swordmasters. Ian Nottingham was one of them. Idly, he wondered if perhaps the sword had been found before the fire had engulfed the warehouse. If so, there was a chance he could get it back. With his father's connections, it would be a simple matter for it to disappear from the evidence locker it was probably sitting in. Frowning, Ian did a mental double take. No, he would not be beholden to Kenneth Irons for anything ever again, even if it meant recovering one of his priceless blades. Besides, Sara would have been terribly upset by this blatant evidence of corruption in the New York City Police Department. The sword was lost to him, and that was that, he decided resignedly.
Once he'd figured out Nottingham's intended destination, Graham Hopkins decided that he might as well get in a workout while keeping an eye on the other man. However, shortly after he began warming up, he realized that the slightest exertion caused his broken nose to throb excruciatingly. Doggedly, he resolved to ignore the discomfort and continue his workout. But in spite of himself, all pretense of working out was soon forgotten, and he found himself openly watching the other man.
Balancing lightly on his bare feet, Ian Nottingham flowed through a series of graceful, intricate movements, the gleaming sword in his right hand seeming to be an extension of his arm. He began to parry an imaginary opponent's thrusts, moving so fast at times, his form blurred. Then he went on the attack, moving, if possible, even faster. If Graham hadn't witnessed it with his own eyes, he never would have believed that someone could move that quickly. It got him to thinking.
Back when he'd been in the Seals, he'd heard about Nottingham's legendary former Special Ops unit, the Black Dragons. Navy Seals prided themselves on their toughness, and rightfully so. The training regimen one had to go through in order to become a Seal was infamous for its brutality. But it was said that the training the Dragons had endured made the Seals' boot camp resemble that of a summer camp for little kids. And then there were the whispered rumors that the former members of the unit had undergone experimental drug therapies and hard-core psych conditioning. Once, shortly after he'd come to work for Kenneth Irons, Graham had done some research on the Dragons, but practically all of the information had been classified. In fact, he knew precious little about Ian Nottingham other than that he was supposedly a former member of that elite unit. The fact that he was also Kenneth Irons' son had been an extremely well-kept secret.
Just then, Nottingham paused in his exertions to peel off his soaked sweatshirt, revealing a sleeveless black t-shirt, a sleekly muscular upper body, and impressive biceps. As he began a series of cool-down exercises, Graham caught a glimpse of a tattoo on his right forearm. Even from a distance, he could tell what it was: a black dragon rampant.
'So,' he thought, 'it's true: Nottingham is a Black Dragon, which means he's one bad-ass motherfucker. No wonder that female homicide detective ran off with him.'
At the thought of Sara Pezzini, a sudden, sharp pain lanced through Graham's head, and he swayed on the padded bench of the weight machine, a low moan escaping his lips. Grasping his aching head in both hands, Graham wondered if the doctors who'd treated him had been premature in clearing him to return to duty. When he'd regained consciousness in the infirmary, he at first thought he might have suffered a concussion, because although he clearly recalled seeing Detective Pezzini with Nottingham in the tunnel beneath the estate, things got kind of hazy after that. However, he'd been checked out thoroughly by a neurologist and pronounced fit to return to duty, with only an admonition to take it easy for a couple of days. The taser burns on his neck had solved the mystery of how he'd been rendered unconscious, but for the life of him, Graham could not remember receiving the blow that had broken his nose. He had only vague, dreamlike memories of his men falling like flies around him. Having witnessed how inhumanly fast Ian Nottingham moved, he was forced to concede that it was entirely possible the man had taken him and his men out single-handedly. The alternative -- that Sara Pezzini had defeated them -- was inconceivable. Or was it? He flinched violently as he suddenly became aware of the fact that Nottingham was standing less than a foot away from him. He'd neither heard nor seen him approach.
"I wanted to thank you for keeping my father safe in my absence, Lieutenant," the assassin said without preamble, his piercing eyes meeting Graham's unfocused gaze.
"Um, you're welcome?" Graham said uncertainly, squinting up at him.
"Are you unwell, Lieutenant?" Ian asked, taking note of the younger man's pallor and difficulty focusing.
"Clarify something for me if you would, Nottingham," Hopkins said, ignoring his question. "Was it you or Detective Pezzini who kicked our asses in that tunnel earlier today?"
The dark-haired man's expression did not change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you not remember what happened?"
"Would I be asking you if I did?" Graham muttered, rubbing his temples. "And, no, I didn't suffer a concussion. Or so the doctors claim."
"Both Detective Pezzini and I engaged you and your men in combat, Lieutenant," Ian said truthfully. "Although it is safe to say that she did most of the damage." 'He has no memory of the Witchblade,' he realized. 'And it's a safe bet that none of his men do either. So, the legends are true: the Blade has the power to erase the memories of those who look upon It and are lucky enough to survive the encounter. Good to know.'
"She has one mean right hook," Hopkins said, touching his bandaged nose ruefully. "Uh, if it's all right with you, I'm gonna let my men go on thinking that you took them out all by your lonesome, Nottingham. It would be terrible for morale if they found out their butts had been thoroughly whipped by a woman."
"I understand," Ian said equably. But then his unnerving gold-flecked gaze grew cold. "But make no mistake: if you or your men ever attempt to harm Sara Pezzini again, I will kill every last one of you. Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal," Graham said, somehow refraining from shrinking back in terror from the promise of death in those eyes. But then a strange thing happened.
Nottingham's gaze became distracted, and he cocked his dark head, as though listening to a voice only he could hear. Graham blinked as the other man's expression softened considerably and a crooked grin appeared on his lips, which had the effect of making him seem years younger and downright approachable. Even more shockingly, he gave a throaty chuckle and began absentmindedly toying with the drawstring closure of his sweatpants. All of a sudden, the lieutenant got the oddest impression that he was inadvertently eavesdropping on an intimate conversation, albeit a one-sided one. He didn't understand why he should feel this way when not a word was being spoken aloud, but he did. It was at once unsettling and intriguing. As the minutes crawled by, Graham began to wonder if Nottingham would even notice if he slipped away. Deciding to test this theory, he started to reach for his towel, but the assassin's bird-of-prey eyes instantly sharpened on him, and he froze.
"If you will excuse me, Lieutenant Hopkins," Nottingham murmured politely, "I am returning to my quarters to masturbate."
Ian blinked. 'No, I didn't just say that, did I?' he thought, but then he noticed the look of barely contained amusement on Hopkins' face. "Uh, meditate," he said, clearing his throat, bright-red color suffusing his bearded features. "I am returning to my quarters to meditate, and then I am retiring for the night, so your surveillance duties have concluded for today."
"Sir, yes, sir!" Graham said, rising and smartly saluting him. "Good night, Mr. Nottingham. Enjoy your . . . meditation. I, too, enjoy . . . meditating from time to time."
"Good night, Lieutenant," Ian muttered, avoiding his eyes, and turning he strode quickly from the gymnasium. Unfortunately, his keen hearing enabled him to hear the other man's guffaws long after he'd left the room.
More to come. There. That wasn't so bad was it? Thanks, as always, to everybody who took the time to leave feedback. It's always much appreciated and highly anticipated. Keep it coming, and I'll keep the chapters coming! dragongrrl
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