No Clear Answers

Nottingham raced up the fire escape as if he could outrun the demons in his head. The night air was cold, and he drew great lungfuls of it as he climbed. The wind pulled at his wool trench coat, the black fabric swirling around his legs, and snatched at his hair. This was the real reason he wore his hair so tightly confined, there was always a strong breeze at night, and he had no desire to have his vision obstructed by wayward caramel locks.

The hospital was twenty stories, a middling height in a town of skyscrapers, and he reached the top without being the least bit winded. Granted, that was due more to his rigorous physical conditioning than the height he ascended to.

Irons had trained him to be the perfect servant, lethal, loyal, skilled, able to innovate, and yet remain obedient. All his life had been spent in one form of service or another. It was the only thing he knew. The only way he knew how to show his love and devotion...and the only thing guaranteed to drive Sara away from him.

Nottingham's willingness to do whatever was asked of him by Irons made him weak in Sara's eyes, and well he knew it. Her will was so fierce that she could not imagine his position or nature. Pezzini would never bend, never put the wishes of another above her own.

If he had one complaint about his beloved, it was that she was a little too obsessive, too focused on the things that were important to her. If Sara wanted it, she did everything in her power to get it. In that respect she was very like Irons, unable or unwilling to consider the consequences others would pay as they pursued their goal.

It was something Ian disliked in both of them, yet he responded to their demands time and again, giving whatever was asked of him. Irons had conditioned such a response in him from childhood, and Ian was intelligent enough to see it. He even understood how and why Kenneth had done it, but was unable to change his behavior.

What would happen when duty and love no longer ran parallel courses? Before Sara lost the Witchblade, his orders had not strayed too far from his own desires. To be near her, to help her, oh yes, those were directives he had embraced with a willing heart.

To assist his master in gaining the hand and heart of the lady he loved? That he could not do. But how could he leave his duty behind? No matter what his ulterior motives may have been, Kenneth had raised him like a son. Ian had wanted for nothing. His thirst for esoteric knowledge and fighting arts had been more than indulged; they had been encouraged.

He loved Irons as a son loves a difficult to please father, always striving for his approval. Kenneth loved him back, this he was certain of, even if the older man was sometimes distant. Privately, Ian suspected that the Irons family had not been very demonstrative.

Kenneth did not know how to show his love any better than Ian did, but surely the way he had raised and trained him, spending time and vast sums of money, was a clear indication of care. After all, he was the only person with him always. He even trusted Ian with his life. What greater display of faith and love could there be?

How could he choose between them? Eventually he would have to. It was inevitable. Ian had hoped that it would not come to pass, that once Sara had lost the Witchblade Kenneth would no longer desire to possess her. Clearly that was not the case.

Did Irons think Sara still possessed the Witchblade? Was he waiting for her to put it on again, to become the Wielder once more? Ian did not think Kenneth knew the true location of the Gauntlet. Surely he would have demanded its return if he had. A time or two, Nottingham had been tempted to return it to him unasked, in hopes that Irons would know how to restore the 'Blade.

Ian did not know what to do for the Witchblade. Before it had always seemed alive, even when resting on the velvet pad at the museum. Now it was an inert twist of metal with a dull orange stone, filmed over as if by great age and wear. He kept it in one of the many inner pockets of his wool trench coat during the day; afraid to leave it undefended anywhere. When he slept, he kept it in a thin cotton pouch around his neck, hoping that the warmth of his body and the energy of his aura would slowly give it strength.

There had been no change, but it had only been a week. Given the span of time that the Witchblade had survived, Ian was not sure if it just took a while to 'recharge' or if he should be concerned over the Gauntlet's current state. He was not yet worried enough to try anything drastic, like putting it on himself. Assuming the Witchblade did not take his hand for his presumption, he would still be soul bound to the Gauntlet. He had watched the Witchblade maneuver Irons like a marionette across a stage and had no desire to be put in the same position.

What he endured now was bad enough.

With a sigh Ian rolled the Witchblade in his gloved hands. He looked out over the city skyline, a sight that normally brought him peace. Tonight the view failed him, his mind and heart torn. Would love or duty win out? He honestly did not know. For he loved them both well, Kenneth as a father and Sara as the woman he would wish to wed.

Yet his duty to defend Pezzini as the Wielder was predated by his duty to protect Irons, as well as being the chief of security for his company, Vorshlag Industries. What would he do, who would he be, without the complex bindings of a lifetime? Could he put aside the past to pursue an uncertain future with a woman who might or might not come to love him as he loved her?

The questions were complex enough to be answered only by the testing of time.

Ian measured the distance to the next building with a practiced eye. It was not far. Perhaps a run across the 'high way' would settle his mind. The Witchblade went back into the inner pocket. Gathering himself, Nottingham leapt for the neighboring structure. Landing easily, he set out at a flat run.

It was very freeing to race with the wind across the darkened city skyline. Leaving all his worries and doubts behind, Nottingham moved across the rooftops. Soon the world was reduced to the flashes of dark and light, the bricks under his feet, the moon soaring so unconcernedly above his head. The wind danced at his heels, blowing around him like the old friend it was, encouraging him to run faster.

Nottingham automatically watched for danger as he raced. That part of his mind never stopped, never relaxed, even if he was not conscious of it. Those seemingly magical dodges were nothing more than the reaction of someone who instantly obeyed the more primitive part of the brain. If he felt the urge to duck, he did, without wondering why. It had saved his life on many occasions, including now.

Almost to the edge of the apartment building he was currently running on, the animal instinct jerked him up short. Ian went from a full run to absolute stillness. He scanned the area around him, looking for the source.

Something was moving in the shadows on the fire escape of the next building. It was subtle, whatever it was. Even looking for trouble, Nottingham had almost missed it. The assassin froze, watching the darkened metal railing. For long minutes nothing happened, but Ian was as patient as a hunting cougar.

The shadow moved in a slithering gliding motion that, at first glance, seemed like nothing human. Yet Ian had seen others move with similar grace, a handful of men and women that had been trained like him. None of whom he could imagine having business in this area of town. The cost of their hire would be more than the residents of this building made in a year.

What would bring an assassin into this neighborhood? If you wanted someone dead around here, there were much more economical options available. Nottingham watched with narrowed eyes as the figure moved down another level, intent on something below. Deep shadow fell around the fire escape, with only thin ribbons of light passing the railing to give a teasing glimpse of muscles working under cloth.

Ian moved cautiously forward, trying for a better vantage point while remaining concealed himself. Perhaps if he could see what had the other's attention, Nottingham could ascertain his or her reason for being here.

The alley was nondescript, the same hulking metal dumpsters, heaps of garbage, and puddles of wastewater reflecting what little weak light penetrated the gloom that could be seen in almost every alley in the area. The only real point of interest was the light glinting off the spiky blonde hair of Sara's new partner, Jake McCarty.

McCarty was talking to someone that was farther back in the shadows than he was. All Ian could see was the occasional flash of hand as the other person gestured while talking. The agitated movements reminded Nottingham of someone, but he couldn't recall exactly. It was just a nagging feeling that he had seen that pattern of motion before.

Nottingham could hear nothing of the conversation from where he was, being so far out of earshot. In fact, it was a testament to his superior vision that he could see anything at all. He would have liked to move closer, but he was more interested in whom the assassin was following, than to risk detection.

After about five more minutes, Jake reached into his coat and pulled out a fat white envelope. The hand in the shadows exchanged it for a yellow manila file folder. McCarty opened it, rifled the pages, and tucked it into his coat. He smiled, a flash of white, and leaned into the shadows. Ian got the impression he had kissed whoever it was, which couldn't be the case, could it? Then Jake turned to walk out of the alley.

The assassin on the fire escape shifted slightly, tracking the blonde's movement. Although Nottingham had no love for the young detective, he knew if he did not intervene, Sara would take McCarty's death personally. She would beat herself up with 'if only I has been there's', which Ian had no desire to listen to. Even worse, Sara would consider it further proof that everyone around her was doomed. He did not want her pushing him away before they even had a chance, and so he pulled the trigger first.

The soft pfft of his silenced pistol seemed loud to Ian's sensitive ears, but there was no outcry from below. The assassin slumped on the metal stairs in the boneless sprawl of death. His rifle slipped from his fingers and dropped with a loud clatter to the asphalt below.

McCarty spun toward the sound, Glock .9mm out and in the ready position. He scanned the area. Nottingham stayed poised in the shadow, ready to move if he must. The detective did not spot him, but he did see the body on the fire escape. Jake looked higher, tracking possible velocities for whoever had fired. His method was efficient and professional, not what Nottingham would have expected from his previous behavior.

Alarm bells ringing in Ian's head, he moved back from the edge. What was going on here? Then the person with the restless hands stepped out of the shadows, and Ian got his second surprise of the night. It was Christine Vannoy, the Chief of Police's personal secretary. She took one look at the felled assassin, a look of confusion passing over her face before she bolted in the opposite direction.

Ian was tempted to follow her, but he knew where she worked. He could get to her with ease. Right now, he was more concerned with the information she had obviously sold Detective McCarty. What could have been in those files that were worth killing for?