8/09/02
Rated PG-13 – Violence/Language
Time Frame: Season 2 – After the Periculum
Disclaimer: All rights to Witchblade and its characters belong to Top Cow and TNT. I am just an admirer of the strange yet irresistible character of Ian Nottingham as portrayed by Eric Etebari.
I am extending a special thanks to my collaborators and co-conspirators Blue Raven and Lady Lynne (aka Nightshade)---truly gifted writers and wondrous beta readers. They make writing sheer joy. The process of writing can be a torturous yet pleasurable journey for me. Having two such generous and insightful companions, along this journey, eases my burden. I am blessed to have their counsel and their friendship.
Synopsis - Sequel to Requiem for Innocence – In retaliation of Ian's sudden departure, Irons plots to kill Sara. The Gauntlet abandons its wielder in her darkest hour, leaving only her friend Gabe and her protector Ian to pick up the pieces of her shattered life. Will Irons be the master of this chess game with the blade and Ian as the prize?
Chapter One – Her Darkest Hour"She heard voices, too…had visions. She claimed they were the source of her power. History credits them with her demise. A cruel destiny to be sure…but a destiny that mattered. A responsibility…a duty…a cause. I doubt anyone ever understood her. How could they? Ultimately, she was abandoned."
Ian Nottingham (of Joan of Arc)
Darkness had fallen on the Irons' Estate…in more ways than the sun dissolving below the horizon. A dark and ominous shroud was roiling towards the mansion, and in its haste, angrily rumbling its discontent. Just due south of the manor, flashes of lightning waged war on the earth, sending electrifying tendrils to wreak havoc. The ostentatious display of lights was out of sync with the thunder, signifying the storm was still a distance away, but its' approach was imminent. Oblivious to the onslaught of Mother Nature, the master of the estate was now alone with his introspection.
The fire blazed with intense heat, enough to almost burn his skin as he sat in his favorite wing backed chair, hued in royal blue and red velvet in a rich tapestry pattern, positioned near the hearth in the Great Room. He had spent many hours in this room. With an extensive personal library upstairs, display cases of rare antiquities, and well-chosen tapestries and paintings, the Great Room was aptly named. The main focal point of this vast space was the massive, stone hearth with its roaring fire that usually fought to keep the invading chill from this wing of the estate.
Without any other lights burning in the cavernous room, the blaze cast eerie shadows across the expanse that danced seductively with the inferno. Brooding, the master of the estate was oblivious to the shadowy display just behind him. His long legs were closest to the flame as it crackled and popped angrily. Brushing up against his shins, his pant legs burned the pale and sensitive skin underneath. The cheeks of his face appeared red and swollen from the blaze. The warmth from the fire had only accentuated the fever in his brain as his reflections plagued him. Billionaire Kenneth Irons was familiar with pain. He was intimately acquainted with his own torment borne of unspoken and unexamined guilt over the years. It was like a festering wound always ready to unmask itself at the least provocation. So he had learned to accept that which he could not change, his very nature. Was yearning for power and all that comes with it an evil quality? He thought not. Therefore, he deemed it a waste of time to truly examine his life and second-guess his choices. He would accept his nature and move on with his life. Without the contradiction of good and evil, pain and ecstasy…how could he truly appreciate the rapture that made him feel alive? Just as death was apart of life, so was deprivation a part of indulgence.
He was tormented now with his recent memories. The estate had been noticeably quiet since Ian's…departure. The assassin had not been a loud inhabitant, quite the opposite, but Irons could always engage in interesting conversation with him. He had grown accustomed to such intellectual pursuits. Now, even the wolfhounds seemed restless and whined incessantly, awaiting young Nottingham's return. He had found them curled up at the closed door of Ian's former bedroom on many evenings. Their whimpering, in the middle of the night, had called his attention to that fact.
The incoming storm had finally gained its advantage, sweeping over the estate with its barrage of weapons. Its torrential rains pummeled the imposing windows nearest Irons and its ear shattering cracks of thunder threatened the security of the estate with the potential devastation of a lightening strike. With the chaotic turmoil outside these walls, Irons found himself hoping for a simple act. He found himself glancing at the door to the Great Room imagining Ian quietly slipping into the room, as was his custom. Such an unpretentious act had given him such comfort, he now realized.
Was he prepared to grant absolution for Nottingham's transgressions? This remained to be seen, but he at least thought he was receptive to such an idea, missing his young confidante. After all, he could bestow his forgiveness upon poor Ian, showing his capacity for mercy, but then make him pay in other ways…using more insidious methods. Nottingham needed to understand there were consequences for his actions. This would be just another one of Irons' life lessons.
Blocking Nottingham's image from his mind temporarily, Irons languidly sipped his brandy from the cut crystal snifter. The brandy and his black velvet smoking jacket contributed to his raised temperature, but not sufficiently to distract him from his anguish. Enough ghosts had haunted him in his lifetime. What was one more? Raising the glass to his face brought a fleeting abatement from the blazing fire as the crystal deflected the heat. His white, blond hair and ashen skin, flush with the warmth of the fire, mirrored the brilliant hues of the flames before him. Prisms of tinted light radiated from the crystal glass, as he raised it once again to his lips, casting a warm rainbow of color in sharp contrast to his chiseled and cold visage. The chill from his pale blue eyes grew as he attempted to extinguish the blaze by sheer force of will and his proximity. Like the flame, the memory could not be snuffed out so easily.
That fateful day…He had pulled out a 38-caliber Smith and Wesson handgun, along with a piece of paper and pen, and laid it conspicuously on the middle of Nottingham's bed. With an arrogance that even now sounded like another's voice, he could hear himself say,
"You have failed me…but you can still serve Lady Sara…by making the ultimate sacrifice…your life for hers. I have even provided you some paper so you can write her a suicide note…for her eyes only. I will deliver it to her myself."
Irons had tried to convince Nottingham that the contract on Sara Pezzini's life could be revoked if he did what Irons asked. He could still see the look on Ian's face when he realized what Irons was asking of him. In that one pitiable look, Irons had seen the innocent and guarded face of his young protege as a child mixed with the devastated and forsaken face of the man he had become.
"Do what must be done, young Nottingham. Ultimately, I am sure you will thank me for this opportunity to serve her. It shall be a mercy."
This had all been a lie of his own creation. There had been no contract on her life. NYPD's Captain Bruno Dante, head of the Eleventh Precinct, had not mobilized his corrupt band of police officers called the White Bulls to kill her. Dante had not been in league with Irons, at least on this one occasion.
It had all been a lie.
He reflected, for only a brief moment, how he had felt when he thought Nottingham could be spared. When his guilt and regret plagued him enough to take action. He recalled the time when he raced for Ian's room to stop him from killing himself.
Maybe there was still time. Maybe he could find another way.
Irons bolted to the door of the Great Room, desperately hoping he would be in time. His heart raced as he dared to hope. Before he had taken a few steps, the ear shattering blast of gunfire ripped through his head and his heart, doubling him over in pain and sorrow as he collapsed to the floor. His grief manifested itself in a long, slow moan that had escaped from deep within his soul.
He was too late. This could not be fixed. Young Nottingham was no more. Images of Ian as a child…as a young man…as his loyal servant flashed in his head, he could not stop the flood of memories…or the guilt. His purveyor of justice…his confidante…his faithful servant…his son…was forever gone. He felt as if he had suffered a gapping hole to his chest with that gunfire, for the agony of his culpability made it feel as if he would soon die…of the broken heart he had a hand in making.
Now as he sat in front of the fire, his ego in complete control, he thought it would have been nobler had Nottingham indeed committed the act. Irons would have been appropriately remorseful, and his life would have gone on uninterrupted. But now, things had changed. Ian had played him for a fool, stealing a million dollars from his office safe and, more importantly, Irons had kept books on his illegal arms trading in that safe. Both the money and the arms trading evidence were gone. The money had been of no consequence, but the betrayal…the betrayal was everything…even though Irons had forced Ian's hand in the first place. There had only been a small, folded piece of paper remaining in the safe. He read the note, knowing Ian had written it.
"You harm Sara…and I harm you."
"Well…let's see how you will handle this little distraction, Ian." Irons spoke out loud for the first time this evening.
For a brief moment, the wolfhounds perked their heads up from their sleep in response to his voice, emitting a low growl in the process. A crack of thunder and a flash of light, coupled with the pounding rain, sent the hounds scurrying closer to the fire and nearer their master. Irons' voice echoed and hung in the darkness of the room, sounding somehow foreign to him.
Earlier that day, he had placed a call from his office at Vorschlag Industries to Captain Dante. He despised the man but the underhanded cop was a necessary evil. Irons chuckled at his reference to evil when thinking of Dante for Irons was evil incarnate…Dante was no match for him in that department…not even a blip on evil's radar.
"Kill her tonight, Bruno. And I want you to bring me her body."
Dante made some distasteful remarks about necrophilia. Irons made a note in his day planner as the Captain was laughing to himself. Dante would not have been pleased with the content of this note, but he would soon discover that Irons always accomplished his Things To Do list.
Staring at the ringed scar on his right hand, complements of his own brief acquaintance with the blade, Irons clenched his fist in anger. He had no intention of sharing his thoughts with Dante on the Witchblade. Had Ian still been in his service, this task would have fallen to him. Now, Irons would have to suffer Dante. He would tell him only what he needed to know. He further cautioned.
"Your 'subcontractors' should not be associated with me…or the NYPD. Do I make myself clear, Bruno?"
With a sudden shooting pain, the circular scar on his hand sent shock waves of torment up his arm and into his brain, allowing him to bear witness to Sara's ordeal that had only just begun. Strokes of lightning and gripping cracks of thunder ripped through his mind, as if it were an extension of the storm outside. He could not distinguish between the two as the rain buffeted the windows and the thunder angrily rumbled and cast off its bolts of lightening. The wolfhounds timidly cowered before Irons, whimpering and licking his hands as his fingers gripped the arms of his chair. The connection with the wielder was undeniably stronger than he had ever felt before…yet something was different with the blade.
He writhed in pain…as his temperature escalated. His eyes rolled into his head as he felt her fear. The reverie was intoxicating…erotic…pain and ecstasy together again.
Run Sara…Run if you can…Soon, it would all be over.
*****
Sara Pezzini left Mike's Pool Hall a few dollars richer. Once the rain had subsided, she had found herself restless sitting around her loft. Most people wanted to curl up with a good book on a rainy night, but Sara was far from conventional in the things that amused her. Her day as a homicide detective for the NYPD had been particularly stressful and she needed to kick back somewhere nobody knew her. Not knowing anyone at the pool hall held other benefits as well. No one knew she could run a table, so she had cleaned up.
Avoiding the puddles of standing rain water, she turned down the dimly lit alley towards her Buell motorcycle, pocketing the bills in her jean pocket as she searched for the ignition key. Her long brown hair had fallen off her shoulders as she reached into her jean pocket. The air was thick with its humidity and the sound of emptying rain gutters echoed along the street. Nearing midnight, the alley held more shadows than usual. Most of the streetlights had been shot out…a sign of the violent times changing her old childhood neighborhood. The noise behind her did not register at first.
The sound had been so faint…merely a scuff of a shoe. Movement in the shadows caught her attention as she reached for her weapon holstered under her jean jacket at the small of her back. Her cop instinct was taking over…a feeling that she affectionately called her spidie sense was tingling.
"Well…what do we have here? You the big winner, sweetheart?" A large man dressed in dark clothing stepped near the edge of the shadows…not near enough for her to see any details. A pair of nylons pulled over his head distorted his features.
The hosiery was probably an improvement, but his pick up line needed some work, she thought.
"What…you not getting paid enough shoveling shit at the zoo…you have to rob a poor defenseless woman?" With a mock pout, she batted her eyelashes at him with a bravado her pounding heart betrayed. Her hand gripped the butt of her gun. "This is not your lucky day, pal. Police officer…NYPD." Sara identified herself, hoping it would buy her a break.
The Gauntlet was cold and dark on her wrist.
"I think Ms. NYPD needs an attitude adjustment…What do you think, guys?" His voice was cold with not even a flinch when she had identified herself as a police officer. "Oh…and if you think the Calvary is coming? Think again." He sneered as he held up a cell phone that had looked an awful lot like hers. Sara instinctively kept her eyes alert for any threatening movement, keeping her gun trained on the leader, but patted down her right jacket pocket with her left hand feeling for the familiar bulge of her phone.
It was missing.
Just as the Neanderthal had started to speak, Sara realized she was quickly being ensnared in a trap. She counted eight men…and those were the ones she could clearly see in this dark alley. Her only escape was behind her and it was closing fast. She stepped back towards the only avenue of freedom as she pulled her gun, aiming it at their apparent leader. As she pointed her gun at his chest, she glanced at the ancient weapon on her wrist, knowing something was amiss. By now, it should have been glowing and swirling red color as it cast its angry hues about her, waiting for Sara to will it to action. It lay cold on her arm, just another piece of costume jewelry.
She was severely outgunned. Not only was she outnumbered, but also some of the masked gunmen carried automatic weapons. Without the Witchblade, and its ability to deflect the spray of rounds that would soon come her way, she was dead meat. This was not your basic mugging. The stolen cell phone attested to the fact that this had been planned. It was too organized and the number of men and weapons was overkill. She suspected Kenneth Irons to be behind this…but why? She moved closer to the end of the alley, looking for any opportunity to escape. With the amount of firepower here, she could be responsible for starting another world war if she didn't keep her cool. If she could just stall for time, perhaps the sound of shots fired would draw the attention of law enforcement…or give her enough time to awaken the ancient weapon on her wrist.
She needed a distraction.
With a flash of anger in her intense green eyes, just as the tautness of the moment peaked, Sara reacted by pointing her gun to the only light faintly glowing at the exit door to the pool hall. She counted on her marksmanship to extinguish the light that made her a conspicuous target. The blast of her gun and the shattered glass sent the men scurrying in the darkness like roaches. The deafening sound had shattered the stalemate. Sara turned to run down the street, desperately trying to evade the band of hoodlums that chased her. She had worn boots and now wished she had chosen her running shoes. Her feet felt like lead. She had not noticed just how deserted this section of town was at this time of night. Her mind was desperately attempting to formulate a plan to untangle herself from this mess.
Eight long blocks later, in a dark section of the street, she turned to her left darting down an alleyway she hoped was not a dead end. A door to her right lay just ahead. Grabbing the knob and turning it, she found it locked. In her desperation, she yanked again as if she could make it open by sheer determination. Pounding on the door, she yelled at the top of her lungs.
"Someone call 9-1-1. NYPD…officer needs assistance." Her breathing was now labored and raspy.
Even though she had gained some distance on the men chasing her, this delay had taken its toll. She hoped it would not cost her life. The sound of footsteps was growing closer. Back lit by the streetlight, the dark faceless shadows of her pursuers gathered at the entrance to the alley. To the north, lightening flashes displayed their brilliance in the darkened clouds overhead as a burst of automatic gunfire sprayed above her head, sending shards of brick and glass raining down on her exposed skin, cutting it. Shaking off the debris, she cowered then ran toward her only hope of cover.
The alley veered right just a few steps away from Sara. She fought to gain back her advantage, running with every fiber of her being focused on the effort. She had a stitch in her side and she could feel the burn as the lactic acid was building in her muscles as she pounded her way down the passage. Taking the briefest of moments to glance upon her wrist, the Gauntlet lay dormant, unwilling to be commanded by her.
Her pursuers were not relenting.
"The Witchblade abandons its wielder in her darkest hour…" The voices came from deep within her…as if in a distant memory…somehow familiar, yet not. "Darkest hour…" The muffled voices echoed in her brain. Hearing voices now did not bode well for her. At a moment of weakness, a thought invaded her mind…I could die here…in this dirty alley. An image of her dead corpse in bloodied repose flashed into her mind, her fellow detectives intimately gazing upon her in death and wondering what happened in her final minutes. Focus…Must focus. She pushed harder to gain an advantage.
The alley opened to another narrow street. The only light source coming from a street lamp to her left. She started to turn towards it but stopped dead in her tracks. The men had split into two groups. The second group cut off her escape, forcing her to reverse course and head down the darker avenue. They would soon be upon her.
She noticed movement along the perilous route…on both sides. Shadows peered from lower stairwells; crates and cardboard boxes seemed to move on their own. She had thought she was really loosing it…hearing voices and now seeing…this. It took her a moment to realize that the homeless inhabited this pathway. Not having much choice, she darted past the street people, hoping to avoid getting them involved in her fight.
"Keep your heads down. NYPD officer needs assistance. Call 9-1-1." Although she did not expect them to help her, she did not want them to get hurt in the process either. She ran further down the street into the darkness with her attackers in hot pursuit.
Sweat trickled down her body under her clothes and stung her eyes, she knew she would have to turn and fight. Desperately, she looked for a vantage point to position herself. She could not outrun them. She would have to hold off a well-equipped army until help could arrive…if it did at all.
The Witchblade was still devoid of any activity. She had no experience from which to draw. Had Gabe or Nottingham given her any advice on such an eventuality? Focus…I must focus, she thought.
"Abandons the wielder…darkest hour…darkest hour." The voices echoed in her mind, loud enough she thought that others might hear them too. They seemed to come from all around her…encircling her with their mockery.
"Are you a pretender, Sara?" She had not uttered a sound…yet the voice this time…It had been her own.
Shaking off her thoughts that she was going insane, she spotted another alley to her right just ahead. She did not think they had gotten ahead of her…perhaps laying in wait around that very corner. Trusting her instincts, she wheeled to her right, hunkered down by a concrete stoop near the alleyway. This was a good place to make a brief stand before she ducked into the alley ahead…and make them think twice before following her.
"Damn it, Nottingham! Where are you when I need you?" Sara muttered this under her breath in frustration. She would have to find her own solution.
Steadying her gun hand, Sara took aim.
The gun blast sent the men hustling for cover. Sara heard one of her rounds hit. The bullet ripping through flesh made a distinctive sound within the brick façade of this alley. A man carrying an automatic weapon clutched his chest. His right hand in a death grip pulled back the trigger, sending a spray of bullets just over Sara's head up the brick wall of an old warehouse. Shattered brick and a displaced cornice from above rained down upon Sara as she hid from her attackers.
"Are you a pretender?" The voices accompanied her self-doubt. Her own voice being the clearest…and most devastating.
The stonework fell on Sara, bruising and pummeling her body. As the last stone struck the back of her head, shooting pain blinded her. Bright lights shot through her brain…then all went dark.
"Pretender…"She was outnumbered and defenseless. She lay unconscious under the debris. Her attackers raised up one by one to see if it was safe to approach. They ventured into the street, creeping closer to their prey with guns drawn. They had no appreciation for Sara's predicament. The blade had abandoned her.
But she was not alone.
A dark shadow emerged from the alley behind Sara's body. Noiselessly, the mysterious stranger rose up like smoke from the carnage at his feet, like an apparition. Dressed in a long black coat, the solitary figure stepped into the street, facing the menacing group with empty gloved hands. His long dark hair was worn loose and framed his close cropped beard that accentuated the contempt in his eyes. He stared coldly at the men, as if he could find and rip out their souls in the darkness.
"Now is that any way to treat a lady?" His voice was quiet, but no less threatening…a chilling whisper.
In one fluid motion, the man in black reached under his coat pulling out two automatic weapons. With guns blazing, the rounds found their mark. One by one, the men fell screaming to their deaths in front of Ian Christian Nottingham, Sara's self-proclaimed protector.
Stepping in front of her, with no regard for his own safety, Nottingham took out five of the men nearest her body. Two of the thugs in the back turned and ran, fleeing for their lives. Nottingham had been careful not to shoot indiscriminately, having noticed the street people trying to seek shelter from the flying bullets. He had taken notice of the three homeless people as he had followed Sara earlier. He would have pursued her enemies to finish the job, but was too concerned for her safety. Besides, it would not hurt for the men to tell their tale to whoever had hired them. He knew his stature would grow exponentially as the men recounted the story of the army they had faced while trying to kill Detective Sara Pezzini. Being defeated by just one man would not look good on their resume.
After making sure it was safe for him to turn his back and attend to Sara, he knelt by her side, gently removing the fallen brick and stone from atop her. Removing his gloves and sticking them in his coat pocket, he brushed the dust and debris from her face, running his fingers along her lips, allowing himself a fleeting moment of affection with her. Focusing on the here and now, he quickly checked for broken bones or other injuries. Her head had a knot on it that would give her headaches for days. Although any swelling from an injury would take a bit more time to develop, he was reasonably sure she was not seriously hurt. Her pulse was steady and strong and her breathing seemed regular. As he pulled open her eyelids, her pupils seemed to react normally to the dim lighting from the street. The rest of her injuries were only minor cuts and lacerations. None requiring stitches. Still, she would need some medical attention.
Why had she not used the blade? He wondered.
Before he could think further, sirens in the distance caught his attention, distracting him from his intimate moment with Sara. Turning his head, he knew they would have to leave or face many questions neither was prepared to answer. Cradling Sara's unconscious body in his arms, he pulled her to his chest, resting his chin on her head in a caress. Without a thought of the dead men behind him, he held his beloved Sara in his arms in silence. He would have given anything to take her home with him…to watch over her…take care of her as she healed. He knew he was in no position to offer her a stable environment in which to mend for he was in hiding from his former employer…his father…billionaire Kenneth Irons, a powerful man. It would take all his cunning to stay ahead of Irons himself.
He had no doubt this onslaught on Sara had been ordered by Irons. It pained him to know that he had brought this fight to her door. His act of selfishness…trying to be free of Irons…had almost cost his beloved's life. He had come to the torturous realization that he needed to stay as far away from Sara as he could. Yet he still needed to make an effort to defend her with his life if he needed to do so…protecting her as he had done tonight…for she would have surely died had he not intervened. How he would accomplish this, given his covert status, he did not know as yet.
No…He had nothing to offer Sara…but perhaps he knew someone that did.
Sara moaned quietly, stirring in his arms. Nottingham kissed her forehead and whispered into her ear…only loud enough for her to hear. It seemed to provide some comfort for she fell limp into his embrace. He held her close to his chest. In his years of isolation growing up under Irons' tutelage, he had learned to heighten his listening skills. Slowing down his own heart rate and tuning out all else, he focused his attention on one thing…her heart. He listened ever so intently and could swear that their hearts beat in unison…for they were connected across time…beyond what this life held for either of them.
He proceeded down the narrow street to the one place she might be safe.
*****
With Led Zepplin's Stairway to Heaven playing innocuously in the background, Gabriel Bowman was ravenously streaming through the Internet, absorbed in his laptop. The glow from the monitor cast a bluish haze on his face in the darkened room. He had been so engrossed in his pursuit of the perfect addition to his own personal collection of Celtic artifacts that he had failed to notice the sun had gone down and put on some lights in his apartment. His computer monitor had been the only source of light for the past several hours. He had been nursing the same bottle of beer for the last hour. It had warmed to room temperature but he had not noticed with his last sip. A half-eaten apple had browned from neglect as well, his attempt at dinner. Gabe was the sole proprietor of Talismaniac, an off the beaten track shop specializing in rare and exotic relics of mythic proportion. Gabe himself was a believer in the road less traveled, preferring retro fashion and music. He had been born a little too late for his taste, so he infused his life with the things he preferred.
Like the interior of the Talismaniac, Gabe's apartment was a clutter with all of his interests. Anyone visiting him would know immediately what turned him on…from his extensive 70s music collection…to his eclectic montage of scholarly books…to rare comics…and his personal assemblage of Celtic relics…to name but a few. Gabe never saw the purpose of displaying such valuable items in a glass case. He wanted to surround himself with his treasure everyday.
Growing up, Gabriel had disliked any form of organized, institutionalized education. He had not the patience for another's idea of quality education and curriculum. If he was not in class, his teachers always knew where to find him. The library was his source of personal inspiration. His parents had learned to appreciate his method of self-teaching, smiling as his teachers, on Parent-Teacher Day, always came around to the obligatory lecture on tardiness and absenteeism. How can you fault a kid who goes AWOL from his classes to study in the library, for crying out loud? Gabe had never lost his unquenchable thirst for knowledge…he knew he never would.
He had barely gotten through high school as a consequence of his own learning practices. When it was time for college, he never followed a course study or made an appointment with a faculty advisor. He sought advice from professors he respected on his curriculum and chose only those courses that intrigued him. He never received a college diploma in the traditional sense but his reputation in antiquities and authentication had grown so significantly that his old professors had made requests for him to be a guest speaker at many of their symposiums. His speaking engagements were always well attended and very popular with the students. His young age and his level of expertise and enthusiasm for the topic were a novel concept for the students that were nearer his twenty-five years of age. Being considered an expert without certification had always made him smile for it was ironic that he was continually paid to provide his expertise for symposiums at the very university that had denied him a diploma.
So, as he sat in his tie-dye T-shirt and faded jeans with holes in the knees, he scoured the chat rooms looking for more things that intrigued him. Framed with thick dark lashes, his large brown eyes speckled with shades of gold, stared intently at his computer. His five o'clock shadow darkly shaded his chin and jaw line, which accented his pale skin and offset the natural cherry color to his full lips. He had the build of his father, standing nearly six feet in height with a very slender, lanky frame. His jet-black hair and good looks had come from his mother along with the angelic name she had chosen for him. His guileless face and innocence was always misinterpreted by many and mistaken for naivete and gullibility. Those entering his show room for the first time constantly mistook him for an hourly employee, requesting to see the owner. He had always responded with a gentle smile, saying, "You're talking to him." He had used his youthful appearance to his benefit in many negotiations on behalf of his patrons.
Those that had tried to take advantage of the young entrepreneur soon learned he was a shrewd negotiator with an eye for the rarest of oddities and collectibles…and definitely knew his way around a negotiating table, having learned these skills from his father. Gabriel's father, Samuel Bowman, loved to haggle. Sam had always teased that he had bargained for the hand of his wife Kathryn, Gabe's mother, this being a continual joke between the good-natured couple. It had been true that Sam would dicker on just about anything, just to keep in practice. It had become a game between Gabriel and his father. Their bartering exploits had become legend, at least in their own minds.
Gabe's parents had both died in an automobile accident several years ago. They had given him all the tools he would need to make a life for himself, but they had never known just how successful their only son would become. Yet, Gabriel was sure that in some cosmic sense, they had witnessed it somehow. He was a big believer in the connectivity of the universe and all its inhabitants. At least, it gave him comfort to think of his parents looking over his shoulder…on most things.
He took another pull from his beer.
"Oh…Jeez. That's nasty…" It was time to stop his internet ramblings when he started to notice the warm beer…that usually did not distract him…so he knew he was coming back to reality…the reality that he was now talking to himself.
A distant rumble of thunder diverted Gabe out of cyberspace, reminding him that the storm had passed while he was enmeshed in the Internet. But like the whisper of a premonition…he was left with a foreboding feeling that had subtly taken hold of him.
He could not shake it.
*****
Sara began to struggle for consciousness in his arms as Nottingham neared the apartment house he knew to be Gabriel Bowman's. For her sake, Ian was thankful her friend Gabe lived on the first floor with a private door obscured from the street, giving Ian some semblance of privacy when he would leave Sara. She groaned, burrowing into his shoulder, beset with pain. Nottingham's voice had reached into her subconscious and beckoned her to awaken. Under the solitary lamp illuminating Gabe's front door, Nottingham gently laid Sara down on the step. He brushed back her hair and cradled her sore head to his chest for a moment in an effort to say farewell before he departed. It hurt to leave her when he knew she was hurting. As he stood, she grabbed his arm clumsily.
"Ian…" Her voice was so faint.
Crouching down in haste, he regarded her anguished expression with a slight tilt of his head, as the tears welled up in his eyes. She looked so frail and small sitting there alone. His heart ached for her. Perhaps she would not remember this…that he was here and had left her.
"He will take care of you…It is too dangerous for us to…to be together now." He choked on his words as a single tear rolled down his cheek. "Forgive me…Sara."
Before he could change his mind and stay with her…causing irreparable harm…Nottingham stood and pushed the buzzer to Gabe's door. Kneeling, he kissed Sara's forehead once more, holding her limp hands in his one last time. Her fingers and arms seemed so frail…not able to bear the weight of the world as she was now expected to do with the Witchblade having chosen her as its wielder. Reluctant to leave, he walked back the way he came. He did not try to hide his pain as the tears started to flow.
He had just left his beloved to another.
*****
"Who the hell could be buzzin' me at this time of night?" Gabe was accustomed to his friends calling at odd hours but this was unusual even for them.
Without undoing the chain on his door, he peered through the opening. He had not seen Sara at first until she moved and muttered something unintelligible. He rushed to release the chain, then stepped outside kneeling down next to his friend. He caught a glimpse of a dark figure as it rounded the corner. He did not have to see the man's face. He knew it was Ian Nottingham. Wherever Sara was, Nottingham was never far away.
What the hell was he doing with her…to her?
"Ian…" Sara murmured, unaware that Gabe was by her side.
"He's gone Sara…He can't hurt you any more." Gabe looked her over before attempting to lift her, not knowing the extent of her injuries. She was covered with cuts and bruises, a layer of dust on her clothes. Anger gripped him.
"No…Ian…" Sara's words caught in her throat as she passed in and out of consciousness. Gabe lifted her with some effort, stepped into the threshold of his apartment, and kicked the door shut behind him.
"No Ian…You're right, Sara. He's gone. He won't be hurting you again." Gabe set his friend on his bed. He made an ice pack for her head and set the alarm clock to wake her in a couple of hours, making sure her head injury was not more serious.
As he attended to her wounds and checked her over painstakingly, he was becoming more enraged. Why had this happened? Nottingham was an assassin and definitely a serious dude to be avoided, but this seemed…over the top even for him. As his more rational thoughts took over, he realized that if Nottingham wanted to harm Sara, he would not have brought her to his doorstep, knowing he would help her. Her body would have never been found…or perhaps she could have defeated him using the powerful weapon on her wrist. Examining Sara closer, he realized something was very wrong.
The Witchblade was gone.
Gazing upon his unconscious friend as he threw a comforter over her, he wagged a finger and said.
"You've got some 'splainin' to do, Lucy."