"Blood Seduction"

This is a long SP/IN/KI tale that is still a work-in-progress. It is set after the end of the second (and final) season. Kenneth Irons has survived his confrontation with Sara at Talismaniac and being severed from the Witchblade, but he is dying slowly. He wants to survive and, so, he hatches a plot. As always, the characters belong to WB and Top Cow - I just play with them. As the rating implies, this is adult reading. If you are not an adult, please don't read it. If you are an adult and read it, be kind enough to let me know what you think. I try to post an update on a weekly basis.

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Long, slender fingers clutched the sheets. Despite the tension, the ornate ring didn't shift on his hand. Behind closed lids, his eyes moved rapidly. "Sara," he breathed softly through parted lips. In his dream, she moved closer. Her scent overpowered his senses. She looked up at him, eyes lambent and the green of a storm swept sea. "I would do anything to please you," she whispered, laying her right hand on his unsteady shoulder. On her wrist, the sentient bracelet roiled with deep magenta currents. His heart bounced in his chest like a moth trapped in a bottle. But even in a dream, he couldn't accept it, it was just too deeply wrong. Her eyes devoured him, filled with adoration. "No," he argued, backing away from her touch, "This isn't right." She advanced with his retreat, touching him again, her warm hand moving from his chest to his stomach to his…

Ian Nottingham's eyes flew open. He lay very still in the lightening darkness just before dawn, trying to control his ragged breathing lest it be heard and noted. The dream was gone but its effects lingered in his jangled nerves and sensitized body. He tried a deep, calming breath. And when he shut his eyes, he saw her again, saw the desire in her green eyes. Without conscious thought, he rolled on his side, offering his back to the camera that watched him from high on the wall by the door. His hand covertly slipped over his naked hip and down. "Ian." A hair shy of its goal, his hand froze, then retreated. He sat up in the narrow bed, carefully drawing the sheets into a concealing tangle from his hips to his groin. "Yes, Sir," he replied to the air, leeching all emotion from his voice.

"I need you in the Great Room," the clipped, cultured tones of his master informed him. There was a brief pause while Ian struggled against relinquishing the faint echo of those jade eyes and the touch of that soft hand. "Now, Ian," Kenneth Irons added, annoyance edging his tone. "Immediately, Sir," Ian replied, abruptly letting go and quickly moving from the bed to dress. Less than five minutes later, Ian stood before his master in the Great Room, covered in black from neck to heel. He waited at parade rest, hands clasped and head lowered. From beneath thick lashes, Ian studied his master, attempting to discern his condition and mood. He looked worse than the last time Ian had seen him several days before – ghastly, Ian thought, like death reanimated.

Since the Witchblade had severed its connection to him during Irons' showdown with Sara at Talismaniac, his health had been failing and his long, slow slide toward death had picked up discernable speed. Irons was now confined to a wheelchair and his previously sharp, handsome features had begun to slowly blur like melting candle wax. With the cold breath of mortality chilling his back, he had developed an air of barely controlled desperation. He was hell bent on pursuing renewed vigor and restored youth with singular and utter ruthlessness. For the last few days, Irons had been sequestered with the inimitable Dr. Immo in his basement laboratory, presumably coming up with a way to cheat the grim reaper yet again.

Ian assumed that his master had summoned him to set these new machinations in motion. Only the rigid discipline that he exerted over his body allowed Ian to present a picture of relaxed readiness. Inside, he fairly thrummed with tension and sick foreboding. He knew that Kenneth Irons' fountain of youth was now and always had been the Witchblade – that meant Sara. It also meant that after several months of heady, but disorienting freedom and ambiguous grief, during which Ian thought that his master was dead at the hand of his lady, he was about to resume the familiar tug-of-war. He was about to begin again that balancing act on the wicked pendulum that swung between his loyalty to his master and his love for his lady.

"I have a task for you," Irons said. Ian blinked. His shoulders hunched slightly in anticipation of the blow. "I need you to go to Munich immediately to secure some crucial documents and bring them to me," Irons continued. Ian released a cautious breath. This wasn't what he'd expected. "Of course," he replied, eyes on the floor. "The jet is standing by. You'll find full instructions on board," the reedy, commanding voice finished dismissively. Ian nodded once and turned to leave. He'd reached the massive, ornately carved door when the cold voice spoke again, "Ian." Ian stopped and stood still, waiting, his back to his master. "I want you back here by tomorrow night, papers in hand. Don't disappoint me," Irons said. Ian nodded again and left, shutting the door behind him.

Dr. Immo emerged from the shadows of the balcony ringing the upper level of the cavernous room. Like a specter, he soundlessly descended the spiral staircase and crossed the Persian rug to halt across from his employer. "Well?" Irons asked crossly, squinting at him in the dim firelight. Immo shrugged. "He appeared to accept it at face value," he said, "Perhaps he won't be a problem, after all." Irons chuckled mirthlessly. "If you believe that, doctor, then you don't know Ian," he said, "He will accept nothing that impacts the Wielder at face value. As soon as he's on the plane, he'll access the computer and start backtracking to try to find out how his precious Sara fits into our plans."

"Will he succeed?" Immo asked nervously. Irons pressed a button and the wheelchair swung around and moved away from the fire with a mechanical whir. "Probably," he replied, "Ian is very bright as you well know and almost intuitive when it comes to anything related to the Wielder." Immo followed the path of the chair until he faced Irons again. "Then he could come back early and intervene yet again," he suggested, "And your plans for Detective Pezzini could be thwarted." Irons smiled thinly. "No. Not this time," he said, "Even if Ian discovers my plan, there simply won't be enough time for him to procure the documents and return to stop the planned catastrophe. He won't disobey my orders. He won't leave Germany until he has the papers. By then, it will be too late."

"He'll blame himself for failing her," Immo observed. "Oh, yes," Irons agreed, "That's my Ian – ever the martyr. And, of course, that will make him all the more agreeable when we put the next part of the plan into effect. The poor, guilt-stricken boy will be ever so eager to help her recover from her misfortune." "Yes, I see," Immo said, "But won't he resent you for doing this to her? Are you so sure that your chains on him are still binding? All those months without your influence could have weakened the links." "Ian is what I created him to be," Irons said with certainty, "He may chafe a bit from his fantasies of love. He may even dream of breaking free. But in the end, he will do what he has always done. He will obey me."

The Vorschlag private jet taxied down the runway and took to the air. When it reached cruising altitude, Ian Nottingham unsnapped the seatbelt and swung his laptop computer to the tray table in front of him. After booting up, he began to dig, wandering through the maze of files and shadow accounts that Kenneth Irons used to hide his shadier transactions. Within an hour, Ian knew that he was on the trail of something and he pursued it like a bloodhound with a scent. By the time the plane began its descent at Munich, the threads of the plot had started to unravel before him and Ian was beginning to grasp his master's newest web of deceit. He needed more time. Time that he didn't have – Irons had made sure of that.

Ian was so preoccupied with how to counter his master's next moves that he barely acknowledged the Vorschlag corporate toadies that met him at the airport, whisked him through customs, and deposited him in the private suite of the satellite office in Munich. Oblivious to the luxury surrounding him, Ian's mind frantically played out scenario after scenario. He ran a hand through his hair so roughly that he broke the leather cord that was holding it back. Gold-streaked, chocolate curls tumbled around his face. Ian sighed and impatiently pushed his hair back behind his ears. There's just not enough time, he thought again. By the time he secured the documents for which he'd been dispatched and flew back home, it would all be over.

Stilling the turmoil of his mind, Ian took a deep calming breath. "Alright," he thought, "I cannot stop it. Accept that as a given and try a different tack. How can I minimize the impact of this on Sara without overtly disrupting my master's plans?" A small, hard smile touched his lips. Yes, that was better. He finally had some room to maneuver. He had two hours before he had to meet the contact and obtain the documents that he had been sent for, three hours before he boarded the flight for home. Time to make some calls. Not wanting to leave any records on a company phone, Ian left the office to find a public phone and make some international calls. He couldn't protect Sara from the hurt that was to come, but he could salvage something for her and give it back when the time was right. This time, that would have to be enough.

Danny had heard the news on the car radio when he was driving home from the precinct. He'd almost caused a four-car pileup doing a U turn in the middle of the block to hurtle back across town to Sara's loft. The barricades stopped him when he was two blocks away. He could see the flames from there, shooting wildly into the night sky. By chance, someone across the street was pulling out and he angled quickly into the empty spot, turning off the car and picking up his cell phone simultaneously. He locked the car and set off for the loft at a dead run, punching the speed dial for Lee to let her know what had happened and why he was going to be late.

When Danny got to the first barricade, he flashed his badge and they let him through. The closer he got, the worse it looked. He weaved around hoses, people, trucks, and other obstacles, his heart pumping madly. As he got up close, he realized that they had the fire under control. He snagged the arm of a fireman that appeared to be in charged and shouted, "Anyone hurt?" The man glanced at him and Danny raised his badge, hoping that it would buy him some information. The fireman raised an eyebrow but said, "No. Everyone got out in time." Danny nodded his thanks and started looking around. He knew that she was here somewhere. He had managed to push his way directly in front of the burning building when he finally saw her through a rift in the smoke-filled air.

She was sitting on the front steps of the building across the street, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her chin rested on her bent knees as she watched almost everything she owned in the world go up in smoke. In spite of what the fireman had said, when he saw Sara, Danny felt a wave of relief so strong that he almost dropped to his knees in the street. He went to her, stopping on the step just below where she sat. For a moment, he wondered if she even realized that he was there. But, then, she looked up at him. Her hair was everywhere. Her face was dark with soot, in which her tears made jagged white streaks. Her eyes were flat with misery and red from smoke and crying. "Oh, Danny," she croaked hoarsely. He dropped to the step beside her and pulled her into his arms.

Danny held her close, awkwardly stroking her hair, while Sara sobbed against his shoulder. She finally lifted her head. "My pictures, Danny," she sighed, "The only pictures I have of my parents. Gone, all gone." He made comforting noises against her hair. "I'm so sorry, Sara," he said, "Nothing can make this any easier, but at least no one was killed." Danny's cell rang and, still stroking Sara's back, he picked it up. "Woo," he said, "Yeah. Hi, Vicki. She's okay. I'm with her now." He listened a moment, then said, "No. I think the loft is totaled." He listened again before saying, "I'll ask. Sara?" She turned back to him with glazed eyes. "Vicki wants to know if you'd like to stay with her for a while?" he asked, "Of course, you know, you're also welcome to stay with us. The kids would love to have their Aunt Sara around for a while."

Sara rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. "Oh god, I can't think," she said raggedly, "Vicki's so close. It might be easier to just crash there, at least for tonight. Would you take me? The Buell's parked a couple blocks back but I don't think I'm safe to drive it right now." Danny squeezed her hand. "Sure," he said, then turned back to the phone, "Vick? I'll bring her over in a little while. Sure. Bye." Danny dropped the cell back in his pocket only to have it ring again immediately. This time it was Jake, who had called Danny when he couldn't reach Sara. Danny filled him in and Sara got a third offer of a temporary home. After a few more words, he hung up again and put away the phone.

Danny slid his arm back around Sara and pulled her close. He rested his head against hers. Her sobs had subsided to soft, hiccupping sighs. "You look done in, Partner," he said softly, "There's nothing left for you here but pain. Let's get you somewhere safe and dry. Okay?" She leaned against him. "Okay," she said, "Thanks." They walked back to his car, his arm still wrapped around her. Sara was quiet for the drive to Vicki's condo, lost in her thoughts. Danny didn't push conversation on her. He figured that Sara needed some space to deal with the life changes that had just crashed in on her. He walked her up to Vicki's door and came in long enough to call Lee and fill her in on what was happening. That done, he stayed for a cup of tea before he left, promising to pick her up the next morning.

Vicki tried hard not to fuss over her friend. It was a losing battle. Sara finally managed a weak smile. Showered and decked out in a spare pair of Vicki's pajamas, she was curled in an easy chair with a mug of strong coffee. "I'll live, Vick," she said, "I'll start over. I'll manage." "I know you will, Sara," Vicki fussed, "It's just such a shitty thing to have happen to you." Sara shut her eyes, overcome again for a moment. "Most of what I lost wasn't important," she said, "But some of it was irreplaceable. That's what hurts." Vicki wrung her hands. "What can I do?" she asked. "Show me where you want me to sleep, Vick," she replied, "I'm beat."

Back from Munich, Ian stood in the Great Room of the mansion once again. Although he was very tired from both the long journey and the stress of the last 24 hours, none of that showed in his demeanor. He stood tall and straight before his master, holding out the crucial documents that he'd been sent to retrieve. Irons waved a negligent hand toward Ian and said, "Just put them on the library table." Ian did as he was told. Irons lips curved in a feral smile. "Did you encounter any problems?" he asked. Ian understood that there were a wealth of meanings in that question. "No," he replied, back still to his master. "Liar," Irons thought, the smile expanding to a wolfish grin. "Very well, Ian," he said, "You're dismissed. Goodnight." "Goodnight, Sir," Ian replied, slipping from the room like mist and closing the door behind him.

Alone in his room, Ian undressed, showered, and went to bed. He lay still in the darkness, carefully controlling his facial expressions. The camera that monitored his room had an infrared lens. Stilling his mind, he slowly rubbed his ring and tried to connect with Sara. He felt the pain, but it was muted. He concluded that she must have been able to sleep. That was good. Rest would help. He'd already known that she was safe. He'd checked with those that he had watching her, protecting her, as soon as he was off the plane and could use a public phone.

He'd also checked with the petty thief that he'd hired to burgle her loft earlier that day. The man didn't understand why Ian had paid him a fortune to steal photo albums and keepsakes, while leaving a television and other electronics that he could easily fence. It didn't matter. His lady's memories were safe and in his keeping. And, until the time was right, until he could return them to her without implicating himself or his master, he would guard them with his love and with his life.

At the precinct the next day, Sara was the unwilling center of attention. Although she was grateful for all the expressions of sympathy and support, it soon began to wear on her. When she passed on Jake's offer of a free cup of Starbucks as he went out to lunch, Danny really began to worry. After Jake shut the door behind him, Sara put her head down on her desk. "Why don't you knock off for the day, Pez," he said to the top of her head, "No one really expected you to be in today anyhow. You'll have Vicki's place to yourself until tonight." She raised her head and looked at him through bloodshot eyes. "Nah," she replied, "We're carrying a full caseload. Besides, I'd just obsess about stuff."

"The cases aren't going anywhere," Danny said logically, "They'll still be here tomorrow. What stuff?" "How I'm going to find a new place to live with no time to do it?" she said, "How I'm going to furnish it when I do find it with $83.48 in my checking? How Vicki and I are going to stay friends when we're sharing a bathroom each morning?" "Those are all good questions," he replied, "So, why don't you take them one at a time and in small doses instead of dumping all this worry on yourself at once?" Just as Sara was about to put a hole in that theory, her desk phone rang. "What fresh hell is this?" she thought sourly, picking up the receiver. "Pezzini," she said.

"Hello, Sara," said the mellow voice on the line. Sara shut her eyes. "Perfect, just perfect," she thought. To Danny, she said, "Partner, could you give me a minute to take this?" He looked at her curiously and said, "Sure. I'll go get some coffee." When Danny left, shutting the door behind him, Sara said, "What do you want, Nottingham?" into the phone. "To tell you how sorry I am for your loss," Ian said, "And to help." She snorted. "Help, huh?" she jabbed, "That would be a first. I figured that I might find your boss hanging around my place last night roasting marshmallows." Ian winced. "Close," he thought. "Where is Irons anyway?" she continued, "He hasn't been around since the last time he tried to kill me." There was a long pause before Ian said, "Mr. Irons has been severely disabled since his last encounter with you, Sara. The offer of help is from me, not him."

Now, it was Sara's turn to pause. "Okay, Nottingham, lay it on me," she said, "It can't be more bizarre than some of the things I've heard this morning. Oh wait, what am I thinking – this is you." "Do you want to hear what I have to say, Sara, or would you rather just keep sniping at me?" Ian asked quietly. As he'd intended, the guilt kicked in. "Yeah, yeah, okay," she mumbled, "So how can you help me?" "I know of an apartment that's just gone empty. I think you might like it," he said, pushing on before the denials could begin, "The rent is reasonable, it's close to the precinct, there's a garage for your bike, and the layout is very similar to your loft." There was another long pause. "So what's the catch?" she asked. Ian layered just the faintest touch of irritation over his voice. "There is no catch. You've had some bad luck. I just wanted to help," he said, "If you don't want to take a look at the place, so be it."

Sara thought about her caseload, she pictured slogging through the rental section of the newspaper, and she remembered how she and Vicki had had to jockey for the one small bathroom that morning. The decision was surprisingly easy to make. "Okay, Nottingham, you're on," she said, "Where and when?" Ian swallowed his sigh of relief. He gave her the address of the apartment building and said, "I'll meet you in front of the building in an hour. Is that okay for you?" "That works," she agreed. He was getting ready to hang up when he heard her ask, "Hey, Nottingham. Why are you doing this for me?" Now, he did sigh, audibly. "Hey, Sara," he replied, "If you have to ask me that, then you've never really listened to a word that I've said." The next thing that she heard was the dial tone.

When Danny returned with coffee for them both, Sara still had the phone receiver in her hand. She was staring off into space with a bemused expression on her face. He put the coffee on her desk and she jumped, startled. "Where were you?" he asked. She snorted. "Neverneverland," she replied, "I think I am going to take off for a couple of hours this afternoon if it's okay. I've got a line on an apartment." "Wow," he said, "That was fast." Sara shrugged. "Dumb luck," she replied, "Or evil intention." Danny frowned. "Come again?" he said. Sara rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands in a gesture that was becoming too familiar. "Don't mind me. I'm rambling," she said, "Too little sleep and too much on my mind." "Sure. If there's anything that I can do, let me know," he replied, "I know you'll feel better once you've got your own place again." She could finally grin at that sentiment. "Amen, Partner," she said.

As soon as Ian flipped the cell phone closed, Irons said, "She didn't seem to thrilled with your offer, or did I misread the conversation." Ian dropped his head and clasped his hands in front of him. "Sara doesn't like me," he said, "And she doesn't trust me." Irons smiled. "Well, you're just going to have to change that, aren't you, Ian," he said. Ian raised sharp golden eyes, hazarding a measuring look at this master. "Sir?" he questioned. Irons ignored the implied question. "Has your space been prepared at the top of the building?" he asked. "Yes," Ian said. "Good," Irons replied, "You'll be living there until further notice. Do you understand?" "No," Ian said. Irons sighed. "What is it that you don't understand, Ian?" he asked. "This new game that you're playing," Ian thought.

Aloud, Ian asked, "How am I to serve you living away from the mansion?" "You will serve me by becoming indispensable to Sara Pezzini," Irons said, just a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice, "You will serve me by becoming fair Sara's new best friend." Ian looked at his master boldly, his clear eyes bright with skepticism. Irons smiled coldly. "Don't you think you can pull it off, Ian?" he asked. Ian shrugged, his eyes going flat. "Because if you can't, my boy," Irons continued in icy tones, "There are others who can. Keep in mind that you are not indispensable to me." Irons enjoyed a moment of pleasure as he watched the muscles in Ian's shoulders spasm.

"You wish me to become Sara's friend so that she will confide in me?" Ian asked carefully. "Not at all," Irons said with great good humor, "I wish you to become Sara's friend so that you can take the next step more easily." Ian felt coldness settle around the base of his spine. "The next step?" he asked. Irons allowed a nice pregnant pause before he answered. "Yes, Ian, the next step," he said, "Seducing the Wielder and becoming her lover." Ian turned to his master, looking him full in the face. His own face had gone utterly blank with shock. Irons savored the moment before Ian surprised them both. He laughed out loud.

Irons lips stretched into a thin, hard line. "What is it that strikes you so funny?" he asked. Ian controlled himself with difficulty, shock waves still rippling through him. "Sara will never take me as her lover," he said, voice tight, "I revolt her. She sees me as a 'freak.'" "Yes, well," Irons said negligently, "You will simply have to work very hard then to change that perception, won't you?" Ian shook his head. "I know nothing of seducing women, let alone Sara," he said, "You saw to that." Irons eyes narrowed at the bite in Ian's tone. "I remember," he said, "'Virginity is invulnerability.' Well, Ian, your invulnerability is suddenly far less important than my mortality." "I wouldn't know where to begin," Ian said. Irons chuckled. "Are you requesting lessons?" he asked.

Ian's eyes went wide. The thought of his father giving him lessons in the art of seduction was unbearable. If this was Irons plan, he would find some way to muddle through on his own. Besides, there was still the possibility that he could find some way to circumvent it, some other way to achieve the desired goal – whatever that was. Ian was quite sure that the intended seduction was not the end, but only a means to another still undisclosed end. These thoughts flashed through Ian's mind in a matter of seconds before he answered Irons, "No thank you, Sir. I'll manage." Irons smiled. "That's the spirit," he said, "And here I thought you'd be thrilled that I was giving you carte blanche to fuck the sacred object of your lust."

Ian winced. "To what purpose?" he asked. Irons moved the wheelchair closer to the roaring fire. Click-whir, click-whir – sounds that Ian heard now in his sleep. "One that is of no consequence to you at the moment, young Nottingham," Irons replied, "For now, you simply need to concentrate on seducing the lovely Sara. If you need help, you can let me know. I'll hire someone to give you some pointers. And, of course, your immediate purpose is to get her into that building. Do you think you can manage that, Ian?" Ian dropped his head and softly replied, "Yes, Sir." "Good," he said, waiving his hand toward the door dismissively, "Then get to it." Ian walked to the door, thinking, "I may get Sara in your building but I'll never get her in my bed. If you think different, then you're a fool, old man." The door shut just a little too hard behind him.