"Blood Seduction"

As hard as he tried to cling to it, the dream of Sara holding him tight in her arms evaporated and he woke to the reality of the cold, sterile room in Immo’s lab. The low light that had been left burning permeated the walls with an almost mechanical sheen – as if he were in the belly of some great, technological beast. Ian shut his eyes and did his deep breathing routine to calm down. He was getting fanciful. He chastised himself, trying to remember that he was a grown man and not a child. It only worked to a point. He was lonely, afraid, in pain, and aching desperately for Sara. Ian shifted on the uncomfortable, narrow bed to which he was bound. As he had already done countless times, he tested the restraints for some give. There was none. His master was taking no chances that he might get loose. His dry lips curved in the ghost of a smile as he heard Sara’s voice in his head: “He’s not your master, Ian.” The nascent smile gave way to a grimace as searing pain lanced through his head. The drugs that Immo had been pumping into him to keep him docile were playing hell with his whole system but his head was taking the brunt of it. The headaches were devastating.

With a soft sigh of despair, Ian turned his head to glance at the I.V. line that snaked into his arm. Immo had set it up on a timer. He assumed that he was only conscious because the next infusion was soon to be released into his system. When that happened, he would be out again in seconds. He shut his eyes and wondered whether he would be addicted to whatever drug was holding him in its thrall when he finally managed to escape from this hell. There, that was a new misery to contemplate; something to deflect his vivid imagination from images of the clone and Sara alone together at the loft. Tawny, golden eyes widened as he heard the whoosh of the door at the far end of the chamber in which he was imprisoned. “Who the hell is this?” he wondered, disquiet creeping up his spine. It was the middle of the night. Had Immo come back for something he had forgotten? Irons, still weak from the switched transfusion of his own tainted blood, had gone to bed hours ago. Then, he heard it – click whir, click whir. Daddy was up and about. The disquiet degenerated into dread. Here he was, a sitting duck; alone, bound, and drugged.

Ian turned his head to watch Kenneth Irons roll slowly into view. He stopped a foot away from Ian’s bound body and gave him a wintry smile. “I was restive,” he began in that mellow, fruity voice that his servant knew spelled trouble, “So, I went in to look at the monitors. That is what I have instead of a life now, Ian – pictures. Imagine my surprise when I noticed that you were awake.” Ian studied his master in the dim light, thinking that he looked ghastly. He didn’t fool himself into complacency, however; even in this condition, Irons was a deadly, dangerous opponent. The death’s head that had once held such leonine grace cracked in the rictus of a smile. Kenneth stretched out a single, bony finger to rest at the center of Ian’s bare chest. Ian was unable to restrain the minute shudder that traveled through his body. Irons emitted a dry chuckle that degenerated into a brief, wheezing cough. He slowly drew the finger down Ian’s body until it rested on the plain, white sheet that covered him from foot to waist. “I thought that we might spend some quality time together, my boy,” he rasped, “Just the two of us.” Irons grasped a handful of sheet and yanked the fabric toward him. With a soft hiss, the covering fell to the floor, exposing Ian’s naked body to the fey light of the subterranean room. Nottingham shut his eyes, not wanting to see what was coming next when he was powerless to stop it. Even though Ian felt no immediate touch, he could feel Kenneth’s eyes crawling over his body like multi-legged insects.

“You are very beautiful, my boy,” Irons whispered, almost to himself, “Very beautiful. You are now the way that I was once; young, strong, shapely. Perfect. It is a mystery to me why I never made use of you.” Ian drew in a ragged breath and began to pray that the drug would knock him out before Irons could explore this train of thought any farther, much less turn it into action. The single finger again extended. Now, his master traced the pleasure trail of fine, dark hair that meandered from Ian’s scooped navel down to his sex. Ian felt bile rise burning into his throat. He fought to keep it down, throat muscles convulsing. Watching his face avidly, Irons warned, “Careful, boy. It wouldn’t do to make me lose my temper, would it?” Ian mastered his stomach but could not still the light, continuous way that his body trembled under the whisper-soft caress of his master. It did not matter. That was a response that Kenneth enjoyed. At that moment, Ian felt consciousness begin to slip away from him as a fresh infusion of the drug was released. Irons had just splayed his palsied fingers wide to grasp Ian’s flaccid penis in his large hand. With a soft sigh of “Sara,” Ian’s whole body went limp. At the moment of denouement, the spider had lost the fly. Kenneth was furious. “No!” he cried, closing his fingers around Ian in a punishing grip. His fury fell into a vacuum. Ian was again deep in a drugged slumber and did not respond. The predator had lost his prey.

When Sara made her way to the kitchen the following morning, a fresh pot of coffee was ready and waiting. Dev sat up on the counter in the spot that she usually occupied, wearing the jeans and tee shirt from the night before. As she passed him, he kept his head down. The large mug of steaming coffee that he was holding to his lips obscured most of his face. She was dressed again in Ian’s white, terry robe. It still held his scent and made her feel closer to her absent lover. She was in no hurry to engage in conversation with the clone. Sara was still annoyed with him over the aborted seduction attempt in the hot tub. Taking a clean mug from the cabinet and pouring herself some coffee, she studied him from beneath lowered lashes. He was sitting bent over with his thighs spread wide. She stifled a grin, thinking to herself that that neat package of his was probably pretty tender today. She had given him a hell of a shot with her heel. She took a careful sip of hot coffee and was pleasantly surprised. It was strong, rich, and delicious. Well, she thought dismissively, at least he’s good for something. She cleared her throat and wary, golden eyes flicked over her quickly, skittering away again immediately. “Good coffee,” she grated grudgingly. Devian shrugged, just a slight movement of one hunched shoulder. If he thinks he’s going to play the martyr because I hurt him, he’s in for a rude awakening, she thought. I’m glad that I hurt him. He didn’t seem inclined to talk so she turned toward the doorway with her coffee, intending to go get dressed for work.

“Sara,” he said softly. She stopped and turned back. The tawny eyes shot up to gauge her mood and again dropped quickly. She crossed her arms, tapped her foot, and waited. “I’m sorry about last night,” Dev mumbled, “I had too much wine and too little diversion. I acted like an ass. I apologize. It won’t happen again.” She squinted at him wondering if his contrition was real or if this was another act. Sara decided to accept it at face value. After all, she was stuck with him until she got Ian back. If they were always at each other’s throats, things could rapidly become unpleasant. “I accept your apology,” she replied, “But if it does happen again, I won’t be so gentle.” She smiled when he winced and shifted his position gingerly on the counter. “Oh yeah,” she thought, “He’s hurting.” It perked her right up and when she climbed the ladder to the sleeping loft, she was whistling. Devian eased himself carefully from his perch to refill his mug. He was, indeed, very sore in the groin area and working himself into the tight jeans that morning had been an exercise in agony. His first sessions at the dojo were scheduled for early that evening. If he took a stray kick to the family jewels, he thought, they were going to have to peel him, screaming, from the ceiling of the training facility.

Devian sighed and limped toward the spare bedroom carrying his fresh coffee. As he passed Hannibal, lying on the floor by the kitchen doorway, the big dog lifted his head and whined softly. “That’s right, boy,” Dev said, wincing as he leaned down to scratch the animal’s scruff, “You can sympathize with me, can’t you?” The Rottie, after all, had been neutered against his will. As if in commiseration, the dog loosed a soft woof. “You can say that again,” the clone replied, straightening up and walking carefully into his bedroom. Hannibal watched the doorway a few moments to see whether Dev would return. Then, he got up, shook himself, and lumbered off in search of his new friend; the confusing but nice one that looked and smelled like Daddy but wasn’t. Dev had not reappeared when Sara came back downstairs dressed and ready for work. She was buckling on her shoulder harness when the clone stuck his head out of the bedroom door to say goodbye. “Are you heading to the mansion soon?” she asked. He nodded. “Within the hour,” he replied. She seemed to go completely still for a moment as if listening. She looked worried, nibbling on her lower lip. “Will you call me to let me know how he is?” she asked, “Something doesn’t feel right.” Dev tilted his head in that gesture so reminiscent of Ian. “What do you mean?” he countered. She shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I can’t explain it,” she murmured, “In the middle of the night, I woke up, wanting to go to him. I just need to know that he’s alright.” Devian studied her, not for the first time envying his brother. “I’ll call,” he promised.

As she turned to put on her jacket, he said, “Sara.” Eager to go now, she turned back impatiently. Her raised brow suggested that he continue. “The old man started bugging me yesterday to reactivate the surveillance,” Dev said, “He badly wants to see and hear what’s going on here. He doesn’t trust me. I don’t think he’ll just let this one go. I’ll stall him as long as I can but we may need to come up with another plan quickly.” She did not want to contemplate the implications of what he was saying at the moment. It was just too difficult. She was already on overload and simply did not want to deal with it. She had had enough of him and was itching for the snarky familiarity of her partners and the routine of the job. “We’ll talk about it tonight,” she replied, dismissing him. He could sense how much she wanted to be rid of him. Not caring about his feelings, she made no attempt to hide it. Curiously hurt and trying to deny it, he turned away from her. “Sure,” he said, “Tonight is fine. I’ll call you about Ian as soon as I can.” She waved casually and made a beeline for the door. When she got to the second floor, Vicki was waiting for her outside her door. “Sorry I’m late, Vick,” Sara said, mentally cursing the clone, “Thanks for the ride.” Her Buell was still parked at the Precinct. She’d have to see if her repair guy would come out to take a look at it today. She sighed; one more problem to worry about. Vicki grinned. “Having a little morning tumble with your honey?” she asked.

Sara grimaced at the thought of tumbling with the “honey” that she had left upstairs. Before she could school her face back into neutral lines, Vicki, of course, noticed. “Are you and Ian having problems?” she asked, adding, “Oh god, it isn’t my fault somehow, is it?” Sara clapped her friend on the shoulder as they started down the stairs. “Jeez, Vick, get a life. Okay?” she snarled playfully, “Ian and I are fine. Shift that guilt of yours to your own relationship with Jakey boy. You haven’t really been paying him much attention lately, have you?” Vicki shrugged, looking both sulky and resigned. “Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled, as they headed toward her car, “You’re right. He wants to come over Saturday night and I’ve been stalling. I guess that I should tell him to come ahead.” Sara nodded, pleased that her friend was moving on. She did not want to see Vicki get tangled up with the randy clone. The possibilities there were truly frightening. If Vicki and Jake could manage to establish a solid relationship by the time Devian was free, maybe the whole incipient attraction that was simmering between them would fade away. She did not want the evil twin to become a permanent fixture in their lives. When these problems were past them, she wanted to see him head for the hallowed halls of Vorschlag never to darken their humble door again.

When Dev got to the mansion, he went straight to Immo’s laboratory. Grateful to find that the doctor had not yet arrived, the clone headed to the room where Ian was being held. With Ian’s help, he had learned how to wield Excalibur in a very limited way. He used its properties now to slip into the room unnoticed and to make himself invisible to the security cameras. If anyone later studied the tape recorded during his visit, it would look like poor drug-addled Ian was talking to himself. Dev hoped that Ian was at least marginally conscious because he couldn’t afford to hang around long. Irons expected him in the Great Room in half an hour. Of course, he fully intended to be a little late for that meeting. It was a matter of principle. Tardiness pushed the old man’s buttons and Devian just loved to push the old man’s buttons. He found his brother floating somewhere between lucidity and stupor. Looking at Ian’s naked body, he was caught again by how similar they were – except for the scars and, of course, the experience those scars represented. The clone bent carefully, favoring his groin, to pick the fallen sheet off the floor. He spread it over Ian, covering his nakedness. Ian’s big, golden eyes cleared a little as he edged a bit closer to consciousness. Dev sat on the side of the bed and Ian flinched away from him, squinting. “No!” he gasped. “What the hell?” Dev thought. Was his brother tripping?

“It’s me,” Dev whispered, “What’s the matter with you?” Ian blinked and his focus seemed to get better. “Dev?” he asked. Devian nodded and said, “Yeah. It’s me. What’s wrong?” Ian snorted, amused that the clone had the nerve to ask him that considering the situation in which they found themselves. Ian shut his eyes and whispered, “I had a visit in the middle of the night.” Dev frowned. “Shit,” he hissed, “I counted on the old boy to sleep through the night. Did he hurt you?” Ian opened his eyes to stare into the identical eyes of his brother. “Depends on how you define ‘hurt,’ I guess,” he replied, “He started to touch me.” The look of disgust that shifted across Dev’s handsome features was unforced. “Eww,” he responded. The clone thought of Sara’s middle-of-the-night misgivings. She had obviously been right on target. He pictured the old pervert in his fancy wheelchair and shivered delicately with revulsion. “So, how far did he get?” Dev asked, trying to keep it light even though he was deeply and truly repulsed, “Are all your parts still pristine and intact?” Ian frowned and shook his head, trying to clear it more. “He touched me, held me,” he replied, voice tight, “Then, fresh drugs kicked in and I passed out. I have no idea what happened after that.” Dev squeezed his brother’s shoulder and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t let it happen again. I’ll take care of it.” Ian studied Devian, a bit startled by his unqualified support. “How?” he asked. Dev grinned. “I’ll turn the tables on the fucker,” he hissed, “I’ll work out a way to drug him so that he doesn’t wander around the house after dark. Let’s put our heads together and see if we can come up with a way to end this; something that won’t show up during an autopsy.”

A half hour later, fifteen minutes tardy for his scheduled appearance, Devian sauntered into the Great Room. With barely controlled fury, Irons swung the wheelchair around. He stayed where he was, close to the roaring fire, because the death chill never left his bones any more. Without asking permission, Devian dropped his lean body into the throne-like chair that the old man had habitually occupied. He slung one long leg over its ornate arm. He grinned at Irons, ignoring the rage hardening the old man’s features. “You wanted to see me?” Dev drawled. Finally losing it, Irons gripped the wolf’s head cane that rested against his chair. Hefting it with every ounce of strength remaining in his frail body, he swung the heavy stick in a whistling arc toward the disrespectful clone. It happened so fast that Devian was taken by surprise. Gauging its trajectory at the last moment, he managed to shift his body so that the solid silver wolf’s head slammed into his shoulder rather than splitting his head like a ripe melon. Dev rolled from the chair, clutching his damaged shoulder. Irons came after him, a juggernaut in the mechanical chair, shifting his grip and lifting the heavy cane for another strike. Devian kept rolling until he got his feet under him. When he did, he surged smoothly upright and caught the cane in one long-fingered hand as it swished through the air toward his head with deadly intent.

Everything stopped. Irons was frozen in his chair, arm raised, cane poised to strike. His face was dead pale, locked in a furious grimace. Dev stood over him like an avenging angel, the massive silver head of the walking stick unmoving in his white-knuckled hand. His eyes were blazing amber, dark with fury and pain. “Try that again, Kenny,” Dev hissed softly, “And I’ll give you a real treat. I’ll shove this whole fucking cane right up your tight, old ass.” Irons released the cane and wheeled the chair backwards away from the clone. “Bastard spawn,” he roared, “I created you.” There was a pause before Dev managed a tight smile. “I suspect you may be regretting that right now,” the clone snarled, fighting his temper and trying to remember what was at stake. “If you’re tired of living after all,” he continued, voice marginally calmer, “Then just go ahead and have me eliminated.” In the weighted silence now blanketing the room, the fire crackled loudly as logs burned and shifted. Devian held his breath, waiting to see whether Irons would summon his small army to take the clone up on his offer. If he did, a lot of people were going to die because he was not going to go without a hell of a fight. In another moment, Dev felt the energy shift and he knew that this particular crisis had passed. Irons watched the clone, his rheumy light blue eyes hooded. Finally, his frail body began to shake as a dry, raspy chuckle rolled through him. Dev idly rubbed his throbbing shoulder, a long, slow chill tiptoing up his spine. What now? he thought.

Still laughing, Irons observed, “We don’t like each other much, do we, boy?” Dev frowned, thinking that Irons’ insight was a gross understatement. “Is that necessary?” he asked. Kenneth slowly shook his head and replied, “No. I don’t suppose that it is. Get me more blood.” Devian’s golden eyes went wide. “From the Wielder?” he asked. Irons frowned. “Don’t make me regret my decision to let you live a little longer, boy,” he hissed, “Of course, from the Wielder. The last batch that you brought me was…ineffectual.” Dev shrugged. “And new blood from the same source should be different from the last blood I got how?” he asked. Irons’ bony hand went tight around the arm of the wheelchair. “Don’t push me, boy,” he growled softly, “That is not your concern. Just get me the blood as I have ordered you to do. Bring it to me tomorrow morning at 8:00 A.M. sharp. Do you understand, Devian?” The clone stood at attention and saluted. “Yes, sir!” he snapped back sharply. He turned and made directly for the door, needing some fresh air badly. He was almost there when Irons stopped him, saying, “Oh, and Devian.” The clone sighed loudly before he turned and responded, “Yes?” Kenneth smiled and replied, “I expect you to give me an entertaining show this evening.” Devian had no idea what the old fart was talking about now. In response, he lifted an arched, dark brow questioningly. Still smiling, Irons continued, “While you and the Wielder have been out and about this morning, I’ve had all of the surveillance equipment at the loft reactivated. I have so missed my little passion plays. I will be most interested to see how you measure up to your brother.”

Devian tried to hide his shock, not wanting to give the old man the satisfaction of a response to the bomb he had dropped. He managed to plaster the ubiquitous cocky grin across his face and reply, “You’re in for a treat. Ian may have gotten there first but I’m the one that the Wielder will remember.” Kenneth was frustrated. He had not received the reaction that he had been expecting. The clone continued to be as difficult as he had been almost from the moment of his activation. Devian was annoying and unpredictable; not to be trusted. Although Irons had cited his voyeurism as the reason for renewing surveillance at the loft, it was the nature of Dev himself that had lent the decision such urgency. He was a wild card. Irons sighed. He missed Ian. His former bodyguard had had his moments of rebellion certainly, but nothing like this. He hadn’t a clue what was going on behind the tawny, cat eyes that were studying him insolently from across the room. “Is that all?” Dev asked impatiently. He needed to get going. He had a full day of damage control ahead of him. “No rest for the wicked,” he suddenly thought, stifling a devilish smile.

Irons was exhausted, weak. If even a few minutes with this ill-conceived experiment in genetics wore him out, spending almost an hour with Devian had nearly done him in. Kenneth waved a bony, liver-spotted hand in the clone’s general direction and ordered, “Get out then. But be back tomorrow morning at eight sharp, boy – with fresh blood from the Wielder.” Without another word, Dev slipped out of the room, slamming the door behind him because he knew that pushed another of Kenny’s buttons. The old boy had more buttons than a fucking vending machine, the irreverent clone idly thought. For the benefit of the cameras and security personnel, Dev made his way out of the mansion and off the grounds in full view of all. Once clear of the estate, however, he doubled back and slipped into the servant’s entrance at the rear of the mansion. He again used Ian’s ring of power so that he would not be detected. There was someone in the kitchen that he needed to see. First on his list of to do’s was ensuring that Irons was knocked out during the night so that Ian was safe. He also put his network of eyes and ears within the mansion on full alert. If Ian was threatened at any other point within the day, he wanted to be notified immediately. He made provisions that a diversion would be created – a false emergency – that would keep the old man busy and Ian safe until he could return to the mansion himself.

Ultimately, though, they had to find a way to end this and end it soon. They all needed to be free of the old man before someone other than Irons died. He did not intend for it to be him and, curiously, he found that he did not want it to be Sara or Ian either. Still, if it came down to a choice… Devian shrugged fatalistically. He had never claimed to be a saint. If they were smart and careful, there was no reason that it had to come to that. When he had seen everyone he needed to see and had set all his plans in motion, Dev slipped back out of the mansion unnoticed. Excalibur was turning out to be one handy little doohickey. It was going to be hard to cheerfully hand it back over to Ian. In a strangely circuitous dance of logic, that brought his mind around to the Wielder. They had to meet and talk, work out a plan to deal with the return of Big Brother. He knew she was not going to be happy. He winced, thinking that she was going to be even more distraught over what they might have to do to keep their charade intact and Ian safe. Further speculation over those possibilities brought the cocky grin right back to his sensuous lips. He might get his chance to lose that “pesky virginity” after all. The grin faded. Or, he thought, he could simply lose the entire apparatus as she had already threatened. The latter possibility was the more likely of the two, he feared. In any case, they could not continue in the loft as they had begun. Everything was different now. Irons would be watching them and he had to believe that Sara thought Devian was Ian or the game was up. The ramifications of that were staggering and Sara had to be prepared to deal with them, with him, when he returned from the dojo that evening.

Dev stopped at a pay phone to call Sara at the Precinct. Predictably, the first thing that she asked was, “How’s Ian? Did something happen to him last night?” The clone wasn’t sure how much he should tell her. In his mind’s eye, he could see Sara storming the mansion to have a go at the old boy and to break Ian free. Wanting to protect her, Ian had warned the clone not to tell Sara what Irons had done to him during his little midnight romp. The fact that he was currently incapacitated had dulled none of Ian’s protective instincts toward his Wielder. His first thoughts were still and always for her. Dev balanced his options in his mind. Although he too felt a mild compulsion to protect Sara, it was tempered by the certain knowledge of what she would do to him if she found out that he had lied to her. Rubbing the fresh bruise on his chin, Dev replied, “Ian is fine. You were right. He woke during the middle of the night last night. He was lonely. He’s having killer headaches from the drugs. He misses you a lot.” Dev was pleased with himself; all of that was true. He had not had to lie to her. His report was greeted with a loud sniff at the other end of the line. Just as he was congratulating himself for skillfully dodging that bullet, she asked, “And Irons left him alone?” There was a silence before he replied, “Uhh, the old man didn’t hurt him.”

Devian could almost feel the temperature drop over the length of the phone line. “Don’t you lie to me, you rotten clone,” she hissed at him over the wire. His muscles tensed as a quick stab of hurt shot through him. He honestly didn’t understand why Sara disliked him so much. He had bent over backward to please her and all he got in return were insults and mistrust. He wished that he could simply turn to her and say, “Fuck you, you nasty bitch.” He wished that he didn’t care what she thought of him. He wished that he didn’t want her to care period. “Yeah, yeah,” he thought, annoyed with his own weakness, “Wish in one hand and shit in the other. See which gets filled first.” He sighed loudly and then gave it to her straight, “Okay. Irons fiddled with Ian a little – but he didn’t get very far. The drugs knocked Ian out – sedative interruptus, if you know what I mean. It’s no fun for the old man if the fly doesn’t kick when he pulls off its wings. When Ian conked out, the fucker left him alone. Satisfied?” There was another loud sniff. “We have to get him out of there,” she said, “Can’t you do something?” Maybe someday someone would care for him this much, he thought hopefully. “I already have,” Devian replied, “It won’t happen again. I’m sorry it happened at all. I thought the old man was too weak to go wandering around at night when no one was watching. Now, I know better. I made some adjustments. Ian is safe. We, however, have a new problem and it’s a biggy.”

Once again, Dev sensed that she had had enough of him. “Then take care of it,” Sara directed, “I have to get back to work.” His shoulder throbbed from where Irons had clubbed him and he was still stinging from her obvious loathing of him. Devian snapped. “Fuck you, Sara,” he barked into the phone, “Whether you like it or not, we’re in this together. I know you don’t care about me. You’ve made that painfully obvious. But it’s equally obvious that you do care about my brother. We have a problem that I cannot resolve alone and we need to talk about it, come up with a plan. Get your prissy ass downstairs or you will be truly sorry because I will take care of it and I don’t think you’ll particularly like my solution. I’ll pick you up in front of the Precinct in ten minutes.” With that, he hung up the phone. Back at the Precinct, Sara sat at her desk, holding the phone out in front of her face at arm’s length as if it had morphed into a serpent. Her eyes were wide and her mouth had dropped open. Danny glanced up and froze in mid-action, transfixed by her expression. “Whoa,” he said, “What just happened? Are you okay?” She sucked in a lungful of air and grated, “I’m going to kill that little shit. I’m going to pull his balls out through his nostrils.” Danny winced. “Now that’s a visceral image for any guy,” he affirmed, “Who is this poor unfortunate who is about to sing soprano?”

Sara had her mouth open to tell him when she remembered the scope of the whole situation. She waffled. “One of my snitches,” she lied, “He insists that he has something important to tell me.” Sara stood and grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair, slipping it on. “It’s probably nothing,” she continued, “But I better go and talk to him, just in case.” Danny, knowing her too well, wondered why, yet again, she was lying through her teeth. Sighing, he decided not to push it this time – but a day of reckoning was coming for he and his partner, and it was coming soon. He shrugged. “Okay,” he said, dismissing the whole exchange. Sara stopped just short of their office door, sensing Danny’s take on what had just passed between them. She pushed a hand roughly though her hair, thinking, “Shit. Nothing in my whole sorry life is working the way that it’s supposed to any more.” She glanced down at the object of power resting like a sleeping titan on her wrist. She lifted her hand to look into the ruby stone and saw her own reflection. “It’s all your fault,” she hissed at the Witchblade. The old desk sergeant lifted his head as she passed and called after her, “You talking to your hand there, Pezzini?” Her eyes flickered shut for a second. Swell, she thought, another Pezzini story to circulate around the cop shop. “Who gives a shit?” she mumbled, frustrated by life in general, as she pushed her way out the front door of the Precinct building.

The black jaguar was sitting at the curb and was, of course, already causing a stir among the small cadre of cops congregated in front of the building grabbing a smoke. Sara shut her eyes again and whispered, “It just keeps getting better and better.” She got into the car quickly. Not even looking at the clone, she rasped, “Drive, you piece of shit. Get us out of here now.” Dev did not react well to being called names and his humor was almost as foul as hers at the moment. He did not move a muscle. From the sidewalk, the catcalls started. Sara winced and said a little frantically, “Come on. Put it in gear. Get going!” He studied her calmly, forcing her finally to turn and look at him directly. When she did, he asked, “Where is it that you’d like me to go?” Her mouth began to open and he interrupted her saying, “Careful. You piss me off any more and we can sit here for the next half hour. I’ve got the keys.” She sighed dramatically and fought to reign in her temper. She wanted to throttle him. With difficulty, she got the impulse under control. “Drive three blocks down and look for a parking space on the right,” she directed, “I might as well eat while I have the chance. You can pay for it.” Dev hit the gas and the sleek car shot forward with a throaty purr. “I’ve been paying for it since I met you, Wielder,” he mumbled under his breath. The ghost of a smile touched her lips. The damn clone did have his moments, she thought. The smile died as she wondered what new calamity made this meeting so important.

Once they were settled in the deli that she had visited twice before with Ian, Sara turned to Dev and said, “Okay. I don’t have much time. What’s your problem?” At that moment, the older waitress who thought that Ian walked on water turned up at their table. She approached Dev with a wide smile, obviously expecting a greeting. Devian looked up at her politely and entirely without recognition. The woman’s face dropped. You could actually see her usual N.Y. armor lift back into place. “What’ll you have?” she asked coolly. The clone tilted his head curiously, sensing the sudden animosity. “What the hell?” he thought, annoyed, “Am I suddenly giving off asshole vibes to everyone around me?” Then, it hit him. They had been in here before. The woman thought that he was Ian. She expected him to recognize her, respond to her. He glanced across the table at Sara and lifted one dark brow in question. Her head dipped in a tiny nod. Devian raised his head to glance at the waitress’ name tag. It read “Thelma.” He turned on the charm. Slapping the palm of his hand against his forehead, he purred, “God, what’s wrong with me today? Here I am so distracted that I never even said hello. How are you doing, Thelma? What’s good?” He turned on that deliciously wicked grin and gave her his undivided attention. The flustered waitress dropped her pad and Dev dove to pick it up for her, brushing his warm fingers against hers as he returned it. Thelma was a goner in seconds. “Flirt,” Sara thought, amused at his antics in spite of herself.

The poor woman had walked away in a daze after taking his order and had to return to find out what Sara wanted. When they were left alone again, he was still grinning, his usual good humor restored. Sara snorted. “You’re dangerous,” she observed. A quick flash of annoyance returned. “Only when you piss me off,” he agreed, “Something you have an absolute genius for doing, by the way.” Sara shrugged. Like she cared, it said. “Okay, sparky,” she continued, “What’s up?” Dev took a deep breath and dove in. “All the surveillance equipment at the loft has been reactivated,” he replied, “Irons told me this morning. We’ll have an audience tonight.” The full implications of that slowly sunk in. “I’m supposed to believe that you’re Ian,” she whispered, appalled. She looked at him eyes wide, breathing shallowly, completely at a loss. “How?” she managed. He shrugged and said carefully. “I’m afraid the guest room is out tonight. We’ll have to sleep together.” Her brows drew together mutinously. The green eyes looked like they might emit sparks. Devian raised a hand before she could start. “Hold on,” he said, “Before you can accuse me of twisting this to my advantage. You and Ian do just sleep sometimes, don’t you? I mean you don’t go at it every single night, do you?” The look on her face answered that question without a word being spoken.

“Whew,” the clone replied, grinning, “What the hell does he need the dojo for?” Sara narrowed her eyes. “You’re not helping,” she hissed, “Do you have anything constructive to suggest?” He shrugged. “We’ll need to either present a believable reason for why we aren’t making love or we’ll need to fake it.” Sara shook her head. Fake it? she thought. Did he have any idea what he was suggesting? She gave him a nasty smile and pointed out, “Before you can fake it, sparky, you have to know how to do it.” Color flooded his cheeks and he dropped his head. “Thanks for pointing that out,” he murmured. When he lifted his head, she saw that his eyes had darkened to deep amber and they were angry now too. He shrugged. “Maybe I can fake getting hurt at the dojo,” he suggested. She frowned. “That wouldn’t say much for Ian’s skills and his ability to teach,” she replied, “He’s just getting started there. It’s not exactly the best way to begin.” He pushed a hand into his thick hair and heaved a sigh. “What would you propose then?” he asked. They were both silent, thinking. Thelma brought their food, arranging Dev’s meal with special care while he beamed up at her. Sara stopped with her tuna sandwich halfway to her lips. His seductive posing had given her an idea. “We could have a fight,” she said, eyes alight, warming to the idea, “A real brawl. I could send you to sleep in the guest room.”

Dev tilted his head, studying her. That might work. Fighting was something they both knew how to do and they did it so well with each other. “What would we fight over?” he asked. She shrugged. “You getting too chummy with one of the cuties at the dojo maybe,” she suggested. He shook his head. “How would you know that if you weren’t there?” he asked, adding, “Besides, it’s Ian we’re talking about here, not me. He doesn’t seem like the type that would have a roving eye. But maybe I’m wrong about that. I don’t know him very well.” She studied him curiously across the small table. “No,” she agreed, “You’re not wrong. That’s not his style.” Then, it hit her; the perfect bone of contention between them. She smile broadly, triumphantly, and he asked, “What?” Grinning now, she answered, “Irons himself.” He saw it immediately and nodded. “Yeah, that’s good,” he agreed. Then, his face fell. “Not making it easy on me, are you, Wielder?” he asked mournfully, “Putting me in the position where I have to defend that fucker. Pretend that I have Ian’s undying loyalty to the old man.” The clone shivered delicately, adding, “If I can pull this off, I think that I deserve an Academy Award – best supporting actor in a drama. What do you say?” Sara smiled. “That you’re an ass,” she replied. This time, however, there was no venom behind it.