"Blood Seduction"

Thanks to ccarol and gypsysiren for leaving feedback. These three new chapters are for you. And ccarol - this story has a bit of a ways to play out yet. I put it over here before I had gotten favorable feedback for "Breathing Space." Keep that feedback coming. If you do, I'll post more often. That's called blackmail (hee hee)

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Ian drove the borrowed truck into the mansion garage. After parking it back in its allotted space and turning off the ignition, he remained still as a statue. He was marshaling his reserves for the impending confrontation with his master. Knowing that he had a few minutes, Ian let his mind drift back over the start of the day to bolster his courage. His finely drawn lips curved in a smile. If someone who didn’t know better had observed them this morning, he and Sara might have almost seemed like newlyweds returning to their first day of work after the honeymoon. They had showered together and breakfasted together. And, though she had returned to her own place to dress for work, he had stopped by her door on his way out for a long goodbye kiss.

Ian knew that he had to be very, very careful. He was crazy in love with Sara and it was dulling his edge. His master would be quick to take advantage of any weakness that he perceived. “So,” Ian thought, “I just won’t let him find anything that he can twist to his needs.” His lips quirked ruefully. A little voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like his master trilled, “Fool.” Ian sighed and pulled out his pocket watch. He was dressed again in what Sara had dryly christened his “assassin’s drag.” Ian was back in black from head to foot, right down to the tips of his leather gloves. He was also out of time. He had to move now if he was to be in Irons’ presence at 8:00 A.M. precisely. Being late was not an option. He took a deep breath and got out of the truck. Ian straightened up to his full, imposing height and quickly strode toward the Great Room to report to his master, the Nottingham façade solidly in place.

At eight on the dot, Ian knocked at the Great Room door. His usual aristocratic, commanding tone sounded a bit reedy when Irons called, “Come in, Ian.” The cavernous, vaulted room was dark. It felt like he was entering a demon’s lair after the sunny, crisp morning in the world beyond the mansion. A fire blazed in the huge hearth. Irons sat in his wheelchair, close to the fire, his back to the door. Ian walked to the middle of the room and stood at parade rest; legs apart, hands clasped in front of him, head down. He heard the chair move – click whir, click whir. As the mechanical conveyance drew closer to him, his master’s lap became visible to Ian’s downcast eyes. The chair stopped and Irons hands dropped loosely into his lap. Ian’s golden eyes widened slightly. Those hands were arthritically gnarled and covered with age spots. They also held one of his master’s favorite canes. The wood was oak, nearly unbreakable. The headpiece was the large, silver head of a wolf. Even wielded by those palsied hands, it could do a lot of damage. Clamping down harshly on the first twinge of fear that snaked through him, Ian steeled himself for whatever was to come. In another moment, he had mastered himself again. Irons studied Ian’s brief struggle with great interest.

Kenneth was, of course, acutely aware of each effect he created in his sometimes strangely willful servant. Their relationship was defined by power and control. His power, his control. One of the dangers of this course he had set them upon was that his coveted power over Ian could be diminished as the boy’s bond with the Wielder grew. Perhaps the whelp required a reminder of where his allegiance belonged. Irons thin lips twisted into the grim rictus of a smile. “Couldn’t hurt,” he thought wryly. Shifting the cane in his hands, Irons extended the shining wolf’s head at its tip to stretch toward his still retainer. Ian tensed as the head of the cane came to rest on the dark cloth covering his groin. “You have surprised and delighted me, Ian, “ Irons drawled laconically, “I never would have suspected.” Ian didn’t move a muscle. He knew better. “Sir?” he politely responded. Irons slid the silver wolf in a slow, menacing caress over Ian’s sex. “I never would have guessed that you would make such a delicious lover, my boy,” Irons continued, his voice sly and insinuating, “You and the Wielder have proven more entertaining than pay-per-view pornography. Bravo!” Ian winced slightly but quickly recovered, dropping the mask back into place.

His body tightly controlled, Ian continued to stoically endure his master’s veiled seduction. If Irons had hoped to excite the neophyte sensualist in Ian to erection, he was disappointed. The substantial bulge in the loose, black slacks remained inert. Annoyed, Kenneth gave Ian a sharp jab with the head of the cane before he returned it to his lap. Ian gasped but didn’t double over as pain radiated outward from his groin. The knuckles of his clasped hands whitened but the bland expression on his lowered face didn’t change. Irons smiled, accepting that skirmish as a draw, confident that in the end he’d win this battle of wills. “You’ve done well, Ian,” Irons said, “I’m pleased. The lovely Sara has accepted you into her bed, taken you as her lover. You now have the intimate access to the Wielder that my plan requires.” A tiny, barely perceptible shiver of anticipation shot through Ian. “Here it comes,” he thought, “The plan.” Kenneth caught Ian’s response and his smile broadened. “Not as blasé as you pretend to be, are you,” he thought.

“Look at me, boy,” Irons said sharply, voice like a whip crack. Ian’s head snapped up and he gazed at his master. His bright, golden eyes widened in shock and his mouth dropped open. Kenneth Irons looked like an animated corpse. His face had become a grinning death’s head, the skull clearly visible behind the parchment-thin skin and mortality fever bright in the blazing blue eyes. His physical decline since Ian had last seen him was quite spectacular. Time was rapidly running out for his master. The sudden absolute surety that Irons was dying hit Ian with the force of a blow. A jumble of emotions assaulted him – shock, regret, and sadness were mixed with a traitorous quiver of excitement, an errant speculation of what it might be like to be truly free for the first time in his life. All Irons saw was the shock. He recognized it clearly because it was what he felt himself every time he accidentally caught his reflection. Kenneth no longer slavishly courted mirrors the way he once had.

Irons smiled ghoulishly. “Not a pretty sight, is it,” he said, “But you are going to help me change all that.” Ian snapped to attention, forcing his scattered emotions back under rigid control. “Stay sharp,” he ordered himself. Ian inclined his head, acknowledging his role as his master’s enforcer. Aloud, he asked, “How?” Irons dropped the cane to balance across the metal arms of the wheelchair. He rubbed his bony hands in an effort to chase away the deathly chill that was inevitably creeping nearer. “With blood, my son,” Irons declared, “The elixir of life. And, in the case of the Wielder, the conveyer of the Witchblade’s restorative powers. A heart-pumping fountain of youth.” Ian blinked. “Of course,” he thought, “Why didn’t I see this coming? I’ve been blind.” A sudden, searing vision of Elizabeth Bronte caught in ice like a mosquito in amber flashed incandescently through his brain. Ian blinked rapidly again, disoriented. Irons frowned. “Have I lost you, Nottingham?” he asked. Ian tucked away the vision for dissection later. “No, sir,” he replied, “You wish me to acquire some of Sara’s blood.”

Still rubbing his hands together like a manic Pilate, Irons nodded. “That’s my bright boy,” he said gleefully. Ian kept his countenance under control while his mind edged toward panic. “Oh god, Sara,” he thought, “I’m to become a vampire, holding you in my thrall. How can he expect me to do this to you?” None of Ian’s distress was visible. Kenneth was vaguely unnerved that his demand had not produced a greater response from his servant. Ian cleared his throat, hoping that his voice would not betray him. “How much blood do you require?” he asked, “And how often do you need it?” Irons shut his eyes. Exhaustion was stalking him now. This pas de deux with Ian had begun to wear on him, draining his already frail resources. “Immo is waiting for you in the lab,” Kenneth said, “He’ll give you all of the gory details, as well as the equipment that you will need.” Irons swung his chair around, moving back toward the warmth of the fire – click whir, click whir.

Ian stared at his master’s hunched back. Now that he was unobserved, dark and dangerous emotions were clearly visible in his feline gaze. “Is that all, master?” he asked. Irons lifted one shriveled claw to keep Ian from leaving immediately for Immo’s lab. “Not quite,” he replied. Ian stiffened, waiting tensely for the other shoe to drop. Irons drew out the silence, gaining a perverse satisfaction from Ian’s silent dread. When he finally spoke, his voice was a soft, sibilant hiss. As Kenneth had intended, Ian had to strain forward to hear him. “As you might suspect, I have spent many hours with the ancient texts in my quest to find a solution for my…problem,” he began, “In doing so, I came across an obscure reference to a ritual – not unlike the Periculum – that occurs when the Wielder takes her Protector to her as a mate.” Irons smiled. He could literally feel Ian hanging on his every word. “From what I could gather,” Irons continued, “During this ritual, the Witchblade literally connects the lovers, linking the Protector to the Wielder genetically.” The implications of this statement gathered in the heavy silence that followed it. Ian finally said softly, “By blood.”

Irons ironically clapped his hands in praise of his clever boy. “Give the boy a cigar,” he said, adding, “Yes, Ian. By blood. If you are able to make Sara feel more for you than lust – if the Witchblade responds by accepting you as her ritual mate – then you will become my backup. The secondary source for my restoration.” Ian tried to keep the sudden leap of hope from his voice. “Why secondary?” he asked, “Why could I not be your primary source once my blood can provide the rejuvenation of the Witchblade? I would be a willing donor. Taking blood from the Wielder is a risky undertaking.” Kenneth shook his head, laughing. “So predictable,” he thought. Aloud, he said, “Because, my boy, the lovely Sara’s blood is still the mother lode for the Witchblade’s restorative powers. Your blood, though useful, will only be a diluted version of hers. It won’t pack quite the same punch. Do you see?” Ian’s hands clenched in frustration. Yes, he saw only too clearly where their future was heading. What he was unable to see at the moment was how he was going to change it.

“Run along to Immo now,” Irons said, as if he was sending Ian out to play. Ian turned stiffly, heading toward the door. His hand was on the doorknob when his master’s cold voice froze him in place. “Just in case my little plan doesn’t appeal to you,” Irons hissed, “I’ve asked the good doctor to show you my insurance – the newest branches on the Nottingham family tree. As you study them, Ian, I want you to let that fertile imagination of yours soar. Picture Ian #2 fucking your Sara in the shower. See Ian #3 pumping into her on the kitchen counter. Imagine Ian #4 becoming her mate while you’re forced to watch it happen, bound and unable to prevent it.” Ian wasn’t able to stifle the shaky sigh that escaped him. Kenneth smiled, a grinning, gratified skull. “But,” Irons continued, his voice warming to a mellow, sonorous pitch, “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. You have, after all, performed admirably so far. So well, in fact, that once I have my strength back, I can hardly wait to find new uses for this treasure that you’ve hidden for so long.” Ian felt a chill travel the length of his spine. He cleared his mind, fighting for calm. He didn’t dare go there. If he did, he might lose his hard-won control right here, right now.

“May I go now?” Ian asked, voice tight. Kenneth Irons waved a regal, dismissive claw and said, “Certainly you may, my boy. But I want you back here punctually at the same time tomorrow. And I want you to present me with the blood of the Wielder fresh from the source. Do you understand?” There was a long pause before Ian answered. “Yes, master,” he replied softly, “I understand.” Irons nodded. The skirmish had been a draw but, as expected, he had won the war. “Go to Immo now,” he repeated. With one brief, burning gaze flung over his shoulder, Ian left the presence of his master and headed toward Dr. Immo’s laboratory. The seeds of a plan had already begun to take root in his busy brain.

Ian was distracted, his mind sorting, discarding, and selecting options at a furious rate. His body, on automatic, made its way to Dr. Immo’s laboratory in the bowels of the mansion. He stopped, startled, when he realized that he had reached a large, sealed door that fit snugly into the bedrock surrounding it. He went still and performed a relaxation exercise to calm his mind and sharpen his senses. Irons had instructed Immo to teach him how to bleed Sara and to give him a private viewing of his deadly doppelgangers. But Ian had a mission of his own. He intended to use this opportunity to find out where the clones were hidden and to get a good look at the security protecting them. This was his first priority: remove the immediate threat. If his master did not have this club hanging over their heads, then the power shifted once again.

Ian keyed the day’s code he had been given into the pad beside the pneumatic door and leaned forward to offer his right eye for the retinal scan that supplemented the lab’s tight security. The flashing lights beside the door changed from red to green and the portal hissed open. The characteristically chilly, antiseptic-smelling air of Immo’s lab washed over Ian. His muscles clenched atavistically, in response to countless sense memories of this place – none of them good. A tiny smile curled his sculpted lips. They thought this place was impregnable. They were wrong. Both as a mental exercise and one of his many backup plans, Ian had found the weak spot in the lab’s security long ago. Exerting the perverse independent streak that so annoyed his master, Ian had kept that knowledge to himself in case he might one day have need of it. That need was now upon him.

Ian hadn’t been down here since his last annual checkup with the doctor three months before. He glanced carefully around the sterile storage room that served as a vestibule for the extensive laboratories and research facilities that spread like a disease beneath the living quarters above. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever did. Immo was a true creature of habit; for which Ian thanked the gods. It made the deception easier. He knew this complex well, had detailed plans and diagrams of every square foot – as well as the mansion above and the topography of the land on which it rested. His master had created Ian as the ultimate human weapon. He had honed Ian’s body and brain to a razor’s edge while attempting to blunt his emotions. Among his many subversive skills, Ian could infiltrate any stronghold to acquire a desired objective – whatever it may be. It was the keen abilities that Irons had demanded he perfect that Ian now planned to turn against his master. It was ironic really. And if Ian had learned nothing else under Kenneth Irons tutelage, he had learned to appreciate irony.

Ian again drew out his pocket watch to check the time. At this time of day, Immo would be in the main lab. He took a deep breath and made his way through the gleaming, high-tech labyrinth to the heart of the complex, to Immo’s den of medical iniquity. When Ian entered the large room, Immo was hunched over a microscope, oblivious to his presence. Moving like a wraith, Ian crossed the room to position himself just behind the doctor’s left shoulder. Although the main security panel would have beeped in here to alert the doctor to Ian’s arrival, Immo would have already forgotten that, lost in his concentration on whatever perverse experiment was now unfolding under his jaundiced eye. Knowing it was childish but unable to stop himself, Ian sighed theatrically. Immo started violently, almost knocking the heavy microscope off its stand. A malicious thrill danced through Ian; it was his tiny, harmless payback for all the injections, probing instruments, pain, and embarrassment that he had endured at this man’s chronically cold hands.

Immo squinted up at the tall man standing just behind him. The boy moved like a ghost, he thought. It was unnerving. “Ian, my boy,” Immo said, “You startled me.” Ian’s golden eyes widened innocently. “Did I?” he asked rhetorically. The doctor swiveled around on his stool to face Ian. “I understand that I’m to set you up to get some blood from the Wielder,” he said, “Is that right?” Another fleeting shock of outrage coursed through Ian. “That’s right,” he agreed, struggling to maintain a neutral tone, “How much is required?” Immo waved a hand. “One syringe should do as a start,” he said casually. Ian’s hatred for the man ratcheted up another notch. He was careful not to let it show. “How often will I have to do this?” he asked the doctor. Immo shrugged. “I suspect we can make do with once a week,” he replied, adding with a raspy chuckle, “Don’t want to bleed the source dry after all, do we?” It was all that Ian could do not to throttle the smug bastard.

Ian cleared his throat, fighting to keep the bland expression on his face. “I understand that I’m also to finally get a look at the replicas,” he said softly. Immo frowned. He had argued against this with Kenneth and lost. Although there was nothing overt in his behavior, the doctor sensed hidden depths in Ian Nottingham that he found unsettling. Immo feared that Irons absolute surety in his control over the boy was blinding him to the possibilities. No good could come of letting Ian look at those who lay in waiting. Yet, he had been unable to bring Kenneth to his senses. Irons was determined that Ian reach an absolute understanding that he was expendable. That, if he tried to pull himself out from beneath his master’s thumb, it would be the last independent excursion he would ever take. Immo lifted a negligent shoulder. So be it, he thought. He had tried to change Kenneth’s mind. Whatever happened now, his hands were clean.

The doctor crossed the lab to pick up the material that he’d set aside for Ian. Turning, he handed the boy a labeled syringe and a small prescription bottle. Ian held the bottle up to the light and peered inside. Two small pills rattled within it. “What’s this?” he asked. Inclining his head toward the bottle, Immo said, “Mild sleeping pills. You can even give them to her dissolved in a glass of wine. It will knock her out long enough for you to take the blood but not long enough for her to feel any ill effects. I suggest drawing the blood from behind her knee. If you leave a mark, she’s not likely to notice it there.” Ian nodded, hating everything about this task that he had been given. He fought down his aversion and looked at Immo expectantly. The doctor smiled. “Very well, my boy,” he said, responding to Ian’s unspoken request, “I’ll take you to meet your brothers now.”

The gaze with which Ian now tracked his surroundings was preternaturally alert. He was storing everything away carefully to dissect later at his leisure. Immo took Ian down hallways and through doors along a convoluted route that was completely unfamiliar to him. Ian held the schematics of the research complex open in his head and superimposed their path upon them, committing it to his memory. He gave extra attention to any security devices that they encountered along the way. By the time that they reached the final door, Ian knew with certainly that he could find his way back to the spot where he stood, even if Immo had led him along a twisted path to their goal in order to confuse his senses. “The old fool should know better,” Ian thought disdainfully, “After all, he helped to make me what I am.” Like the door to the complex, a shifting code and retinal scan was required here too. Immo keyed in the code and leaned in over the scanner. A moment later, the door slid open with a soft hiss.

It was one of the eeriest experiences of Ian’s life – staring at the five exact replicas of himself nestled in their cryogenic chambers. In a life marked by encounters with living goddesses, immortals, and time-walkers, that was actually saying quite a lot. Ultimately, he found within himself a strange, disturbing kinship with the still forms locked in stasis. Ian was glad that he would not have to watch them die as he destroyed them. It would be too much like committing suicide five times over while looking in a warped mirror. And that was a quelling thought. So, he shook it off and focused his energies on divining the method of his kill. Of course, the good doctor was quite helpful there. He liked few things better than droning on and on about his work. By the time he had finished picking Immo’s brain, Ian had all he needed to do some serious research into mishaps that could make the technology that was keeping the clones alive turn deadly. It was essential that the destruction of his doubles appear to be accidental. Further, Ian needed to ensure that Immo was out of the way so that he couldn’t step in and salvage the clones, and that both he and Sara had alibis so that they would appear blameless in the tragedy.

It could be done, Ian decided. He could do it. Knowing his master’s proclivities, Ian made sure that he looked properly cowed as he studied the static killing machines with his visage. It was highly likely that Kenneth Irons was watching him watch them from a hidden camera somewhere in the room. These days, pictures were what his master had instead of a life. Ian intended to do his damndest to see that it remained that way. He knew that he would still have to deal with his master’s needs. He wasn’t sure whether he could bring himself to simply let Irons die. He did know, however, that he would not allow him to harm Sara. But he would deal with those problems later, Ian thought, releasing a long breath – after he eliminated the immediate threat to their safety – after he did away with his “brothers.”

Sara frowned as she absently lifted the venti-sized Starbucks container to her lips. “Shit,” she observed grumpily. It was empty. That meant that she’d have to switch to cop shop coffee. Not a pleasant prospect. She pushed a hand through her hair roughly. The day had started off great, she thought, remembering slowly soaping Ian’s long, muscled back. She licked slightly pursed lips as her mind drifted back to the slow, simmering kiss they had shared at her front door just before he headed off to his meeting with Irons. When had the downhill spiral begun, she wondered. When had she fallen into the emotional pit that she currently occupied? She suspected it was somewhere around the time that she’d completed her seventh status report on cases that were cold or pending. At that moment, she thought she might have actually felt some brain cells die. She looked up to find Danny studying her with narrowed eyes. “What?” she asked belligerently, spoiling for a fight. At least that would keep her awake.

Jake’s head shot up, recognizing the combative tone in Sara’s voice. “Time to get scarce,” he thought. Aloud, he said, “Anyone want coffee? I’m doing another Starbuck’s run.” Sara smiled. Things were picking up. “Yeah,” she said, “Two super-dooper, giant size French Roast. Please. Thanks.” Danny smirked. “You might want to check and see whether they’ll just run you an intravenous hookup direct from the Starbucks so that you could mainline it,” he suggested. Sara squinted at her partner. “Oh, hah hah,” she replied with biting wit. Jake cleared his throat, inching toward the door. “Danny?” he asked. Danny shook his head. “I’m fine. Thanks,” he replied. Sara smirked. “That’s a matter of opinion,” she observed. Danny’s eyes became dark slits. Jake grabbed his jacket and beat it out the door like the hordes of hell were breathing down his neck. They both watched the door close behind him. “Now look what you did,” Danny said, “You scared off the rookie.”

Sara waved her hand airily. “I channeled his terror creatively into the quest for a decent beverage,” she rationalized, “I did us both a service.” Danny smiled. “You’re pretty frisky today, aren’t you, partner,” he observed, “At least you were before the paperwork wore you down.” Her eyebrow shot up. “Frisky,” she said, wrinkling her nose with distaste, “I do not frisk.” His smile got wider. “Could it be Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly that has put that spring in your…” he said, the pause just a beat too long, “Step?” Sara frowned and said dourly, “Don’t make me shoot you, Danny. Don’t make me widow Lee and leave the little Woo’s orphans.” He snorted dismissively. She was readying another snappy comeback when her cell phone rang. Sara pulled the phone from her jacket pocket. Glaring at Danny, she flipped it open and said, “Pezzini. Go.” “I’d rather come if it’s all the same to you,” a soft voice growled in her ear. Sara swung her chair around, presenting her back to Danny, and cuddled the phone close to her ear. “That might be arranged,” she breathed seductively into the mouthpiece, paperwork forgotten.

A laugh soft as fur curled around her ear and worked its way down to the base of her spine where it turned liquid. Sara sighed. “Meet me for a late lunch?” he asked. She pictured him the way he’d looked in the shower that morning, all hard and slippery. “To eat?” she whispered, feeling Danny straining to get the gist of the conversation. Ian laughed again, easing up on the seduction now. “Yes,” he replied, “To eat. Or, did you already?” Twirling some hair around her finger, Sara said, “I could eat, I guess. When and where?” She got up and wandered to the window, prying open the blinds, trying to spot him. He felt close. “Downstairs. Five minutes,” he said, “Okay?” Sara let go of the blinds. “Like he’d really let me spot him,” she thought. “Okay,” she said into the phone. She listened another moment but he was gone. She flipped the phone closed and dropped it back into her pocket. Sara raised her head to find Danny eying her shrewdly. “What?” she asked belligerently. Jake froze in the open doorway balancing three large containers of coffee in his hands. She was using the same tone of voice that had sent him scurrying out to get coffee in the first place.

Sara took pity on him. Besides, her mood really had improved considerably – in spite of her partner giving her the old fisheye. Flashing Jake a sunny smile, she stepped forward to relieve him of the two coffee containers that were hers. “Thanks, rookie,” she said, “I’ll just have to save these for after lunch.” Danny made a rude noise. “Going out for a quick bite?” he asked, tongue firmly in his cheek. She turned to her tormenter after putting the coffee down on her desk for later. It didn’t matter; he couldn’t douse her sudden good humor. As she headed to the door grabbing her jacket, Sara blew him a kiss. “I was taught to chew my food thoroughly,” she told him, wiggling a suggestive eyebrow, “I may be a while.” “Nottingham isn’t one of the basic food groups, you know,” Danny called after her. Her back to him as she walked away, a swagger in her hips, Sara waved a taunting hand in the air. Behind her, she heard Jake choke on his first sip of coffee. As she left the squad room, she heard his strangled voice ask Danny, “Nottingham? Where?”

Sara came out the front door of the precinct to find a black jaguar idling in the tow-away zone at the curb. Several of her fellow officers were ogling the car appreciatively. All eyes were suddenly on her as she quickly opened the passenger door and slid into the luxurious, leather seat. Sara was mortified. Ian leaned toward her, clearly angling his face to hers for a kiss hello. She stopped him with a rigid hand to his chest. “Get me out of here,” she hissed, as she watched cops who were outside sneaking a smoke bending down to check out the dude in the fancy wheels who had picked up Pezzini. Sara scrunched down in the seat, trying to make herself invisible as Ian hit the gas. “Way to keep a low profile, ace,” she grumbled. He turned his head to smile at her sheepishly. “Sorry,” he apologized, “I didn’t think how it would look. I took this one because I like the way it handles.” She watched his hand as he expertly shifted gears, remembering how it felt when he did that to her. It was hard to stay pissed at a man when you badly wanted to jump his bones.

Sara sighed. She slid her eyes sideways to watch his thigh muscle tense under the thin fabric of his black pants. She licked dry lips and suggested, “Maybe we should grab something back at the loft? We’d have some privacy.” She blushed when she realized how blatant that sounded. Ian thought of the irony of going to the loft for privacy. Aloud, he said, “We need to talk. Is there someplace close where they’ll bring our food and then leave us alone for a while?” She turned her head to study him curiously, trying to shift mental gears. She moved her attack of lust to the back burner. Something was up. She thought for another moment, glancing out the window of the car to check their location. “Yeah,” she said, “There’s a deli on the right in the next block. Little place, been there forever. It should be slow this time of day. They’ll leave us alone to talk.” Ian nodded and started looking for a place to park. Amazingly, he found a legal space just down the street from the restaurant. As usual, Sara was out of the car before he could come around to get her door. He did, however, manage to hold open the door to the restaurant politely to allow her entrance. She breezed through, bowing mockingly as she did. Ian sighed.

As Sara had predicted, the little deli was virtually deserted. Only two of the ten or so tables were occupied: one by an old man nursing a cup of coffee, the other by a pair of young office workers on a break who noticed Ian immediately and began giggling with each other behind their hands. Ian, as usual, was oblivious to his allure. Sara, who didn’t feel remotely threatened, ignored them. They took a table at the rear of the restaurant. Ian, again as usual, sat facing the door with his back to the wall. Sara shook her head as she watched him remove first his sunglasses, then his gloves. Decked head to foot in his assassin’s drag, he coolly scanned the deli. She covered his hand with hers. “Relax, cutie,” she said, “I don’t think that there are ninjas in the kitchen brewing borscht.” One dark brow lifted in amusement. “Are you sure about that?” he asked. Suddenly wondering if he knew something she didn’t, her eyes flicked worriedly toward the doorway to their right. He squeezed her fingers and said, “Just kidding. I think you’re safe from flying soup unless the waitress trips.”

Sara reached across the table to playfully punch one rock-hard pec. “You ass,” she said fondly. Ian grinned. A bored, elderly waitress came to take their order. When they were alone again, Sara said, “So what did Kenny want?” As she watched, all the playfulness drained out of him. She felt a moment’s regret for her bluntness, then her curiosity got the better of it. Ian was struggling with a way to begin. She caught his hand in hers and he linked their fingers. She looked into his troubled, golden eyes. “Just spit it out,” she said, “You’ll feel better after.” Deeply concerned about how she was going to respond to all this, Ian said, “Promise?” Feeling the first faint stirrings of unease, she just shrugged. He took a deep breath and plunged in. “I gave you my word that I’d tell you when I knew more of Mr. Irons’ plan,” he said, “I have a lot to tell you. First, though, I need you to give me your word about something.” She watched his eyes, looking for clues. She didn’t find any. “What is it?” she finally asked.

“I want you to promise me that you won’t go after him on your own,” Ian said, “We need to do this together or you could get hurt. You need to trust me, let me guide you. You need to listen to me. Do I have your word?” Sara struggled with herself. How could she give him her promise when she didn’t know what he was going to tell her? How could she give her control over to him? Could she trust him where Irons was concerned? What would happen to them if she gave him her word and then had to break it? She thought, harshly, “Fuck it,” and took a leap of faith. “You have my word,” she said. Ian drew in a deep breath and let it out again before he said, “He wants your blood and he wants me to get if for him.” Sara didn’t know what she had been expecting but this wasn’t it. “My blood?” she repeated, looking perplexed, “Why?” Ian frowned. He had been expecting a stronger reaction.

“Because he’s dying,” Ian explained, “The Witchblade had preserved my master’s youth for a very long time. Mr. Irons began to age again the moment that the Witchblade severed its connection to him during the confrontation at Talismaniac. Since then, he’s been slowly sliding toward oblivion.” Sara’s eyes narrowed. “The Witchblade’s restorative properties are in my blood,” she said. Ian nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. Sara tilted her head and studied her lover. “Does he think that I’ll just give it to you out of the goodness of my heart?” she asked. Ian smiled wryly. “Hardly,” he replied, “I’m to drug you and take the blood.” Her eyes were cool, emerald pools. “We’re not talking about a one-time deal here, are we?” she asked, already knowing the answer. Ian shook his head. “Regular transfusions would be required for him to regain and maintain his youth,” he said.

The waitress brought their lunch. Sara began picking at her salad lethargically. She put down her fork. “What are you planning to do?” she asked. Ian stopped eating and met her eyes squarely. “Give him your blood,” he replied. Cold, green fury flashed in her eyes. Ian held up one hand. “Hear me out,” he begged. Eyes still sparking, she inclined her head for him to continue. “If he can’t use the gentle approach – me, he’ll get rough,” Ian said, “You could get hurt. I would be eliminated. If I’m removed from the picture, you have no one to protect you.” Her mouth narrowed to a thin line. “I can protect myself,” she growled. Ian shook his head. “Not from me, you can’t,” he said. Her brows knit together. “From you?” she said, confused. “He has clones of me, Sara,” Ian said, “Five of them. They look like me, smell like me, sound like me. He could train them to act like me. I would hope that you would know the difference, but you might not.” Sara’s lips twitched. “This is a joke, right?” she said, “Clones?” She shook her head, laughing.

“I know that it sounds fantastic,” Ian agreed, “But it’s very real. They exist and they are deadly. They may look like me but they will neither love you as I do nor protect you as I do. They will have no compunctions about doing his bidding. Please, Sara. You must trust me, believe me.” She looked into his desperate, golden eyes. His need to make her understand was almost a physical presence between them. “You want me to let you take my blood,” she said softly. He nodded, adding, “Just until I can neutralize the threat.” She felt her heart skip a beat. “Neutralize it how?” she asked. She saw his eyes go cold. “I’m going to kill them,” he said. Her eyes widened. “You expect me to just sit back while you kill five people?” she asked him incredulously, “I’m a cop, Ian.” He reached for her hand but she drew it back. “They are not ‘people’ in the normal sense of the word,” he said, voice tight. She studied him carefully. “What are they then?” she asked, “And how do you know that you’re not a clone too?”

Ian sighed. “While they are alive to threaten us, Sara, Irons controls us,” he said, “They can force us to do as he wishes. And, time is running out. If he does not get what he wants, if the clones are not eliminated, he will use them. He will use them with a vengeance.” She dropped her head and wrung her hands. “You’re telling me that we have no choice but to kill them,” she whispered, “Is that it?” He was quiet until she looked up and met his eyes. “Yes. That’s it,” he said. She sighed heavily. She had been forced to kill before since the Witchblade had chosen her, but she didn’t have to like it. “All right,” she said, all joy gone from the day, “What’s the plan?” Some of the tension went out of Ian. “Tonight, I drug you and take a little blood,” he said, “I eliminate the threat of the clones before I’m forced to do it again.” She shook her head, feeling exhausted. “You don’t have to drug me,” she murmured, “I’ll let you take the blood.”

Ian shut his eyes, dreading what had to come next. He opened his eyes and cleared his throat. She looked at him quizzically. “Actually, I do have to drug you,” he said softly, “Because Mr. Irons will know if I don’t.” She frowned. “How on earth would he..,” she started, stopping suddenly as her mind began to race. Ian watched color flood her cheeks as he prayed desperately that she could forgive him his silence. “How long has he been watching?” she asked, her voice dead quiet. Ian tried to answer but found he had no spit to form words. He was terrified that he was going to lose her. “How long?” she repeated a bit louder. “From the beginning,” he said, his voice barely audible. “My place too?” she asked. Ian nodded. “You son of a bitch,” she exploded. Her hand shot out to slap him hard across the face. In the quiet deli, it sounded like a pistol crack. They stared at each other for a moment, stunned. A perfect, red set of Sara’s fingers formed starkly on Ian’s pale cheek. Then, Sara was moving. She stood, knocking over her chair, and ran out the door.

“No,” Ian gasped. He got up, dragged a bunch of bills from his pocket, and dropped them on the table. It was way too much. He took off running after her. His legs were long and he was fast. He caught up with her a block later, grabbing her and pulling her into an alley. He pinned her back against the dirty brick wall, his hands on her shoulders. “Let go of me, you bastard,” she hissed at him, “I was right all along. You are a freak! You’re just as much a pervert as he is. No – you’re worse. At least he doesn’t pretend to be anything else.” Ian tried to catch his breath. He felt like a burning poker had just been rammed through his heart. He nuzzled his face against her hair, muscles straining as he fought to hold her still. “You have every right to be angry,” he whispered into her hair, “I wanted to tell you, warn you, so many times but I knew that you’d do exactly what you’re doing right now. You’d yank out one of the fucking cameras, storm the mansion, and ram it up his voyeuristic ass! I couldn’t let you do that, my darling, because then the game would be up. He’d lock you away until he could figure out how to safely separate you from your bracelet, this time for good. I couldn’t let that happen. I love you, Sara. I love you.”

Sara slowly stopped fighting. She stood still with her back against the alley wall, chest heaving. She could feel Ian shaking against her, his face still buried in her hair. “You can let go of me now,” she said. He let loose a deep, shaky sigh, ruffling her hair. He dropped his hands from her shoulders and took a step back. She looked up at his face. His head was down. “Look at me,” she said. Ian took in another deep breath and forced his head up to meet her eyes. He was very afraid of what he would see there. Instead of the condemnation he expected, her eyes were hooded, unreadable. “You are not forgiven,” she said softly, “I hate what you did. But I understand why you thought you had to do it.” Ian started to reach for her and Sara held up a hand to stop him. “I’ll play along with your game until these killers of his are…neutralized,” she continued, using his word, “Once that’s done, there will be no more willing blood from me, Ian. You have to make a choice. You can’t have us both. I won’t keep him alive. Do you understand?” Their eyes locked for another moment before Ian whispered, “Yes.”

Sara pushed a hand through her hair. “I really want that coffee now,” she thought. His head was down again. “I’ve got to get back to work,” she said, “Is there anything else you have to tell me?” She could feel his hesitation. “What is it?” she asked, a bit more harshly than she’d intended. She saw him flinch. Ian’s head came back up again. His eyes looked wounded. “We’ll have to appear to be the way that we’ve been with each other,” he said obliquely, “If we’re not, he’ll know that something is wrong.” In spite of his hedging, she knew what he meant. They were lovers when they left the loft this morning; they had to still be lovers when they came home tonight. If they weren’t, Irons would become suspicious. Sara sighed. She was suddenly very tired. “I’ll play my part,” she said, “Anything else?” Ian shook his head. The walk to the car and the drive back to the precinct were uncomfortably silent. She got out quickly, leaning back in to say, “I’ll be at your place at seven,” she said, “We can have dinner and screw for the cameras before you knock me out.” When she turned to go, Ian said softly, pleadingly, “Sara…” She didn’t turn back. “Don’t,” she said, before slamming the car door and turning away. Ian sat very still in the car for a full five minutes before he zoomed out into traffic and careened away.