Title: Thing of Darkness
Rating: R
Legal: I don't own Witchblade or claim to. Witchblade and all related characters are the property of Top Cow Productions Inc., Warner Bros. & TNT. I do not intend to infringe on any applicable copyrights. Please let me know if you think that I am, and I will attempt to remedy it.

Thanks for beta-reading and cheerleading from Wormie.  She makes my work better, and I thank her greatly for it. nks

Come here directly without going to my main Witchblade fanfic page?

"This thing of darkness I
  Acknowledge mine."
                   --William Shakespeare, The Tempest

*****

She followed him, laughing, out of the club. She'd seen him around the scene, and though he wasn't the most talkative of the group he hung with, he was one of the best looking. With a few drinks in her, she was brave enough to talk to him. After a couple more drinks, she was more than happy to accept his suggestion that they go to her place.

She didn't waste any time in the taxi, but had her tongue in his mouth as soon as she had given the cabbie her address. The short drive to her apartment was a blur of lips and hands. After he tossed a wad of bills at the driver, she pulled him into her apartment and didn't even wait to get to the bed. She pulled him down onto the couch with her.

Giggling, she pulled his shirt up and fumbled at the waistband of his pants while he yanked up her skirt. With a growl, he pulled her arms above her head and pressed his forearm to her throat.

"Ow! You're hurting me," she complained, trying to pull her arms down.

"Tell me you want me, Sara," he growled at her, holding her arms tighter.

"My name's not Sara," she said, struggling now. "You know that. Let me go!"

"Tell me you want me! Tell me you love me!" he demanded, pressing his arm harder against her throat. "Tell me!"

Her vision began to darken around the edges as she tried to get away. He kept pressing harder, and soon, she couldn't breathe at all. The last thing she saw was his wide, angry eyes.

*****

Sara Pezzini jumped out of the car the moment Jake hit the brakes. Ignoring her partner’s call to wait, she flashed her badge at the cop at the apartment building’s door and he let her pass. The drive over had been nearly intolerable, the silence thick enough to slice. She couldn’t even look at Jake McCartey - the man who had betrayed her and Ian Nottingham to Kenneth Irons.

She had only gone back to work with Jake at Ian’s insistence. He’d used the old adage about keeping one’s friends close and enemies closer, and she had to admit - reluctantly - that he had a point. If Irons, the White Bulls, and Jake were all out to get them, she could best keep an eye on them by continuing to work homicide. So, here she was, partnered with a man she was barely speaking to, but back at work.

Jogging up the stairs and making her way down the hall, it was fairly obvious which apartment was involved. Bright lights flooded out into the hallway and a steady stream of forensics technicians moved in and out. Entering the room, Sara could see the young woman sprawled on the couch, her arms above her head. Livid bruises colored her throat and wrists

"Michelle Harris, according to her driver's license. No forced entry," Jake said from behind her, and Sara turned to him, but didn’t look him in the eyes - she still couldn’t do that.

He brandished a small bag at her. Sara took the tiny black purse and opened it. All it held was a credit card, a twenty dollar bill, a condom, and a tube of lipstick. It was too small to hold anything else.

"She was out last night," Sara said.

"How can you tell that just by looking at her purse?" Jake asked, his disbelief evident in his voice.

"This is not a woman's everyday purse. This is a going-out-to-get-laid kit," she said. "There's just enough in here to get you to a bar and back. She'll have another bag. Look around."

Sara moved into the bedroom. It wasn’t tidy, but not messy either. Lived-in, Sara decided. It was a bit frilly for her tastes, but she had developed more of an industrial decorating style herself. Sara certainly wouldn’t have a chubby little teddy bear dressed in a Santa suit on the bed.

Moving to the bedside table, she found a matchbook from a local club, the Monkey’s Paw. Sara would bet that's where the victim had been last night. She knew from experience that once you found a good hunting ground, you tended to stick with it. She hadn't been on the prowl for some time, but she remembered the tactics well.

"You were right," Jake said, poking his head in the room. "Found it."

Sara followed him out, and upended the purse on the battered kitchen table. Pulling an address book from the pile, she handed it to her partner.

"Start calling," she said shortly. "Find out who she went out with. At least one other woman, probably more."

"How do you know that?" Jake demanded.

"I'm a woman, Jake. When we go out, we travel in packs." She risked a glance at his face and noted his annoyance. "Do it, rookie."

Jake waited a long moment, then pulled out his cell phone. If a little reminder that she knew his secret was what it took to get some easy compliance, then that’s what she would do. Turning her back on him, Sara snagged the woman’s wallet from the pile of purse contents. The spaces for her license and credit card were empty, but there were forty dollars still in their place. Pulling out a business card, Sara's eyes widened.

Michelle Harris had worked for Vorschlag Industries.

*****

There was no way that Sara could know for sure he had been the one to turn in Ian, Jake reminded himself as he left another voicemail message for another of the women in the victim’s phone book. Or tried to turn Ian in, Jake corrected himself. That had failed miserably. Not only had Ian apparently had a twin who had been the one to take the fall, Sara was barely speaking to him now. When she’d started with the silent treatment, he’d thought that she couldn’t keep it up for more than a few days, but it had been over two weeks now, and he was starting to think she could keep it up pretty much forever. Christmas was in a few days; he had been hoping that the holiday spirit would move her to forgiveness, but that appeared increasingly unlikely.

The only good thing was that he was now in tight with the White Bulls, the target of his real mission in the force. Captain Dante and the rest of the corrupt cops didn’t seem to realize that the wrong guy was dead. Either Irons hadn’t told them, or even he didn’t know. Somehow, Jake doubted that the former was true. Irons didn’t seem like the type to be uninformed.

Clicking shut his phone, Jake wandered over to where Sara was talking to one of the less creepy coroners, Vicky Po. Jake had once considered asking Vicky out, but the woman smelled too much of formaldehyde. Granted, he’d only ever met her in a working environment, but he had a feeling that, even if she managed to wash the smell off, it would always be there in his mind.

"Choked to death, then raped," the black-haired coroner was telling Sara. Sara grimaced, and Vicky nodded. "Yeah, I know. Ick. But better than the other way around for her, I suppose."

"So you think she just brought the wrong guy home?" Jake asked Sara.

She ignored him.

"Just let me know what you find. Any way to narrow it down would help," she said to Vicky, then walked past Jake to the door.

Vicky raised her eyebrows at him.

"What did you do to rate the silent treatment from Pez?" she asked him.

"I have no idea," Jake lied.

*****

"How well did you know Irons’ other employees?" Sara asked as she took a plastic baggie from the brown bag Ian offered.

"Why do you ask?" he inquired, watching her frown as she took out the sandwich. "Sorry," he said. "It was all there was."

"It’s not your fault," she said halfheartedly, then took a bite out of the peanut butter and white bread. After a moment of chewing, she answered his question. "A Vorschlag employee turned up dead this morning. I know there are a lot of them, but her business card had the main address on it, so I thought maybe …"

She took another bite and looked at him hopefully.

"Name?" he asked.

"Michelle Harris," Sara mumbled around her mouthful.

Ian closed his eyes and mentally shuffled through his memories. His memory was exceptionally good, though not quite photographic. He did, however, remember the woman in question.

"In sales," he said. "Brown hair, green eyes, always talking about shoes." He opened his eyes to look at Sara. "Why do women like shoes so much?"

Sara shrugged.

"I don’t know. Why do you have five coats?" She grinned briefly, then grew serious again. "Know anyone who would want to kill her?"

It wasn’t just the death or the connection to his former master that was bothering her, Ian could tell, but he didn’t press it. She would tell him when she was ready, or he would figure it out for himself. Their relationship had grown easier, but at the same time much more complicated, in the last weeks, since Sara’s connection to him seemed to have opened; Ian didn’t want to ruin it by making her talk about something she didn’t want to.

There was still tension between them. Ian knew she wanted to ask him about the Witchblade, but, at the same time, she didn’t want to talk about it. She wanted to pretend that her life was normal, but Ian knew his mere presence shattered that illusion. He knew he was difficult to live with; he was silent, moody, and every few days found himself waking up at the side of her bed curled on the floor, having been dragged there by the link that connected them through the Witchblade. Sara had only caught him there once, but he could tell it had annoyed her, though she refused to even mention it.

Sara spent a good part of her time frustrated with him, but life was still better than it had been. He only wished that he was able to be as comfortable with her as she was with him. Even now, sitting only inches apart on the park bench, his skin crawled at being so near to her. His indoctrination was fading, but slowly. Ian tried, but he still had to fight against his training. It didn’t help that he could almost hear her thoughts in his head when he was this close to her.

With a shake of his head to clear it, he brought himself back to the conversation at hand. "She was a frivolous, vain woman," Ian said. "I never paid her much attention."

Sara frowned but didn’t say anything. She finished her sandwich in silence, then stared at the ground for a few minutes. Ian could sense the conflict in her, but had no idea what the problem was.

"I wouldn’t ever suggest that you do something illegal," she said slowly, "But if you happened to come across her personnel file on a computer somewhere, that might help me out."

"If I were to accidentally find something like that, I’d be sure to alert the authorities," Ian said, carefully keeping his face blank.

Sara bumped his shoulder with hers and smiled. Ian involuntarily shuddered at the contact, but Sara didn’t seem to notice.

"That’s very responsible of you," she said.

*****

Jake watched his partner leaf through the stack of photos a runner had dropped off, comparing them with a list the forensics guys had given them. She was concentrating a little too hard on her task. Before, there would have been some friendly banter, a little joking, but now, just dead silence.

He had made a mistake.

He never should have gone to Kenneth Irons and given him Sara and Ian’s address. Jake had rationalized it - he was only doing his job; Sara would never know; Ian was a wanted man - but Jake knew that it was all lies. How could he make it right, though? He couldn’t apologize - that would mean admitting to Sara that he’d done it in the first place. She was never going to trust him again, and hell, he didn’t really deserve it.

Sara lifted her head and frowned at him.

"Get calling, Jake," she said, dropping her eyes back to the photos. "It looks like you’re only halfway through that book."

Oh yeah, this was turning out to be a fun day.

*****

Kenneth Irons watched as file names swiftly scrolled across his computer screen. The hacker had broken in easily and was making little effort to hide his tracks. He obviously knew his way around the system and to Irons, that meant only one person: Ian Nottingham.

There could be any number of reasons that his former favorite was digging around in the Vorschlag Industries computers, but Irons could think of nothing that would interest Ian in the Human Resources information. After all, it wasn’t as if Ian’s own employment records were there; any information about him was kept on a non-networked computer in the basement of Irons’ own home, and Ian knew that.

Whatever Ian was doing, it was likely at the bidding of his new mistress, Sara Pezzini, the wielder of the Witchblade. If they were snooping in his livelihood, then maybe it was time to snoop in theirs. Besides, he had given them a few weeks without him; it was time to get his plan back on track.

He pressed a button on his desk.

"Yes, sir?" his secretary’s voice came through the speaker.

"Retrieve Detective Jake McCartey’s private cell phone number for me."

*****

Sara stared at the photo of the dead woman, a feeling of … something … tickling at the back of her brain. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and let it out again, clearing her mind of distractions. When she opened her eyes again, she was hit by one of the Witchblade’s visions:

"My name's not Sara," she said, her voice panicky. "You know that. Let me go!"

"Jesus!" she exclaimed and pushed her chair away from the desk.

"What?!" Jake asked, dropping the telephone receiver on the desk. "What’s wrong?"

Sara shook her head to clear it. The vision had been stronger than any she’d ever felt, except for once. Instead of just watching what was happening, it was like she’d been in the woman’s head. The only other time it had happened had been with Ian, and he’d been drugged to the gills on a psychotropic cocktail at the time.

"Sara?" her partner said, standing up. "You ok?"

"Huh?" she said. "Uh, yeah. I, uh, bit my tongue." She faked a laugh. "Sorry."

Jake opened his mouth to speak when his phone chirped in his coat pocket. With a frown, he sat back down and dug in the pocket to retrieve it. As he answered it, Sara pulled herself back to her desk. She kept her eyes averted from the photograph in front of her, just in case. She wasn’t sure she could handle another vision as intense as that one had been.

"Yes, sir," Jake was saying, with a peculiar tone to his voice.

Sara watched as Jake shot her a glance that looked almost afraid, then turn his back to her.

"No, no, of course not, sir," he said, an edge of nervousness in his voice. "Yeah, that’ll be fine. I’ll be there."

Jake clicked his phone shut, but just stood there. Sara shrugged to herself. He was probably just in trouble with his FBI bosses. What did she care, anyway?

*****

Jake tossed his notebook on the seat next to him. He'd spent his afternoon calling the victim’s friends, only to confirm what Sara had already guessed. Michelle Harris had gone out with three women to the Monkey’s Paw the night she died. He had visited one of them on his way to his current appointment.

Maggie Schuler had opened her door dressed in a tank top and men's boxer shorts. She'd leaned against the door as they talked in the hallway, and Jake had to admit he had been a bit distracted by her clothing - or lack thereof - while he'd interviewed her. He'd always been slick with the ladies in California, but the women in New York were different. Harder, more focused. Less likely to fall for the goofy surfer-boy schtick.

"Yeah, she saw someone she knew. We were there for a Christmas party and so was he," Maggie had told him. "She pointed him out, but none of us got a real good look at him."

"Uh," he had stammered, pulling his head up from where he'd been staring at her navel. He was used to seeing them on the beach, but there was something about seeing a bellybutton peeking out over the top of boxer shorts that drove him to distraction. "Could you describe what you did see of him?"

"Tall, built, short hair," she had said, unconsciously twirling her long blonde hair around a finger while she thought. "She said she had never talked to him before, but always thought he was cute."

Little more had been forthcoming, and, anyway, Jake had an appointment. It wasn’t one that he necessarily wanted to keep, but he didn’t really see that he had much choice. With a sigh, he opened the car door and hopped out. He double checked to make sure it was locked, then slammed the door behind him. He was early, so he walked as slowly as possible up to the large front door of 1111 Faust St.

*****

Ian sat in the van outside of his former master's house, preparing to make Sara very angry. He had told her, the last time they were here, that he didn't want anything more from the house. He had honestly thought that the few things he had taken were enough. Now, though, he wasn't so sure.

Ian hadn't owned many belongings - his training and Irons' discouragement had seen to that - but the few things he had owned had turned out to be more important to him than he had thought. With money he had stolen from Vorschlag, Ian had been able to replace his clothes, many of his weapons and electronics, even duplicate the computing power that he had enjoyed. No amount of money, though, seemed to be able to replace the contents of one small wooden box that had been hidden under the floorboards of his tiny, bare bedroom.

Why he was choosing now to risk breaking into Irons' home, he wasn't sure. It was a foolhardy plan: to simply walk in the front door as if he still belonged there. The staff was not employed for their intelligence, but their discretion; they would not challenge him. The security system concerned him little; even if it had been completely changed in the time he had been gone, he had the skills to defeat it. What was foolish was to risk the re-immersion in his former environment.

Ian had never really before understood how privileged he had been under Irons' thumb. He had had no freedom and had been little more than his master's pet, but he had been, he had to admit, a pampered pet. That didn't compare to freedom, but Ian still missed it sometimes. He was tired of living on peanut butter sandwiches and hearing sirens scream by at three in the morning. He hated to see Sara worry when she checked the post office box and found yet another bill. He was ashamed that he had spent so much money on things that he probably could have done without, if he had bothered to think about it. He had never realized how hard it was to live outside of his gilded cage. There was no way he would willingly return to that cage, but to be reminded of what he was missing was not going to help him learn to live in his new life.

Of course, his new life had Sara in it. Ian would give up luxury time and again if it meant just one more chance to see her look at him with that expression of amused annoyance that she so frequently sported in his presence. She would definitely look like that once she discovered what he was up to - without the amused part. Luckily, she was engrossed in this new case, and would be too busy to miss him for the moment. He’d already gotten the Harris woman’s records from Vorschlag, so maybe that would appease Sara a bit, once she found out.

Ian put the van in park and turned it off. If he was going to do this, he would have to do it now, before Irons came home from the office. Just as he was opening the door, however, a car pulled up to the front gates and, after only a momentary pause to allow the gates to open, pulled up the driveway.

Ian recognized the driver; it was Jake McCartey.

*****

"Hey, Pez."

Sara looked up and smiled. Vicky Po. One of the few women that she could call a friend. She didn’t know what it was, but most women didn’t like her. Oh well, it was quality, not quantity, that counted.

"What brings you out of your lair?" Sara asked her visitor, waving Vicky in. "You couldn’t have anything on the Harris case yet."

"Nothing more than what I’ve already told you," the other woman said, "Except that he broke a few vertebrae when he was choking her." She sat down in Jake’s chair and her face suddenly turned serious. "I’m worried about you."

"What are you talking about?" Sara said, forcing out a short laugh. "I’m fine."

"This job can take a lot out of you, trust me, I know," Vicky said, shaking her head.

A vodka bottle in the wastebasket. Vicky wanting her to mind her own business.

"Thanks, Pez. I’m coping."

"But whatever’s going on with you is big, I know it." Vicky smiled slightly. "With you it couldn’t be anything but."

"I appreciate your concern," Sara said, and she meant it, "But I’ve got it under control, I promise."

"I hear rumors, you know," Vicky said hesitantly. "People forget that I ever come out of the lab, and they say stuff I probably shouldn’t hear."

"Like what?" Sara asked.

"Like you’re involved in something dangerous. That the headless guy who came in a couple weeks ago was ..." the other woman trailed off, looking down at Jake’s desk. "I just don’t want you to think that you’re alone."

"I’m not, trust me," Sara said. "Whatever you heard about that guy, it’s not true, ok?"

Vicky looked skeptical. Sara sighed.

"Look, you can’t tell anybody, but I’m actually living with someone," Sara said. It was technically true, though not quite the way Vicky was going to think. "His … father wouldn’t like it, so we’re keeping it really quiet."

Vicky’s face broke into a big smile and Sara knew the coroner had taken the misdirection. Vicky leaned forward conspiratorially and looked at Sara with avid curiosity.

"Well, what’s his name? What’s he do? Is he cute? How long have you been living together? Who’s his father that you, Sara Pezzini, are hiding it?" she asked, her voice just above a whisper. "You can’t just leave me hanging like this!"

Sara had to grin at her friend’s enthusiasm. It had been a while since they had really talked, and she’d forgotten how much fun it was. It was too bad she couldn’t really tell Vicky anything - it would be nice to be able to tell someone all that was going on.

She was trying to come up with some explanation when her cell phone beeped at her.

"Sorry," Sara said without any trace of sincerity, "I’ve got to get this."

"Saved by the bell," Vicky said, and leaned back in her chair, still grinning.

Sara fished the phone out and flipped it open. She already knew who it was.

"Hey," she said to the subject of Vicky’s intense questioning.

"Do you know where your partner is?" Ian asked.

"No," she said. "He said he was heading home."

"After a side trip, it seems," he said. "He is at Mr. Irons’ home. He just went inside."

"What are you doing there?" Sara asked suspiciously.

"I’ll keep an eye on the situation," Ian said quickly and hung up.

Sara pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it for a moment before she closed it. He was up to something. She didn’t need some mystical Witchblade-aided connection to tell that.

*****

Jake wandered around the giant room, unable to stay in one place for more than a few moments. To say he was nervous wasn’t quite putting it strongly enough. Here he was in the home of a man who, Jake suspected, knew that he was an undercover FBI agent and who pulled the strings of the White Bulls. That was not a good combination.

Rationally, Jake knew it was probably time to get out - time to call his boss in the FBI and tell him that the mission was compromised and that there was no way he could complete it now. At least three people knew his true identity now, two of whom weren’t very happy with him and one of whom was probably just about to blackmail him - or something worse.

But he couldn’t just give up. It wasn’t in his nature. When he started something, he finished it, regardless of the personal cost. This would be no different. Besides, maybe he could use this to his advantage. What better way to impress his FBI superiors than taking down Kenneth Irons, someone they’d had their eye on for ages?

Besides, he had a feeling that it might get him back in Sara’s good books, too. He didn’t know exactly what was between her and Irons, or even if it was anything other than Ian, but there was no love lost there. That could be his angle for getting back on her good side.

Taking down Irons.

*****

It had been as easy to enter the house as he had expected. The housekeeper hadn’t even blinked in surprise when he knocked on the door, and he had just swept past and ignored her, as he had always done in the past.

He first made straight for his former bedroom and found the spartan room unchanged. Snicking open his switchblade, he pried up a partial floorboard under the bed and pulled out the box that he had come for. Closing the knife and stuffing it in his coat pocket along with the box, he scanned the room for anything else he might want to take.

No. Nothing.

Time to find Sara’s partner.

It was easy. He was in the study. From the darkness of the balcony, Ian watched him shift around the room, inspecting the art, stopping and staring, mouth open, for several minutes at the detailed carvings on the huge wooden doors. Ian couldn’t blame him for that; they were certainly … educational.

As much as he wanted to, Ian found it hard to fault Jake for his attempt to eliminate Ian. Though Sara didn’t seem to want to believe it, Jake was obviously in love with her, and that was something that Ian could easily understand. He had loved Sara from the moment he knew she existed. So he could understand what Jake felt, even if he couldn’t understand the other man’s betrayal of her.

Sara, he knew, was more hurt than angry at her partner by now. She was stubborn, though, and would continue to punish Jake indefinitely. As hurt as she was, though, she wouldn’t actually want Jake to be in any danger. And Ian knew Jake was most definitely in danger if he was at Irons’ home. Though he might be an FBI agent and more savvy than he pretended, Jake was no match for Ian’s former master.

After ten minutes, the great doors opened and the housekeeper poked her head in hesitantly.

"Mr. Irons has been delayed," she told Jake. "Please wait here. He will be arriving soon."

"I don’t have -" he began, but the woman shut the door with a thump. "All night," he finished lamely.

With a frustrated sigh, Jake kicked the closed door, then hopped around, swearing for several minutes. After he stopped and sat down, seemingly defeated, in one of the huge leather chairs, Ian made his decision.

He started down the stairs.

*****

Sara had bailed on Vicky with a patently false explanation, but the other woman had only grinned and called after her, "You know, you’re not getting away with this that easily! I’ll get the story out of you!"

While it was good that Vicky now just thought she was having some mysterious relationship, it made Sara uncomfortable to think of Ian in that way, though she wasn’t sure why. He did, after all, fit the usual profile of her type, as her former partner Danny had more than once described it: "nocturnal self-destructive bad boy." And Ian was certainly attractive; on the rare occasions that he smiled, she was left breathless. And his body … well, that was pretty nice, too. In addition to his looks, he was intelligent; patient and infinitely forgiving with her; and even seemed to be developing a sense of humor. But, put all those things together and add love or even sex in, and it just… She didn’t know. It was just weird.

Maybe it was because every time she touched him he flinched, or because he still was learning to live like a person and not a servant, or just because there were just too many unanswered questions in her life right now.

Sara shook her head to clear it as she pulled up behind the dark gray van parked a block from Irons’ house. She already knew that Ian wasn’t in it, but checked anyway - she wasn’t always sure she could trust her new spider-senses where Ian was concerned. Turning to face Irons’ enormous mansion, she could feel, in a way she wasn’t able to describe, that Ian was there. Her memory of the house’s layout even let her place him in the room with the big fireplace - the study or whatever it was supposed to be.

She had no idea what Ian was up to. He wasn’t here to go back to Irons, that was one thing she was sure of. Or mostly sure, anyway. Sometimes, she wouldn’t blame him. Living with her was no picnic - she was moody, bossy, messy, and they were rapidly running out of money. All Ian had ever known had been a life of luxury and the real world had to come as a shock. He’d been little better than a slave living here, but at least he hadn’t had to eat peanut butter sandwiches for a week straight.

Sara sighed. Standing out in the cold and dark thinking about Ian wasn’t going to help her figure out what he was doing inside. Securing her helmet on her bike - probably safe enough to do in this neighborhood - she headed for the house.

*****

Jake jumped from the chair at the sound of footsteps on the stairs and had his gun out and aimed the moment he saw who it was: Ian Nottingham. The assassin stopped halfway down the steps, and with a strange frown, held his hands up, as if in surrender. Jake didn’t buy it for a second.

"Thought you ‘escaped’?" Jake said, not letting his gun waver. "Does Sara know you’re back here?"

"Yes," the other man said calmly. "She also knows you’re here." He cocked his head, as if listening to something. "She’s on her way in."

"What are you doing here?" Jake asked.

"What my plans were originally are not your concern," the man said, taking a single step down the stairs. "Now, I am going to urge you to get out of here." He dropped his hands down. "You’re in over your head, Agent McCartey. Sara may be angry at you, but she doesn’t want you dead. I’m giving you this chance for her sake." He took another step down. "Take it."

Jake stared at the man he’d tried to betray. Ian was telling the truth: he didn’t care less what happened to Jake, but Ian cared about Sara. And, Jake had to admit, that for all his pep talking to himself, he probably was in over his head. Kenneth Irons was too powerful to take on by himself. But there was nothing he could do about it, really. Irons had him.

Jake lowered his gun.

"If I could, I would," Jake said, shaking his head. "I don’t have a choice. He’s got my number."

"So do I," came a voice from behind him.

Jake whirled around to find Sara leaning against the carved doors to the room. He hadn’t even heard them open. With her arms crossed against her chest, she was obviously annoyed - and not, it seemed by the way her eyes flicked past him to look at Ian - just at him.

"Sara, look, I -" he started, but Sara cut him off suddenly.

"Irons is here," she said, rubbing the stone of the silver bracelet she always wore. "You’re in too deep, Jake." She looked past him to Ian. "And you shouldn’t even be here. I’ll take care of this. Get out, both of you. Jake, go with Ian."

Jake started to protest, but the flash of anger in her eyes was enough to stop him short.

"Sara, no," Ian said, his voice warning.

"Go," she said, glaring at both of them in turn.

Jake didn’t dare disobey. He turned and headed for the stairs.

*****

Irons entered by the back door, annoyed at his delay. For the fifth time in as many minutes, he checked his pocket watch. He detested untimeliness. His housekeeper scurried up to take his coat.

"Sir, there’s -" she began, but Irons waved her silent.

"Not now," he barked and breezed past her.

"But, sir!" she called.

"Not now!" he repeated and continued down the hall to the study.

Pausing briefly to school his features into a mask of calm, he pushed open the doors and entered. At first, he didn’t see anyone, then spotted a denim-clad leg in one of the large leather chairs in front of the fire.

"Ah, Detective McCartey," he said smoothly, "How nice of you to stop by on such short notice."

"Guess again," a familiar voice said, and Sara stood up from the chair. She turned to face him with her hands on her hips. "Why are you bothering my partner? I come to see you and who do I find but my rookie partner - here for no apparent reason."

He was surprised to see her, but that was no reason to show it. It was unfortunate that Agent McCartey wasn't here, but Sara at his home voluntarily? This was much better.

"What can I do for you, Sara?" Irons asked, moving to sit down in the other chair.

"I came to, uh, ask for some information," she said. "About a case."

*****

"What can you tell me about your employee, Michelle Harris?" she asked, pulling her little notebook from her pocket. "You do know that she was murdered, right?"

Irons' face became a mask of sorrow.

"I had heard. I contacted her parents this afternoon to offer my condolences," he said. "Ms. Harris was a fine worker, though I was infrequently in contact with her. I'm afraid I can't be much help." He paused and a slight smile crossed his lips. "I could have a look through her personnel records, if you think that might be of any assistance."

Irons looked at her with an air of innocent helpfulness. Obviously, Ian had already gotten the files she hadn’t exactly asked him for, and Irons had noticed. Unusually sloppy on Ian’s part, but it was nice to know they’d be waiting for her at home.

"If you could, I would appreciate it," Sara said, knowing a refusal would only confirm his suspicions. "Thank you for your time."

She turned to go and was almost out the door before Irons called out to her, almost hesitantly.

"How is Ian?"

Turning, she saw a look on Irons’ face that she had never seen before: sadness. She didn’t believe it for an instant.

"He’s fine," she said after a moment. "Despite everything you’ve done to him," she couldn’t help but add.

"You wound me, Sara," Irons said, dropping his gaze in a move oddly reminiscent of Ian.

"I sure hope so," she said, then turned and left.

*****

She giggled as he pressed her against the door, his lips hungrily searching hers. Fumbling behind her, she managed to get the door unlocked and turned the knob. They stumbled into the apartment, and she kicked the door shut before leading him to her bedroom. She was glad her roommate had taken the hint and stayed at the club with the others. She had a feeling this was going to get noisy.

*****

Sara and Jake walked into the apartment to find a scene similar to the one from the day before. A young woman, this time on a bed, with a nasty bruise across her throat. A look from Vicky confirmed her fears: Theresa Duffy had been killed then raped. A quick talk with her roommate confirmed they had been to the Monkey’s Paw the night before.

"Sara?" Jake called as she roamed the small apartment. "Come here for a second."

Sara found him staring curiously at the body and lifting one of the corpse's eyelids.

"Notice anything weird?" he asked.

"Yeah, you're being pretty gross," she said, grimacing.

"Both of the women: long brown hair and green eyes. Athletic builds," he said. "Kind of like you."

The Witchblade chose that time to assault Sara with another full-body and mind vision:

"But my name’s not Sara!" she rasped out. "Stop it! Let me go!"

"Sara? You ok?" Jake was asking when she came back from wherever the Blade’s vision had taken her. "Sara?"

"Yeah, I’m fine," she said after a second. "I just, uh, forgot to eat breakfast this morning. I’m a little lightheaded."

She smiled at Jake, who obviously didn’t believe her, but he didn’t push it. They hadn’t yet talked about what had happened last night at Irons’ house, but Sara knew they were going to have to at some point - and sooner rather than later.

She and Ian hadn’t talked about it either, not really. He’d evaded her questions with his usual non-answers until she’d given up in frustration. He didn’t want to tell her what he had been doing at Irons' house, and in his own way, Ian was as stubborn as she was. She’d get it out of him eventually, but she was going to have to find a different way to do it - she was going to have to snoop

She pulled her attention back to the present. Jake was still watching her carefully, but she ignored him. Now that he had pointed it out, Sara noticed the resemblance. The other woman’s personnel records had been no help, and besides, Theresa Duffy had no connection with Vorschlag. With the visions as an added clue, she knew that this was one of those things that was connected to the Witchblade.

A haggard face with a tinge of amusement: "Everything in your life connected now. Your body, your heart, your dreams, your work. What case are you investigating now?"

Her own voice: "A serial murder, art community. Nothing to do with Irons."

"Everything to do with you. The blade weaves a web. Unbreakable. It draws to itself, to you, everything you need. Only what you need to teach you. To achieve its end."

Sara looked down at the bracelet on her wrist. Sometimes she really hated this thing.

She turned to Jake.

"Come on," she said. "It’s time to check out the Monkey’s Paw."

*****

Ian followed behind the blue Ford Taurus that Sara was in. He hadn’t intended to follow her today, but as soon as she left the loft, he had become uncomfortable. He paced the large room from end to end until he forced himself to sit down at his computer. He hadn’t even managed to log on, though, before he was up and pacing again, mentally following Sara on her route to the precinct. He barely paid any attention as he paid the overnight delivery service that came for the pickup.

When she left again, he grew even more agitated, though he didn’t know why. Something was very wrong, but he didn’t know what. Sara had been plagued by nightmares all night, he knew, but when he had asked her how she had slept, she had answered, "fine," and seemed to mean it. Whatever was bothering him was more than his night of interrupted sleep, but he still couldn’t place it. Only when he grabbed his coat and headed out to find Sara did the feeling somewhat abate.

Luckily, he had been at a stoplight when a surge a pure fear and panic whipped along the bond he shared with the Wielder. It wasn’t Sara’s fear, he could tell that, but that didn’t make him feel any better. His agitation returned full force.

Only now, when he could actually see Sara and prove to himself that she wasn’t in any physical danger was he able to calm himself totally. When the car stopped outside of a closed nightclub, he pulled past, then parked. He didn’t need to hide from Sara anymore, but old habits died hard.

While Sara and Jake pounded on the main entrance, Ian headed for the back. A quick use of a thin knife opened the door, and he sidled quietly into the darkened club. It was a typical nightclub, though the ratty Christmas decorations contrasted oddly with the industrial look.

By the time he entered, Sara was already questioning whoever had opened the door, and she wasn’t in a good mood. Ian had been on the receiving end of that tone of voice just last night and was glad to hear it directed at someone else for a change. Sara didn’t enjoy being thwarted, he knew, and from him it was almost unheard of. But she was the one who had told Ian that he should be his own person, and he had decided to keep the purpose of his errand at Irons’ home a secret. It was, he reminded himself firmly, nothing she needed to ever know about.

After a few minutes, Ian heard Jake take over the questioning, being good cop to Sara’s surly one. Sara began to wander around the club, and eventually entered Ian’s field of view. Finally, she stopped in front of a poster on the far wall and Ian suddenly felt like he had been dragged into her head along the line that connected them.

A flash of angry eyes. "Tell me you want me, Sara!"

A tattooed arm reaching across, pressing down.

Fury and bitterness: "If you don’t want me, no one can have you! You’ll always be mine!"

Sara had turned toward him by the time he could see with his own eyes again. She motioned him backward, and without thinking, he obeyed.

"I’m going to check out the back," he heard her call to Jake. "I’ll meet you at the car."

She joined him in the back alley and leaned against the wall next to him. After a long moment of silence, she finally spoke.

"You get that, too?" she asked.

Ian nodded, not trusting his voice to be steady. He knew what was coming.

"That poster …" she said hesitantly. "It was for an upcoming show." She took a deep breath, then let it out again. "For Conchobar."

*****

Jake stood by the car, waiting for Sara. He had a feeling that her sudden departure from the club had less to do with checking out the alley and more to do with Ian’s van parked down the street. There was no way Jake was going to even poke his head into the alley. He didn’t want to see what they were up to, and, besides Sara was actually talking to him today. Granted, just about work stuff, but it was better than the silent treatment.

His cell phone rang in his pocket, and pulling it out, he opened it.

"McCartey,"

"Detective, I’m so sorry you had to leave last night," Irons said, his voice crackly with static. "Perhaps we could try to meet again."

"Uh, sure. Mr. Irons." Actually, it was the last thing Jake wanted, but he really didn’t think he had much of a choice. "Sorry about that. My partner …"

"The lovely Sara makes her own rules; I certainly don’t blame you for that." Irons chuckled. "Lunch, then? At my home? Is noon good for you, Detective?"

"Yeah, that’s fine," Jake said. "I’ll see you there."

"Wonderful."

There was a click as Irons hung up. Jake stuck the phone in his pocket just as Sara appeared from the alley. She glanced behind once and gave a small smile before continuing toward him. A surge a jealousy rushed through him, but he fought it down. If he let himself be overcome by his passions again, there might be no telling what stupid thing he would do this time.

*****

Sara stared out the window at nothing. Jake was being quiet, which was a relief. She wasn’t sure she would be able to talk right now.

Conchobar.

She had tried her best not to think about him, to remember what it had been like in the other lifetime. She had done fairly well, even managing to convince herself that it wouldn’t work out, that she was better off without him, that as wonderful as he had been, her job as the Wielder of the Witchblade made any normal romantic relationship impossible. But now, she couldn’t help but think of him.

There was no way Conchobar could have done that to those women. No way. He had never been anything but gentle, even leaving Ireland to get away from the pressure to join the IRA. That gentleness had been the thing she loved most about him. She couldn’t conceive of him being able to rape and murder women.

But she hadn’t caught the Witchblade in a lie yet. And Ian had seen it, too, though why, she didn’t know. If he hadn’t, she might have tried to convince herself that she had imagined it, but one look at Ian’s pained eyes made her face the truth. Somehow, Conchobar was involved. Exactly how, she wasn’t sure, but she was going to have to find out.

She was going to have to see him.

*****

Kenneth Irons flipped on a pleasant smile as the spiky-haired undercover FBI agent was led into the conservatory. Jake McCartey eyed Irons nervously, fiddling with the zipper of his jacket as he shifted from foot to foot, just inside the door.

Irons turned his gaze to the snow-covered landscape outside the thick glass windows.

"I find it relaxing, the snow, don’t you, Detective?" Irons asked his guest.

Irons resisted the urge to look at Jake again, even as the pause grew longer and longer. After nearly ten seconds, the detective spoke.

"Actually, I just think it’s cold," the Californian said.

Allowing his smile to grow larger, Irons turned to face Jake.

"What a refreshing answer," he said with a small laugh. "So … practical." He indicated the chair across the small luncheon table. "Please, sit." The detective did as instructed with only minimal hesitation. Irons nodded to a small glass in front of the young detective. "I won’t presume to offer you a glass of wine with lunch since I’m sure you’re on duty, but would you like some cider? It’s pressed from apples from my own orchard upstate."

"Uh, sure," Jake said, and picked up the glass. After taking a sip, he smiled. "Hey this is really good."

He finished the glass in one more long swallow, and Irons steepled his fingers in front of him. His smile never faltered as Jake suddenly frowned and dropped the glass on the slate floor with a crash. Irons stood.

"Not feeling well, Detective?" he asked. "That’s from the GHB - gamma hydroxybutyric acid - in the cider." Irons moved around the table to stand next to Jake, whose head was beginning to loll. "Very popular with the young people, I hear." Jake tried to get out of his chair, but only fell to the floor, his head bouncing on the stone. Irons knelt down beside him. "Now, now, just stay still. Don’t struggle. We don’t want to damage what little we have to work with," he said, tapping the young man on the temple. "We couldn’t afford that."

*****

Sara tried to hide her growing concern.

"Come on, Sara, it’s snowing and you rode your bike," Vicky said. "Let me give you a ride home."

Her friend wasn’t just being nice, Sara knew. Vicky wanted a look at the mysterious man she thought Sara was romantically involved with. The problem was that Sara hadn’t warned Ian about her little ruse. It hadn’t occurred to her that Vicky would be so persistent. Sara had considered calling Ian for a ride, but that wouldn’t throw Vicky off, either; she would just wait with Sara until Ian got here, then insist on an introduction.

This was not a good day.

First the discovery that her lover from several other lifetimes seemed to be killing women. Then Jake had bailed on her for lunch, just when she had considered starting to forgive him. After that, he had called, sounding drunk, saying he had food poisoning and wouldn’t be back that day. That had left her alone in the office with stacks of paperwork to do. Add all that to the proximity of Christmas and her general dislike of the whole hectic holiday thing, and it was turning out to be a pretty crappy day.

And now, she couldn’t figure out a way to keep Vicky from uncovering the truth about Ian. Sara just knew that Vicky wasn’t going to be happy dropping her off at the front door. She was going to want to come up. Then Sara was going to have to try to come up for some explanation as to why her supposed boyfriend was taciturn, servile, and unable to touch people. Oh yeah, that would be fun. But why not? It fit with the theme of the day.

"All right," Sara said with a sigh. "But don’t think I don’t know why you’re being so helpful," she told her friend, raising her eyebrows.

Vicky just laughed and waved her out the door.

*****

Ian was staring at the interior of the nearly empty fridge when he had the distinct impression that Sara was trying to get his attention. Even though he knew she wasn’t there, he turned around and surveyed the apartment. It was sparklingly clean, but empty of the Wielder.

She was on her way home, he could tell that. If she wanted to talk to him, she could just wait till she got here. He was surprised she hadn’t called him for a ride, since it was snowing. He probably would have made up some excuse not to, though. At the moment, just didn’t feel like seeing her any sooner than he had to. As far as he could tell, she was in no immediate danger, so he ignored the odd sensation.

Ian had found himself inexplicably hurt by Sara’s pain over Conchobar’s involvement in her current case. Rationally, Ian knew that her response was reasonable - after all, she and musician had been lovers in more than one lifetime and to have him killing innocent women was shocking - but that didn’t make Ian feel any better. It hurt him to see the look of total despair on her face, a sorrow she had never felt for him. He found that he wanted to hurt her - not physically, but make her feel as bad as he did.

He had contemplated finding Conchobar and simply killing him - ending Sara’s torment before she had to face the man - but Ian almost wanted her to feel the pain that was coming. In the other life Ian and Sara had lived, before she had turned back this lifetime, she had never shown any interest in the end of the story of Cathain and Conchobar, but Ian knew it. He had torn the page from the book so that she didn’t have to know, and had taken punishment for it. He was tempted to tell her now, just to see her hurt even more.

With a sigh, Ian took out the milk and butter and closed the refrigerator door. He didn’t really want to hurt Sara that much. He knew that. It felt surprisingly good, though, to think about it.

He was beginning to learn that life was more confusing than he had ever thought.

*****

Irons watched his newest tool through the glass. Jake McCartey would never be as loyal as Ian, but he didn’t need that. Irons just needed enough loyalty to have the younger man report on every thing that Sara did and anything he could discover about her and Ian.

Somewhat surprisingly, Dr. Immo had reported that very little was needed in the way of indoctrination to convince Jake to spy for Irons. Jake was already fixated on his partner as a love interest, and it only took a little push to focus his jealousy into something useful. Jealousy and hurt could make anyone do just about anything, Irons was convinced.

Even hurt the one that one loved.

*****

Sara had been right.

As they pulled up outside her building, Vicky had turned to her and said, "You know, while I’m here, I should at least get to meet this mystery man of yours."

Sara had considered telling her that Ian wasn’t home, that he was at work, that he was out trolling for chicks, anything but the truth, but instead, she had just agreed and led her up to the loft apartment. As she unlocked the door, she prayed again that Ian wouldn’t act too weird, that he would just play along. She doubted it, though. This was an assassin clone she was talking about here, after all. He didn’t even know what normal was.

When she opened the door and stepped inside, Vicky nearly ran her down, trying to find Ian. Scanning the apartment, Sara spotted him coming out of her bedroom.

"Hi, honey," he said, "You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend home with you."

Sara’s mouth dropped open, and she stared at Ian. Luckily, a quick glance confirmed that Vicky only had eyes for Ian. Sara had to admit that with his hair all tousled and a skin-tight black shirt clinging to his muscles, he was an arresting sight, but she was still more interested in what he had said. Had she heard that right? Honey?

"Uh, yeah," she said, once she got her brain on track again. "Ian, this is Vicky. She gave me a ride home since it’s snowing."

Ian covered the distance between them quickly and briefly flashed his breathtaking smile at Vicky.

"Thank you. I was starting to worry about her," he said to Vicky’s sudden goofy grin. "It’s nice to meet you."

Sara tried to catch Ian’s eye, but he never took his eyes from Vicky’s. Reaching down, he took Vicky’s hand and brought it to his lips. To Sara’s amazement, she noticed his hands were bare and that he seemed to have no reservations about touching Vicky. After brushing Vicky’s hand with his lips, he smiled again, then let go. Vicky didn’t move.

"Nice to meet you too," Vicky said after a long moment of staring into Ian’s eyes. She shook her head slightly and turned to Sara. "I can see why you’re keeping him hidden; I wouldn’t let him out of my sight, either."

Ian moved behind Sara, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt his hands slide up under her hair. Only when his hands stopped on her collar did she realize he was helping her out of her coat. She shrugged out of it and tried to act like this was something that happened every day. She did notice that Ian was careful never to touch her bare skin. She smiled tightly at Vicky as Ian hung up her coat by the door.

"He’s certainly full of surprises," Sara said.

*****

Ian shut the door behind Sara’s friend and hesitated a moment before turning around. Even without the aid of the connection between them, he could tell Sara was annoyed with him.

He turned. She was standing, hands on her hips, eyebrows raised.

"What the hell was that all about?" she asked.

"You wanted me to play along. To be normal," he said, carefully keeping his voice level. "You were all but screaming it as you came up the stairs."

"Normal, yeah, but what was with the hand kissing?" she said, scowling now.

"She thought I was attractive," Ian said simply. "I used that to distract her. She didn’t ask any questions and left quickly. I count the mission a success."

He walked past her to the kitchen counter where dinner had gotten cold. Ian was surprised at himself, but he was well schooled in keeping his emotions concealed. He had enjoyed the playacting, but he was enjoying Sara’s reaction even more. Half of the time, she treated him like he was a child and the other half like he was a burden. It was immensely pleasing to make her think of him as a man for once.

He moved the pot of cold macaroni and cheese over to the stove and ignored Sara as she came up behind him.

"You didn’t have to kiss her hand," she said.

"Does it bother you that I did?" he asked, turning on the gas stove and stirring the contents of the pot.

"No, of course not," she said, but her tone was unconvincing. "It’s just that … now she’s going to want to tell people how … charming … you were and word will get out."

Ian suppressed a smile, even though Sara wouldn’t have been able to see it. Charming. That was probably a good word for it. He’d seen Irons use the same trick many times, but it had never worked as well as it just had for Ian. And it was nice to have touched a woman’s hand. It had been a little uncomfortable for him, but not nearly as much as if it had been Sara’s bare hand that he had held.

"Well?" Sara demanded.

"Well what?" Ian asked, and turned off the stove as the bright yellow sauce began to bubble. He looked over his shoulder to Sara. "Hungry?"

Sara rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"Suit yourself," she said. "When Dante’s boys come sniffing around, just remember it’s your fault."

She stomped off to her room, but strangely, Ian didn’t feel as happy about thwarting her as he thought he might.

Very confusing.

*****

Jake waved again to Irons and then carefully pulled down the snowy driveway. He didn’t know why he had been so nervous about meeting with Irons. Sure, he was an incredibly rich and powerful man, but when Jake had gotten sick during lunch, the billionaire hadn’t hesitated having his own doctor treat Jake.

As he navigated the snow-covered streets, he worried that Sara would be mad at him. He had really bailed on her this afternoon. Granted, he had really been sick - he could only barely remember calling her - but she had just started to be in a good mood around him again. He wouldn’t tell her where he had gone for lunch, he decided. For whatever reason, she didn’t like Kenneth Irons, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t antagonize her any further.

When he got to his apartment, he wandered around aimlessly for a bit. He still felt a little strange, but Dr. Immo had said it was because he was so dehydrated. He needed to drink lots of fluids, he remembered. He surveyed the fridge. Beer counted as a fluid, he decided.

He had just turned on the TV and settled down to watch some old black and white Christmas movie when the phone rang. With a sigh, he put his beer between his thighs and picked up the receiver.

"McCartey," he said, carefully putting his feet up on the coffee table.

"Hey, Jake, feeling better?" his partner’s annoyed voice came through the phone.

"Yeah," he said. "Sorry to leave you hangin’ this afternoon, but I was really sick. I’m feeling a lot better now, though."

There was a long pause before Sara spoke again.

"You did sound pretty out of it," she said. "Are you feeling up to a little field trip?"

"Yeah, sure," Jake said. "What did you have in mind?"

"Want to go dancing?" she asked.

Jake sat up straight and knocked his beer to the floor, but he didn’t care. He really wanted to spend some time with Sara. Really, really wanted to.

"I wanted to check out the Monkey’s Paw. I need to get out of the house," she continued.

"Sure," Jake said. He glanced at the clock on the cable box. "Meet you there in half an hour."

*****

Sara zipped up the short zipper on her low-slung leather pants and surveyed herself in the mirror. Good enough with a red tank top. She wished she could go out and buy some new clothes, but she didn’t get paid until the end of the week, and she really had to pay the bills before she could buy anything so frivolous as a new outfit for going clubbing. Besides, it wasn’t as if she ever went anymore. Lately, if she wasn’t working, she was riding around the city on her motorcycle or hanging out in this dingy apartment with the strangest man on earth.

She pulled open the door to find said strangest man doing one-handed pushups in the middle of the floor. His eyes were closed, sweat soaked his shirt, and his hair was escaping from his short ponytail. Disturbingly enough, if she concentrated, she could hear him counting in his head.

111 … 112 … 113 … 114 … 115 …

"115?" she asked, disbelieving.

"Yes," he grunted, then switched hands in midair.

116 … 117 … 118 … 119 … 120 …

Sara walked around him and grabbed her leather jacket from the hook by the door.

"I’m going out," she said.

121 … 122 … 123 … 124 … 125 …

When he didn’t say anything, Sara yanked open the door and slammed it behind her. She stalked downstairs to the cab she had called and got in. She gave the driver the address of the Monkey’s Paw, then leaned back in the seat. It was expensive to take a cab, but since she could write it off on her expense report, she felt it was justified. Besides, she needed to get out of there and she sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Ian to drive her in that van of his.

When they pulled up outside the club, she actually remembered to get a receipt for the ride. Something told her that Captain Dante wasn’t going to take her at her word that the cab ride had been work-related without it. She scanned the small crowd milling around and quickly spotted Jake. At least he was appropriately dressed this time. She had a memory from the other lifetime where he’d shown up at a club in a goofy cable-knit sweater. She checked the bouncer at the door - and Burgess wasn’t working undercover, either.

"Hey, Pez," Jake said with a grin. "You’re lookin’ good."

"Thanks," she said. "You seem to be feeling better."

"Yeah. I don’t know what it was - probably food poisoning," he took her arm and guided her to the door. "I haven’t been to a club in … forever."

"We’re here to work, Jake," she reminded him, "Not to party."

"Yeah, I know," he said and paid the cover charge, "But in every job that must be done, there is an element of fun."

Sara frowned. Why did that sound so familiar?

*****

Ian dropped to the floor and lay on his stomach with his chin on his hands. He had overdone it. He had done push-ups until his arms began to shake, but he still didn’t feel any better than when he had started. Usually, physical exertion cleared his mind and let him focus. Tonight, though, all it did was exhaust him.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was just past ten, but he might as well go to bed. Sara was unlikely to be seeking his assistance or company tonight, not if her slam of the door was any indication. With a sigh, he got up and went to wash his face and brush his teeth. After turning out all the lights, he changed his clothes, then carefully laid down on the narrow cot that served as his bed.

He didn’t mind not having an actual bedroom - he preferred that Sara have the privacy that she was used to - but he really wanted a real bed. He shifted on the cot for several minutes, trying to find a comfortable position, before giving up and sighing in frustration. He eyed the closed door to Sara’s room across the loft.

She wouldn’t be home for at least a few hours, he knew. And even a few hours of sleep on a real mattress would help. He would set the alarm for midnight and head back to his own bed. She would never even know.

*****

Jake watched Sara from a dark corner of the dance floor. She was circulating through the crowd that was just beginning to fill out after an hour of hanging around. It was a bit early to have the place be really full, but Jake hadn’t wanted to suggest that they wait; he’d been afraid that Sara would just call it off. He didn’t really like being this far away from her, but he had to admit that she was right when she said that no one was going to talk to her if it looked like she was there with someone.

Jake was trying to do what he had said he would: keep an eye out for potential victims. It was hard to look for women who looked like Sara, though, when the real deal was right there in front of him. He had thought that he was getting over his attraction to her, at least a little bit, but tonight, seeing her in those tight leather pants and the little red tank top, it was all he could do not to ask her to forget the job and head back to his place.

Sara leaned against the bar on the opposite side of the club and scanned the crowd. Even though he knew it wasn’t true, Jake had the impression that she was looking for someone in particular. Unless she had gotten some info this afternoon that she hadn’t shared, all they knew about their guy was that he was big, strong, and had short hair. That seemed to describe half of the guys in here; the other half had long hair. Jake was decidedly the least muscular guy in the place, and he wasn’t exactly scrawny.

Suddenly, Sara stiffened. Jake followed her eyes to a man who fit their general description, though he would have thought that someone would have mentioned all of the guy’s tattoos, if this was their killer. The man was heading straight for Sara, and she didn’t take her eyes off of him.

*****

He was coming right toward her. Sara fought the urge to run away from Conchobar, from the Witchblade, from everything. Stopping in front of her with the same quizzical expression as in the last lifetime, he cocked his head to the side.

"I know you," Conchobar said.

A little annoyed with the guy. "Sara Pezzini. Now you know me."

A shrug and carelessness. "No, we've met. We'll figure out where."

"I don’t think we’ve met," Sara said, trying to fight down the lump in her throat. "I’m Sara."

She held out her hand without thinking about it. He took it, and Sara was suddenly assaulted with one of the Witchblade’s visions.

"No, please," the woman begged. "That’s not my name."

A thundering anger. "You will not fight for your king?"

Amusement. "Aye, a scrappy one."

Sara yanked her hand away, then let out a little laugh.

"Got a little electric shock," she said. "Ouch."

"I didn’t feel anything," he said, pulling out the stool next to her and sitting down. "I’m called Conchobar," he added.

She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t look at the man she had loved, maybe still loved, and investigate him for such awful things. She felt like she was going to be sick.

"I’m … uh … sorry," she said, backing away from him. "I’ve got to go."

Sara turned and ran for the door.

Pushing through the hallway, she erupted into the cold night air and jumped into a cab that three clubbers had just vacated. She gave the driver the apartment’s address, then leaned back in her seat with a shuddering sigh.

She just couldn’t deal with this tonight. It had been a mistake to try to work when she was in such a confused, pissed off mood. It had been too long and too weird of a day. She just wanted to go home and collapse into bed. She’d come up with something to tell Jake tomorrow.

Sara paid the driver and hopped out of the taxi. Trudging up the stairs, she tried not to think at all. When she got to the door, there was an envelope taped to it. She yanked it off but didn’t bother to look at it. Most likely it was from the landlord, and it was just another thing she couldn’t deal with right now. She stuffed it in her jacket pocket.

Unlocking the door, she entered the dark loft. She shut the door and then set the security system. It was unlike Ian not to set it, even though he was home. He was probably just teaching her some sort of convoluted lesson about security.

Purposely dropping her leather jacket on the floor by the door, just to annoy Ian in the morning, she headed through the dark to her room. She didn’t bother with the light - the room was small enough that she knew where everything was in the dark. She sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off her boots, letting them drop to the floor with a thud. Standing up again, she stripped off her pants, then sat back on the bed.

She really should go brush her teeth and wash her face, but she just couldn’t be bothered to walk all the way to the bathroom. Stretching her arms above her head, she flopped back onto the bed.

Straight onto a human body.

She only had a moment to realize that it was Ian before she was dragged down the line that connected them.

He wouldn't let Cathain do it. There was no reason she should be forced to slay the man she loved. Wiping the blood off his face, he stepped over the corpse of the last guard to face the king.

"You betrayed her," he told the other man and plunged his blade into the king's heart.

He yanked out the blade, feeling her behind him. Dropping his sword, he turned, then knelt before her. He closed his eyes as the Blade swung toward him.

*****

Ian awoke standing up, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and his heart pounding. Once he remembered where he was, he slapped the light switch on the wall.

Sara was on the floor on the other side of the bed, clad only in her red tank top and black panties, holding one of her hands to her cheek. He quickly dropped his eyes to the floor.

"I’m sorry," he said. "I … I just wanted to get some sleep …"

"You hit me!" Sara exclaimed. "You knocked me across the room!"

"I’m sorry," Ian repeated. "I was going to be gone before you came home … I just needed a few good hours of sleep … I didn’t mean for you to see …"

There was a long moment of silence, then Sara sighed loudly. He heard rustling around, then heard her stand.

"You can look now, I’ve got pants on," she said.

Ian risked a quick glance up and saw that she had indeed put on a pair of gray sweatpants. He couldn’t look her in the eyes, though, not after he’d struck her and she’d learned … about Conchobar.

She sighed again.

"I’m not mad at you. You can look at me," she said softly, her voice quavering slightly. "Please, Ian, look at me."

He looked up, more for the tone of her voice than her words. Her eyes were bright and Ian could see a tear threatening to slide down her cheek. He wanted nothing more than to put his arms around her and tell her it would be all right, but all this proved that he still couldn’t touch her - not just because of his training, but because of the visions that seemed to grow stronger, the more aroused their emotions were.

"I’m sorry," he said yet again.

"Did you do it on purpose?" she asked, and it sounded like a serious question. "Did you intend to hurt me?"

"Of course not," he said, fighting the urge to drop his gaze again. "I would never hurt you."

"So it’s not your fault," she said, and sat down heavily on the bed. "Though sometimes I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to." She looked down at the floor, then back up at him. "What I saw … was that … true?"

Ian considered lying. He had never wanted her to find out about Conchobar’s death - otherwise, he would have never defaced a priceless manuscript and burned the page that told of the Irish king’s end. But he couldn’t lie to Sara. Not about this.

"Yes," he said simply.

"And you’ve known all along." It wasn’t a question.

Ian nodded.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" she asked.

"Did you really want to know?" he asked her.

*****

"No," she whispered. "I didn’t."

Sara had seen - felt - Ian, or whoever he had been then, kill Conchobar with a grim resolve. She had felt his anger at the betrayal of the woman he was sworn to serve, though Cathain hadn’t even wanted him.

"I believed that only with a crown came honor, strength, and fidelity," the Celtic warrior queen said sadly. "It is not so."

Sara had never wanted to find out how Conchobar had died in Cathain's legend. Especially after her Conchobar had died in her arms, she hadn't wanted to know. Even now - especially now - she didn’t want to know.

Except, now she did.

She took a deep breath. This man staring at her now with obvious concern hadn't done it. He had once helped try to save her lover. Ian wasn't to blame, she told herself firmly. He had known how it happened for a long time and hadn’t told her, because he knew that she didn’t want to know. Why he worked so hard to spare her feelings when she rarely did the same for him baffled her.

"I saw him tonight," was all she said, though. "I ran away." She looked down at her hands clenched in her lap as she felt her eyes begin to sting. "I don’t think I can do this."

"You can," he said, his voice firm.

She shook her head. If Conchobar was killing and raping women, all because of her and the Witchblade, she couldn’t bear it. A brown-haired, green-eyed woman might die tonight because she had run away from her investigation. And it would be her fault.

"And if you can’t, I will," Ian said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

"No," Sara said, snapping her head up. "I can’t ask you to fight my battles for me."

Ian shrugged and pushed his hair back, out of his eyes. A look of what Sara could have sworn was annoyance flashed across his face.

"Yes you can," he said. "That’s what I’m for."

Sara frowned.

"You make it sound like you’re nothing but a servant, a tool," she said, pulling her feet up on the bed and wrapping her arms around her knees.

"I am," he said simply. "I serve you and," he nodded toward her wrist, "The Witchblade. I was made - designed - born - to serve."

"You’re a human being, Ian, not some sort of … of construct," she held up her hand as he opened his mouth. "Kenneth Irons may have tinkered with your genetics, but that doesn’t make you any less of a human … maybe it makes you more of one."

"It doesn’t really matter," Ian said, dropping his head down, "I would fight for you anyway."

Sara shook her head. It was too late and she was too tired for this. Every time they had a conversation, they never resolved anything, only brought up more questions. She didn’t want more questions right now; she wanted sleep. They could talk tomorrow. She glanced at the clock - later today.

"Go to bed, Ian. Sleep on the couch, it’s got to be a little more comfortable than that cot," she said, then tried to smile. "I get paid this week; we’ll get you a bed. And see if we can’t find a way to screen off a room for you, too."

He looked at her from under his eyelashes for a long moment, then nodded and with his usual quick turn, left the room.

*****

"What did he look like?" Irons asked.

"Big, tall, tattooed," the hollow voice on the other end of the line said.

"Celtic tattoos?" Irons asked Jake.

"I think so. He left and I couldn’t get close to him."

"You did well," Irons said. "Contact me again tomorrow."

Irons broke the connection and leaned back in his chair and stared into the fire. His surveillance was already proving fruitful. So the Irishman was involved? Perhaps he would have to step up his plans for that one, lest the more careful one he’d laid for Ian and Sara unraveled.

*****

Ian was at the computer when he heard Sara come out of her bedroom. She had overslept and was going to be late for work, but Ian hadn’t wanted to wake her. If she was mad, she’d get over it; she had needed the good night’s rest as much as he had. He heard the bathroom door shut and the shower begin to run. He double-checked to make sure that the overnight envelopes that had been delivered were out of sight. They were.

After she was done and dressed, Sara came up behind him and leaned over his shoulder, peering at the screen. Ian pushed the button on the monitor to turn it off, then turned around to face her.

"What are do you do all day on that thing, anyway?" she asked.

"It’s not important right now. You should get to work," he said and stood.

Sara didn’t move, effectively blocking him in.

"It’s ok, I ran out on Jake last night, so I need some time to come up with a good excuse." She cocked her head to one side. "Will it be important later?"

"What?" Ian asked, even though he knew what she was talking about.

"You said it wasn’t important ‘right now,’" she explained. "Will it be important later?"

He didn’t really want to answer her. It had never occurred to her before to question what he did all day, so long as he kept the apartment clean and did the little grocery shopping they could afford. He had hoped that she would keep that up, at least long enough for him to finish the genetic comparisons that he was running. She’d picked a grand time to suddenly become interested in him as a person.

"Probably not," was all he said, though, trying to sound unconcerned.

Ian must have been convincing, because after one more hard look, she turned and headed for the kitchen.

"Hey, Sara," he said, as she opened the fridge.

"Hey, Ian," she said, bending down to look inside.

"Pick up your damn jacket," he said.

He had noticed it first thing this morning. It was the first time in a long time she’d just dropped it on the floor. He would have picked it up, but it was a matter of principle: he might clean the apartment, but he wasn’t her servant. She was perfectly capable of picking up after herself, even if she rarely did.

Her head popped halfway up over the door of the fridge, and her eyes smiled.

"I just did it to piss you off," she said. "Did it work?"

"No, sorry," he said, and felt his lips twitch in a grin.

She sighed dramatically.

"I’ll have to try harder next time."

*****

Sara grabbed the last container of yogurt out of the fridge and went to pick up her "damn jacket." Snagging it off the floor, she shrugged it on.

"Can I get a ride?" she called over her shoulder.

In response, she heard the jingling of keys. She tried to stuff her yogurt into her pocket, but it wouldn’t fit until she pulled out the envelope that had been taped to the door last night. She handed it to Ian as he walked up.

"Here. It’s probably from the landlord," she said. "You deal with it. He’s more scared of you than me."

Ian winged it onto the kitchen table and they headed out.

When he dropped her off a couple blocks from the stationhouse, she had the odd feeling that she ought to lean over and give him a peck on the cheek before she got out. As it was, she reached out her hand and almost touched his gloved one on the steering wheel before she hopped out the door.

Jake wasn’t in their office when she got there. She sat down at their desk and pulled the top off her yogurt container. She really hoped Ian went shopping today. She’d checked the bank statement he’d left on the table this morning; there was only $1,000 dollars left of the $100,000 Ian had stolen from Vorschlag Industries. She had tried to figure out where he had spent it all, but could only, with great imagination, account for half of it. She highly suspected he’d given some to the prostitute who worked out of the apartment below them, but not $49,000 worth, and certainly not for services rendered.

Reaching down, he took Vicky’s hand in his and brought it to his lips, never taking his eyes from hers.

Sara cut off that line of thought. She had work to think about. Finding a spoon in her top desk drawer, she spooned strawberry yogurt into her mouth as she read the case update she got every morning.

She was barely a page into it when Jake stalked in.

"Where did you run off to last night?!" he snapped. "I thought we were working."

"Sorry," she said, shoveling in another mouthful. "I was having really wicked cramps. Turned out I was bleeding like a pig."

Sara tried not to grin as Jake turned bright red and suddenly became very interested in rummaging around in the paperwork on his desk. When he spoke again, he didn’t look up.

"So that guy who came to talk to you … you seemed to know him."

"What? No," she said, trying for a believable chuckle. "I just thought he was hot. Couldn’t take my eyes off him." She tapped the papers in front of her. "Did you see this note on that Franklin case? I think we may finally have a lead."

He glanced up at her with what she could have sworn was a calculating stare, but it was gone in a second to be replaced by his usual goofy grin.

"Really?" he asked. "Cool."

*****

Ian waited until Sara had gone all the way down the street and into the precinct before he let himself shudder at her closeness. It was, at the same time, pleasure and pain. He wanted to touch her, but didn’t dare do it. Even with his gloves on, not just an affectation on this cold winter day, he could sense the roiling emotions within her when she had thought to touch his hand. She wasn’t aware of the effect she had on him, he was sure of that.

Once he had told her he was but ten years alive, that was how she had treated him - as a child. She never thought that her thoughts, her touch, her mere presence even, inflamed him. He shuddered again as he thought of running his hands up the leather of her coat, feeling her soft hair slide along the back of his bare hands…

He shook his head to clear it. This was not the time for that sort of thing. He had things to do. Grocery shopping. Dealing with the landlord. Mundane, everyday, human things.

He drove back to the loft.

Once there, he did his usual morning routine: washing the few dishes, making his bed, picking up the debris that seemed to accumulate wherever Sara went. He made a list of what they needed at the store, which was easy - they needed everything - then sat down at the kitchen table. Slicing open the landlord’s envelope with a knife, he nearly dropped it when he recognized the handwriting on the paper inside.

It was Kenneth Irons’.

*****

"You have got to be kidding me," Sara said into the phone. "He wants us to what?"

"Come over for Christmas dinner," Ian repeated. "One o’ clock in the afternoon."

"Christmas dinner?" Sara leaned back in her chair, ignoring Jake’s blatant stare. "Is he nuts? Does he actually expect us to come over and play the happy family for him? What is he up to?"

"There’s an easy way to find out," Ian said. "We could accept."

"What? No!" Sara paused. Ian was being awfully calm about this. "Do you want to?"

"There is some appeal in having a professionally cooked meal for a change," he said, and Sara had to grin. Neither she nor he were the world’s best cooks. "The cook does wonderful things with turkey."

He sounded almost wistful. He had been born into luxury, Sara reminded herself. Slavery, yes, but luxury, too. Living with her had denied him most of the perks he was used to with little to replace them. It was tempting to give in, so that he could have them again, even if just for a little while, but this was just a really bad idea.

"I have to work that day," she said. "And you can’t go by yourself."

"I checked," Ian said, and Sara could hear the rustle of what was probably her schedule on the fridge. "You’re just on call. If you have to go, I’ll leave too."

"You really want to go, don’t you?" she said.

If he said yes, she was going to give in. Not because she thought that having a cheerful family holiday with Irons was even a remotely bright thing to do, but because she would be able to picture Ian saying "yes." His head would drop down, and he would look up through his lashes and say it like he didn’t have the right to.

"Yes," he said softly, after a pause.

Sara sighed. She’d been right. God, she could be such a sucker sometimes.

"All right," she said after a long moment. "But we’re not getting him a present, and if I have to leave, you’re coming, too."

"Of course," he said, and Sara swore she could hear a smile in his voice.

*****

"I recommend that you move immediately," Irons said into the phone. "There is no time to waste."

"We appreciate your assistance, Mr. Irons," an Irish-accented voice answered. "And your generous donation to the cause."

"You are more than welcome. Just be sure that he is out of the picture as soon as possible."

Irons disconnected and leaned back in his chair. It gave him an immense feeling of satisfaction to have his plans fall into place. His plans had changed, but that was the mark of a proper line of attack: the ability to evolve to fit the circumstances.

First, he had planned to control Ian, one whose history was connected to the Witchblade as long as it had existed. When Sara had stolen Ian away, Irons had endeavored to separate them, then bring Ian back to him, hoping that Sara would follow after.

Now, though, Irons believed that the pair were unlikely to be separated without significant damage to one or the other. He could still feel faint tremors through his connection to the Witchblade; nothing useful, but enough to tell that the bond between Sara and Ian was stronger than he ever could have anticipated. Since that was the case, he would allow them to remain together, even encourage it, in hopes that his ultimate plan would be fulfilled, if a bit less clinically than he’d planned.

The phone rang. Glancing at the number on the display, he had to smile; his invitation must have been received. With the touch of a button, he answered.

"Hello, Sara."

"I don’t know what you’re up to, but we’ll be there," she said, sounding annoyed.

"I’m not ‘up to’ anything," he said, trying to sound offended. "I simply missed Ian’s company, especially during the holiday season, and I did not think he would visit without you. Believe whatever else you will of me, Sara, but I truly do care about Ian’s well-being."

He waited while Sara digested this. He didn’t expect her to believe it outright, but he knew that it would give her one more complication to consider. It was at least moderately true. Irons cared for Ian’s well-being, but only to the extent that it impacted Irons’ own goals.

"Whatever. We’ll be there." She again paused. "I, uh, have a request to make."

"Anything," Irons said. "I live to serve."

She barked out a laugh. Well, perhaps he had gone a bit far.

"Let’s be honest here," she said, her voice testy. "I’m not doing this for me. Ian is the one who wants to come over; why, I don’t think I’ll ever understand." She sighed. "So that’s why I wanted to ask you: do you think you could have your cook make turkey?"

Irons carefully kept the satisfaction from his voice. He had planned on it anyway, knowing it was Ian’s favorite, but to have Sara request it of him … it was priceless evidence that his plan was right on track.

"Of course," he said. "I’ll speak to the cook immediately."

*****

Jake raised his eyebrows as Sara hung up the phone. She noticed the look and frowned at him.

"What are you doing for Christmas, Jake?" she asked.

"I’ve got some distant cousins of my mom’s upstate," he said, shrugging. "Mom felt bad that I couldn’t come home, so she’s making me go there."

"Sounds fun," she said, then sighed as her cell phone rang. "There are times when I think I should just get rid of this thing."

"Pezzini," she said as she answered it.

Her brow creased as she listened. Jake wondered what would happen if he got up and rubbed some of the tension out of her shoulders. Probably get decked.

"Are you sure?" Sara asked, then frowned deeper at the answer. "All right. We’ll be right down." She glanced up at Jake momentarily, then shrugged, even though whoever she was talking to couldn’t see it. "Yeah, I guess I do. For this, anyway. See you in a few."

She hung up, then stuffed the phone in her pocket. Picking up one of the pictures from the Duffy woman’s murder, she turned and held it next to a similar one from the Harris’ woman’s crime scene pinned to the wall. After a long moment, she dropped the photo onto her desk and stood.

"Come on, Jake," she said. "Let’s go for a ride."

She wouldn’t tell him where until they were in the car. She just glanced pointedly at Captain Dante’s office when he had asked. Only after he had started the car and pulled out of his spot did she tell him: the Coroner’s Office.

He didn’t ask anymore questions. He could tell by the look on her face that Sara didn’t want to talk, and he was still trying to win his way back into her good graces. If she didn’t want to tell him what was going on right now, he could wait. For a little while, anyway.

When they got there, Sara headed straight for Vicky Po’s office. Sara knocked, then pulled it open without waiting for an answer. Ushering Jake in, he noticed that she checked the hallway before closing the door behind them.

Vicky looked up from the reports she was working on, then motioned them to the two chairs that were in front of her desk.

"I know I’m right," she said to Sara. "I don’t know why the Captain didn’t believe me."

"Believe you about what?" Jake asked.

Maybe he should have made Sara tell him something after all. Vicky glanced at Sara, then turned to him, holding out a pathology report.

"This is from last night, just preliminary, of course," she said.

Jake looked over the report. Female victim, age 30, brown hair, green eyes.

"This is one of our guy’s," he said, looking up at the two women.

"Not according to Captain Dante," Vicky said, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed. "Take a look at the second page."

Jake flipped the page up. Strangulation, but this time with knife wounds - fifty of them. This guy was really angry.

"So he’s losing it," Jake said, not understanding. "It’s still our guy."

"That’s what I said," she said, with a small satisfied smile. "But he didn’t agree. Gave it to Burgess. I threatened to go over his head, but he … he pointed out that it wouldn’t be in my best interests."

When she said that, her eyes flicked to her coffee cup, then down to her desk. Jake glanced at Sara and his partner shook her head slightly. Don’t ask. Well, he wouldn’t for now. But he could imagine Vicky caving into Dante about as well as he could Sara. He’d find out what the Captain had on her later.

"Well, thanks for telling us, Vick," Sara said. "You know he’s going to find out, no matter how careful we are." Vicky nodded. "What are your plans for the next few days?"

"My parents went to Florida to visit my Aunt Mavis," she said. "I’m off tomorrow and Christmas Day. I was just going to kind of hang out …"

"It might be better if you got out of town," Sara said.

"You could come with me," Jake surprised himself by saying. Both women stared at him, startled. "I mean, I’ve never met these cousins before, and it would be nice to have someone I know with me." They both still stared at him silently. "They’ve got this horse farm upstate, and it should be nice, with all the snow, and … I’m leaving tonight …"

Jake trailed off. A smile twitched at the corners of Sara’s mouth, but Vicky still just stared at him. He didn’t quite know what had possessed him to say all that, but he had, and now he was going to be hurt if Vicky didn’t accept. After all, it wasn’t like Sara was ever really going to fall in love with him. And Vicky had a nice smile, he had to admit. She wasn’t his usual blonde beach bunny type, but maybe he could do with a change.

"You really mean it?" Vicky asked. Jake nodded. "OK. I like horses."

Sara finally broke out into a grin.

"I’m sure you’ll have a great time. Both of you." She frowned suddenly. "Better than I’ll have, anyway."

*****

Ian stood outside the door. He wasn’t sure if this was something Sara wanted. He knew she had loved Conchobar - maybe she even still did - but Ian also knew that she felt unable to face her former lover.

Ian didn’t have that problem. All he wanted was to make Sara’s life happier, and if by disposing of this problem, he could do so, then so be it. He would risk Sara’s wrath.

He lifted his hand to knock, his katana hidden behind his back, when he heard the familiar sounds of a struggle from inside. Usually, he was involved in making those sounds. He had spied no one but Conchobar inside when he had checked the windows, so they must have entered just moments ago. Though he wanted this man dead, he wanted to do it himself.

Ian whirled and kicked open the door.

Three masked men and one masked woman had Conchobar at bay in one corner of the large dark room. The woman swung around, bringing her gun up toward Ian. He darted to the left, flipping off the light switch as he did so. The room plunged into darkness.

He moved six more feet, then stopped. Allowing his eyesight to adjust to the gloom, he could see Conchobar taking advantage of the confusion to struggle to his feet. Ian advanced on the others, cutting down two with his sword before they even registered his presence. Conchobar kicked the other man in the knee, and the masked man fell to the ground. Ian drove the katana through him.

"No!" the woman yelled.

Ian turned, but not quickly enough. He felt the sting of the bullet along his bicep at the same time that he heard the gun’s retort. With a snarl, he swung around and backhanded the woman across the room. She slammed against the brick wall and slumped to the floor. He turned to Conchobar, his katana raised.

"Thanks," the other man said. "I don’t know what they even wanted."

Ian hesitated, then lowered his sword. Could he truly face the Wielder’s anger again over killing this unworthy one? Was Sara’s anger worth it? He would have to find out.

Ian sheathed his sword and stripped off one of his gloves. Holding out his hand as if he simply offered the other man assistance in standing, Ian braced himself for the onslaught.

Confusion. Pain. Desire. Need. Wrong. Wrong. WRONG.

Beauty. Green eyes. Love.

NEED.

Ian tore his hand away.

He couldn’t do it. Not this time.

Sara had been right: he couldn’t fight her battles for her. At least, not this one.

*****

Sara had stayed late - until she saw Jake and Vicky off safely - before she went home. Vicky had met Jake outside the precinct, and they both had driven off with surprisingly big grins. As happy as she was that Vicky was out of the line of Dante’s anger, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealously. Those two had it easy, even considering that Dante had already figured out that Vicky had shared her findings with Sara and Jake. At least they didn’t have to deal with mind-altering drugs or anything like that. All they had to worry about was whether or not they’d be able to tolerate a few days with people they didn’t know.

As she drove up to the loft, she could tell something was wrong, but she didn’t know what. For the hundredth time, she wished that she had asked Ian about the weird telepathy thing that happened between them sometimes. She’d been trying so hard to forget about the Witchblade’s intrusion into her life that she ignored the one source of information she had about it: Ian. If only she asked, he would tell her everything he knew.

But she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. If she didn’t ask, then she could pretend that she was living with Ian out of choice, not because she felt obligated to. And that wasn’t even it. It wasn’t just obligation. It felt right to live with him - for him to always be there, always waiting for her. Always to be by her side. She was an independent woman; she didn’t need a man to make her feel complete, she reminded herself.

Then why did she always feel better when Ian was around?

As she walked up the stairs, her feeling of unease only grew. She stopped outside the door. In a way she couldn’t describe, she could feel Ian hovering on the other side of it, waiting for her arrival. Whatever the problem was, he was the cause of it, and he was nervous about it.

She must have waited too long because suddenly the door opened. Ian’s bulk filled the doorway so that she couldn’t see past him.

"What?" she asked him. "I can’t just hang out here? There’s something wrong with the stairwell?"

Ian slowly and pointedly surveyed the landing behind her. Sara didn’t have to see it to know what it held: old newspapers, empty forty ounce bottles, and the smell of human excrement. He met her eyes, and Sara’s stomach lurched.

Confusion. Pain. Desire. Need. Wrong. Wrong. WRONG.

He reached out to grab her arm as she stumbled, but pulled away at the last second. In her dizziness, Sara noticed that his hands were gloved - not just the knit ones, but the leather ones - the ones he wore when it was a bad day. Swaying, she grabbed the doorjamb, feeling bad for the look of hurt on Ian’s face.

"What’s going on?" she rasped out.

Ian remained silent and wouldn’t meet her eyes again. She tried to move past him, but he wouldn’t shift. Trying what always worked to get him to move, she lifted her hand as if to brush his always-escaping hair out of his eyes. Instead of his usual quick retreat, though, he closed his eyes tightly just as Sara’s fingertips brushed his temple.

Dropping his sword, he turned, then knelt before her.

He felt the sting of the bullet along his bicep.

He turned to Conchobar, his katana raised.

He closed his eyes as the Blade swung toward him.

Sara opened her eyes to find Ian hovering over her, his hands reaching for her, but unwilling to make contact. It took her a moment to realize that she was on the floor, but once she did, she could understand Ian’s concern. Sara had never passed out from one of the Witchblade’s visions before, no matter how vivid they were.

"What," she gasped, "Have you done?"

*****

Ian refused to touch her, no matter how much he desired to. Even with his gloves on, his fingers hesitated mere millimeters from Sara’s skin. He couldn’t answer her, either, because he didn’t know. He had been able to feel Sara coming up the stairs, her thoughts tinged with … something … he’d never felt from her before. She’d wanted to open the door, and at the same time, hadn’t wanted to. She didn’t know who was inside, so that couldn’t be it.

Ian shifted so that Sara could finally see past him. Her eyes widened as she recognized Conchobar on one of the kitchen chairs; they widened further as she took in the handcuffs that kept him restrained.

Ian knew what the other man would feel when he finally saw Sara, which is why he had blocked her view into the apartment - not to save her feelings. Ian knew because he had felt that way sometimes himself. And he’d been right. The Irishman had stood half out of the chair, with only the cuffs keeping him back, at the sight of Sara.

Ian stood up, his hands helplessly clenched behind his back as Sara struggled to stand. He wanted nothing more than to help her, but he didn’t dare try. Whatever had intensified the Witchblade’s visions had nearly incapacitated him, not just her. He wouldn’t risk that again with a killer so close.

Finally, Sara stood, holding onto the door for a long moment before taking several shaky steps forward, her eyes locked on Conchobar. Stepping out of her way, Ian closed the door behind her, dropping his gaze down to the scarred hardwood floor.

"Ian?" she said shakily after a long moment, "What … what’s he doing here?"

Ian risked a glance up.

Sara stood equidistant between the two men; the symbolism was not lost on him. Here she stood, between two choices. She could have Conchobar: the king, the lover, the teacher, but, ultimately, the betrayer. Or she could have Ian: the slave, the false man, the killer. All she had to do was choose. Ian couldn’t see that it would be a hard choice.

Looking between them, her eyes finally rested on Ian.

"Your arm," she said. "Is it OK?"

*****

They stood over the sink without speaking. She carefully touched the gauze to the graze across his bicep, impressed despite herself by the fact that he didn’t flinch at the touch of the antiseptic. Plus there was that whole if-they-touched-they’d-have-a-mindblowingly-strong-vision thing to contend with. Add into that the fact that she could see the tension in Ian’s body the moment he took his shirt off and, well … she’d be whining her head off.

"All done," she said, dropping the gauze into the trash bin. "It wasn’t too bad."

He wouldn’t look at her or speak to her. She was getting pretty tired of talking to herself, but she just couldn’t stand the silence. If she didn’t talk, all there would be was silence, and she would have to think. She didn’t want to do that yet.

"You’ll heal," she said, putting a bandage over the relatively small wound. "I can’t believe that you weren’t fast enough to dodge the bullet in the first place." She poked down the edges of the adhesive. "No modeling career for you now," she joked, but her laugh died out at his pained features. "I’m sorry," she said, dropping her hands to her sides. "I … I …"

She trailed off, clenching her hands into fists at her sides. Ian stood silently and obediently in front of her, his eyes on the floor. She didn’t know what to say to this man, and it infuriated her.

Ian mumbled something that she couldn’t hear.

"What?" she snapped, then carefully modulated her tone. "I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you."

Ian pulled his shirt back over his head, and Sara saw him shake as he did it, and she knew it was from relief, not pain. He opened his mouth to speak, then cleared his throat.

"I’m sorry," he said softly.

"For what?" Sara asked, nearly laughing. "Not killing him?" Sara raised her hands to pound him on the chest, but stopped just before she touched him and balled her hands into fists. "Why didn’t you?" she asked, clenching her hands tighter before she dropped them to her sides again. "I think I wanted you to."

Ian drew his breath in sharply, but didn’t speak. She looked up at him, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. She waited.

"No you didn’t," he said finally, keeping his eyes averted from hers.

Sara sighed. He was right, of course. That was the easy way out. But that didn’t mean that she sometimes didn’t yearn for the easy way. All the Witchblade ever seemed to want was the hard way, and it would be nice, occasionally, for her to have what she wanted … whatever that was.

In the face of her silence, Ian whirled and left the bathroom. After a moment of hesitation, he headed for her bedroom and closed the door after him. Sara was grateful; he was trying to give her as much privacy as he could in the circumstances.

She stepped out and faced Conchobar.

He looked exactly like the man she had loved, in that life that now seemed almost unreal. But he wasn’t, she reminded himself. This man had killed, then raped women. The other way around she could almost understand, but not this. And he had done it be