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Title:
Matters of Import 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?
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The sound of the Witchblade as it snicked into place over her forearm was a beautiful sound. Ian Nottingham was almost disappointed when its silvery carapace retreated as quickly as it had appeared. "You need protection," he told the Wielder, "but not from me." She frowned at him. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to sneak up on people?" She may as well have slapped him. But maybe she didn't know. "My mother." He tried to think of something to say. "Strangely silent in all matters of import." She didn't look sorry. Just angry. ***** When Ian awoke, he found the sheets tangled around his legs and his arms flung over the sides of his bed. He also found that his body had again betrayed him, his mental strength apparently not enough to keep his body from reacting to his dreams. He sat up, untangling his legs and bunching the sheet in his lap. Dr. Immo had explained all of this, the hormones of adolescence, but Ian still felt that it was a failure on his part. He had been trained to control himself for as long as he could remember, but if he couldn't control his own body, despite the daily mental and physical exercises, how could he ever be worthy to work by the side of the Wielder? That word brought back a snippet of his dream. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the woman's face - or rather, her expression. The face was familiar to him; it adorned the canvases in the long gallery. But he had never seen it animated before. He had never seen the Wielder look at him, her brow creasing as the corners of her mouth turned down just slightly. He wanted to see those corners turn up. "Ian." His eyes snapped open at the familiar voice. Briefly, he met the eyes of his guardian, Mr. Irons, before he dropped them to the floor out of embarrassment. "Mr. King is awaiting you in the library." Even though it was an uninflected statement, Ian knew that Mr. Irons was disappointed in him, maybe even angry. His guardian was too well-controlled to show it, but Ian knew it was there. "I was …" Ian began, then stopped. He didn't want to share the dream of the Wielder with his guardian, even though he knew he should. "I was just getting up. I will be with Mr. King in a few minutes." Mr. Irons arched an eyebrow slightly, but said no more before he left and closed the door behind him. Getting out of bed, Ian dropped to the floor and did an abbreviated version of his normal exercise routine. Though he was still too thin for his frame, he was finally beginning to build muscle mass. Dr. Immo had assured him it would happen, but it was nice to see concrete evidence of it. Quickly, he cleaned his face and teeth, then changed into the black trousers and a new gray button-down shirt that had appeared in his wardrobe last week. He had resisted wearing it until now, though he knew that Mr. Irons liked for Ian to wear his gifts immediately. Now, it should please Mr. Irons and perhaps some of his guardian's annoyance would dissipate before this afternoon's session with him. Ian walked, but very carefully didn't run, to the library. Before he had even stepped into the room, his tutor's voice called out. "Please tell me the causes of the rise of communism in Eastern Europe, particularly addressing the differences in the various regions." Ian sighed. It looked like it wasn't only Mr. Irons who was unhappy with him. ***** He couldn't help thinking of the Wielder's face throughout his morning lessons with Mr. King. He was sure his tutor had noticed his distraction and would report it to Mr. Irons, but Ian was willing to risk it to make sure he didn't lose the memory of the Wielder's bright, flashing eyes. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to sneak up on people?" Ian frowned and stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth. Mr. Irons was unwilling to talk about his mother, only saying that Ian should be grateful that he had taken it upon himself to be the guardian of a child when he so easily could have avoided it. Occasionally, Mr. Irons added "willful and disobedient" in front of "child." Very occasionally, Mr. Irons would reach out to gently touch his shoulder when he said "child." Ian wasn't sure which one bothered him more. It had been a long time since Ian had asked Mr. Irons about his mother. After receiving no information about her with repeated questioning, he had mostly given up. Strangely, he had never been as curious about his father. The psychology books that Dr. Immo lent him made him suspect that Mr. Irons filled the role of a father well enough that he felt no need to search for his real father. However, Ian had never had a mother-figure. The housekeeper was nice to him, but too busy to play mother to him. The other women who frequented the house either weren't the motherly type or misjudged that the way to retain Mr. Irons' attention was to pretend interest in Ian. Neither type visited the house more than a few times anyway. Ian slurped his asparagus soup from the spoon. He was eating alone, probably as punishment for sleeping in, and no one would care if he made "those disgusting noises," as his guardian had called them. It was a worthless rebellion since no one was there to observe, but as the psychology books had explained, as a teenager, Ian was individuating himself, and rebellions, however small, were a part of that. Somehow, Ian didn't think his guardian would appreciate that. He had just finished the last slurp of the soup when the dining room door opened. Ian didn't have to turn around to recognize the sound of Mr. Irons' footsteps. "Come," his guardian commanded. Ian rose and followed. ***** Wearing the new shirt hadn't helped. Ian opened his eyes slowly and waited for the room to stop spinning before he even tried to move. He must not have waited long enough, because his stomach lurched and he barely had the presence of mind to lean over before his lunch came back up. "What did you do this time?" Dr. Immo asked as he handed Ian a damp washcloth. Ian waited to make sure his stomach was calm before he wiped his face. "I overslept." Dr. Immo shook his head and spread a towel over the mess on the floor. He frowned at Ian - a more full-mouth frown than the dream-Wielder's had been - and gently pushed Ian onto his back. "You're as green as your lunch," he said. "Lay back down." Ian's eyes tracked the doctor as he puttered around the lab, making a few final notes in a file, returning the file to its locked drawer, disposing of syringes, and other general tidying. "Who was my mother?" The words were out before Ian even realized he wanted to ask them. That sometimes happened after the afternoon sessions, when his impulse control was at its weakest. He suspected that's why Dr. Immo had made it a rule that Mr. Irons was not allowed in the room while Ian recovered. Dr. Immo's body went still, his hand halfway to the book he had been reaching for. After a long moment, the doctor turned around and looked at him. Ian was sure that Dr. Immo was going to brush off his question, but when the doctor glanced at the door to ensure it was locked, Ian changed his mind. "Do you feel well enough to walk?" the doctor asked. Ian didn't, but he wasn't going to say so. Dr. Immo led him to the small office that was tucked into the back corner of the lab. Ian was always surprised by the bright, cheery space, so unlike the rest of the house. Ian gratefully sat down in the chair the doctor indicated, having barely managed to keep his legs from shaking while Dr. Immo was watching. His head still felt like it was full of cotton balls, but he struggled to pay attention to Dr. Immo. Reaching somewhere behind him, the doctor pulled out a thin file and held it out to Ian. After a moment to steady his hand, Ian took it from the doctor and opened it. ***** Ian's manners were impeccable at the dinner table. He slurped no soup and cut his meat with surgical precision. His dress was perfect; Mr. Irons always preferred that Ian wear a suit to dinner, though his guardian didn't insist on it. Ian wore a suit that Dr. Immo had branded as "severe" and too old for him, but Ian knew that it was one that Mr. Irons had chosen for Ian specially. Not that Mr. Irons said anything about it, of course. Nor did he mention Ian's terse answers to Mr. Irons' questions concerning his schoolwork or any lingering effects of the afternoon's session. After it became apparent that Ian wasn't interested in talking, his guardian simply unfolded the newspaper he usually saved for later and read. Ian wasn't trying to be sullen, though he knew it probably appeared that way. The folder that Dr. Immo had showed him, however, had both made him grateful to Mr. Irons - hence the good manners and the suit - but also angry - hence the lack of conversation. Dr. Immo hadn't let Ian look at the folder for very long, but what he saw was enough. All that the thin manila folder contained was a police report, a printout that Ian recognized as chromosomes, and a list of women's names, only the last of which Ian recognized: Elizabeth Bronte, the most recent past Wielder of the Witchblade. Dr. Immo didn't know what was in the police report, but had pointed out the that a name on the report, Irina Meyer, matched the name at the top of the list of women's names. Ian could read French, but the handwriting on the police report was nearly impossible to decipher. He picked out the words "assault," "birth," "head," "blood," "deliberate," and "death." It wasn't a far stretch to determine that it was about the death of Irina Meyer. Ian also recognized his guardian's name, though he couldn't determine the context. The chromosomes were Ian's, Dr. Immo assured him, but he was less than forthcoming about the list of women's names. All he would tell Ian was that everything in the file was about his mother. Soon after, Dr. Immo had taken the file away and sent Ian to his room to finish recovering and prepare for dinner. Before Ian left, the doctor had extracted a promise from him that he wouldn't tell Mr. Irons what he had seen. That was frustrating, since his guardian would undoubtedly be able to answer any question that Ian asked, such as: was Irina Meyer my mother? How was she killed? Why was she killed? Who are those other women and why was the Wielder's name on the list? He could guess that this Irina Meyer had died brutally soon after giving birth - to him? - but how had he ended up with Mr. Irons? Was Irina Meyer a relative? A friend? A … lover? Ian looked up from his baked chicken to look at Mr. Irons as he read. Was it possible that Mr. Irons was really his father? No. Ian looked back down at his plate and began to work on the roasted potatoes. Mr. Irons wouldn't lie to him. Ian remembered asking his guardian if he was his father, but Mr. Irons had said no. Mr. Irons might twist the truth, but he didn't lie to Ian. Mr. Irons was not his father. But that got him no closer to determining who his mother was. ***** Ian waited until he heard Mr. Irons' soft snores coming from the blue bedroom before he commenced his search. It was easy to break into the lab. He'd always had an affinity for locks, Mr. Irons had told him; Ian had escaped from every place he'd been confined as a toddler. The only way they'd been able to confine him was to have someone on guard outside his door twenty-four hours a day. Ian didn't remember that, but he was still able to feel his way through any lock, mechanical or electronic. He ignored the drawer with his medical files in it. He wanted to read them, but he had to focus now - he didn't know how much time he would have. The security team had a random patrol at this time of night, though Ian had calculated that the odds of them visiting the lab were about ten to one. Good enough for him. He made his way through the darkened lab with the help of his penlight and easily opened the lock to Dr. Immo's office with the thin knife that he'd borrowed from the kitchen. He felt a little guilty, since the doctor had never been anything but kind to Ian, but he quashed the guilt to worry about later. Dr. Immo would forgive him for his continued curiosity about his mother. It was harder to find the file than he had anticipated since it was in plain sight in the center of the desk. Ian had expected it to be hidden away somewhere and had searched the desk drawers and file cabinets first. He would take that as a lesson to always check the obvious first. The file still contained only the same documents, but now that his head was a little clearer, he could decipher more of the French police report. It seemed that Irina Meyer had been Mr. Irons' ward, but had been found on the banks of the Seine, her head bashed in with a blunt object. His guardian had told police that she had run away a day after giving birth, for an unknown reason, leaving the baby behind. The officer who had written the report had seemed skeptical of that, however, since he noted that Irina had been found with a suitcase, containing baby clothes in addition to her own. And that was it. There was no follow-up report, no newspaper articles, no real evidence that he was the baby that Irina had given birth to. The date on the police report was near his birthday, but it wasn't the day after it. Of course, it was a simple thing to change a birth date, so that didn't prove anything either. He looked again at the list of women's names, but there was still no other name but the Wielder's that sparked a hint of recognition in him. He quickly memorized the names, though, before he put the paper back. The chromosomes were useless to him without anything for comparison. A quick glance showed that there were the correct number and none appeared to be damaged. It seemed an odd thing to include in a file about his mother anyway. He put it back. Ian carefully replaced the folder exactly how he had found it, lining up the edge along a coffee stain on the blotter. When he left the office, he made sure to lock the door and pull it tightly closed, just as he had found it. He was about to open the cabinet with his medical records in it when he heard the doorknob begin to turn. Almost before he could think, he slid underneath the gurney he had been on that afternoon and made himself as still as possible. The door opened, and a security guard stepped inside. "Isn't the lab door supposed to be locked?" the guard asked. Ian couldn't understand the crackly reply from the guard's radio, but the answer should have been "yes." Ian reminded himself for future reference to be sure to lock doors behind him, no matter which side of the door he was on. The guard began a circuit of the room, but, luckily, he started off in the opposite direction of Ian's hiding place. Once the guard had his back turned, Ian slipped from under the gurney and, bending low, scurried out of the door. He didn't pause in the hallway, but took the immediate right that would return him to his bedroom by the shortest route. He was nearly there when he heard the heavy footsteps of the other guard on duty. If Ian had been wearing his pajamas, he wouldn't have worried about being caught so close to his bedroom, but he was dressed all in black, the very picture of someone up to no good. Ian took it as a lesson to dress less suspiciously the next time he was skulking about. Hurrying back the way he came, Ian turned off into a hallway to his left. The footsteps stopped at the junction behind him, and Ian darted down the hallway toward the door at the end. As the guard's footsteps grew louder and faster behind him, Ian slipped between a narrow gap in the heavy wooden doors into the den. Ian stopped abruptly. He hadn't been allowed in here since he was seven, when he had asked too many loud questions about the carvings on the doors when Mr. Irons had been entertaining a female guest. The room hadn't changed much, however, with the exception of a section of heavy curtains along one wall. As the guard stopped outside the doors, Ian ran for the curtains and slid behind them, barely moving them at all. ***** It was a while before the commotion died down. Mr. Irons had stationed a guard outside of Ian's bedroom, saying, "If you will act like a child, I will treat you as such." Ian laid back on his bed, but didn't bother to undress. He would have to be up in only a few hours anyway. He didn't dare risk oversleeping today, too. The guard's pacing would help to keep him awake, as well as his own thoughts. In fact, he wasn't sure he would be able to sleep at all for a while. The guard in the den must not have seen him, because Ian had heard him retreat down the hallway, not even entering the den to look around. Ian had been appalled at the sloppy security - what if he had really been a burglar? But he had been relieved, too, and leaned back against the wall to allow his muscles to relax. But the wall was cold - freezing cold - and Ian had quickly stood back up straight. He turned around, but in the dark behind the curtain, he couldn't see anything. Fishing his penlight out of his pocket, he turned and shone the light onto the wall behind him. Except it wasn't a wall, it was glass. After ensuring that the guard had truly retreated, Ian pulled back the curtain to get more light. It had taken him a minute to get his eyes to adjust, but once they did, he had to close and open them several times to be sure he was really seeing what he was seeing. That must have been when he screamed. He didn't really remember anything until Mr. Irons slapped him. Three security guards had him pinned down. Johnson had a bloody lip and Morgan was favoring his right arm, so Ian must have fought them - and hard. All three men were much bigger than him, and each could - and had in the past - bench press him. His guardian hadn't spoken to him, only to the guards. "Take him to his room and lock him in," Mr. Irons had said, his voice toneless. "You two have yourselves looked at. Christian, you will stand outside this troublemaker's door." "Like when you were a babe," Christian had said, easily hauling Ian to his feet. "I remember it well." Ian had finally spoken up. "I don't need to be watched." "If you will act like a child, I will treat you as such," was all his guardian said, though, before he pulled his robe tight and strode out of the room. There was a knock at the door to his bedroom and Dr. Immo entered without waiting for a reply. He closed the door behind him and frowned at Ian. "You couldn't leave it alone." He shook his head sadly. "I shouldn't have shown you." Ian didn't get up as the doctor sat down next to him on the bed and pulled a syringe out of a box. "Did he kill her?" Ian asked and found his voice to be strangely harsh and his throat tight. "Which one?" "Either of them. Both of them." Ian's mind tried to picture the woman on the chaise, posed, but he blocked it. "She was the Wielder!" "She was before my time, but 'yes' is probably the right answer." Dr. Immo set the syringe down on the bedside table and looked at him frankly. "He was here with me - and you - when your mother was killed, but I wouldn't put it past him to have ordered it." Ian frowned. It wasn't like Dr. Immo to speak so plainly to him. Ian's eyes slid to the syringe, then back to the doctor. "You're going to make me forget." It wasn't a question. "Yes," he said simply. "It won't hurt. You'll sleep, and when you wake, Mr. Irons won't even be angry with you for sleeping late. You will forget everything that's happened today." "Everything?" Ian tried to sit up, but Dr. Immo put a hand on his chest and he laid back again. "I don't want to forget. How could I?" "The miracle of modern medicine." The doctor's smile was forced. "But, with your training, you may, if your try hard, be able to remember one thing. But you will have to focus on it, like you do on the videotapes we show you." He understood how to concentrate like that. Dr. Immo picked up the syringe. "Ready?" he asked. Ian nodded and closed his eyes. He didn't feel the needle go in, but he felt the drug begin to snake through his veins, relaxing his muscles and filling his mind with the familiar cotton balls. But he wouldn't let it take everything away. He would remember one thing. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to sneak up on people?" |
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