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Date Posted: 05:10:52 04/05/03 Sat
Author: Vekhadre
Subject: Noli Me Tangere (Ch. 7)
In reply to: Vekhadre 's message, "Noli Me Tangere (continued)" on 03:48:48 04/05/03 Sat

Second chapter, as promised. :)

Vek
=================
"That poor girl." Danny wasn't taking the new twist in their case too well. Not that she could blame him. She hadn't gotten much sleep last night. On the bright side, the bullet holes were perfectly plastered over now, thank you very much. And she'd done it all without calling Nottingham. Wherever he was these days.

"I've figured out most of the ingredients in this particular blend of curare. Some pretty nasty stuff in there, I can tell you." Vicky looked way too cheerful, but that was par for the course. "I can also tell you that whoever dosed her knew exactly what he was doing. Knew how much she weighed. Gave her just enough to paralyze her, but not enough for the respiratory system to shut down."

Sara asked brusquely, "Any ingredients we can use to track it? Special toad venom or something?"

Danny gave her a weird look.

"Actually it turns out whoever made this used snake venom." With a disappointed shrug, Vicky added, "A pretty common variety. Sorry."

"Did anything else turn up?" Danny asked.

"Not really." Vicky picked up the file and flipped through it. "Healthy Caucasian female, probably early to mid-twenties. Blonde, blue eyes, 5'8". Way too thin. Perfect teeth, but I didn't get a match on her dental records." She handed the file over to him. "Hang on; I almost forgot." She pulled a small plastic bag from a coat pocket. "I guess I got distracted by the curare. Her tongue was pierced."

Gingerly Sara took the bag. In it was a small metal stud.

Danny squinted at it. "What is it?"

"It's a cobra," Sara and Vicky said at the same time.

Danny blinked. Vicky grinned.

"Looks like nice workmanship," Sara said without much hope. "Let's check missing persons, see if we get any matches."

As they headed for the door, she shot Vicky a quick glance, eyebrows raised.

Vicky shook her head and mouthed, "Sorry."

She shrugged and tried to nod understandingly, but Vicky gave her a worried frown. Damn, her poker face was shot to hell these days.

"Thought you said you were sleeping better," Danny said once the door closed behind them.

"I am."

He just looked at her.

She gave up. "It was the toad comment, wasn't it?"

"It was the toad comment," he agreed.

They headed back upstairs, and Danny immediately sat down at the computer and started typing. Probably running searches based on what little info they had.

Going to her own desk, she found an envelope waiting for her. Unmarked except for her first name. She didn't recognize the handwriting. As she pulled out the note it held, a key tumbled from it onto her blotter.

The note itself was short and to the point: "Please keep this until Thursday. Then do with it as you will."

Lifting her eyes from the note, she saw him reflected in the glass of the open office door. A knight in full armor, the visor of his helmet hiding his face. Standing outside in the street behind her, looking in. While she watched, he lifted his sword to her in silent salute. Tied around one of his metal-encased arms, a green satin ribbon fluttered, the plaything of a passing breeze.

His armor shone in the sunlight. For a long time she'd thought of him as bizarre, secretive--definitely not to be trusted. Now he just looked... clean. She shivered and fought the urge to turn around. Still two days to go. Besides, the moment she took her eyes off him, he always disappeared.

She forced a smile, even if it probably didn't look very happy. Picked the key up and slipped it into her pocket.

Someone walked between the knight and the window, and the knight vanished. With the key still in her hand, though, it didn't bother her as much as she'd been expecting. After all, now he *had* to come back.

***

Ian tossed his coat over the sofa, removed his boots and socks, and walked into the study. Facing her, even indirectly, had taken all his courage. Still, it was done. The key would remain in her safekeeping. If only she could take in every dangerous thing and transmute it into something harmless.

// "What do you want?" Sara had asked him. //

// Shrugging, he had moved closer to the fence that separated them. "To feel that I'm safe." //

One more impossible dream. He was always pining for the moon.

It was time to focus on reality. Sara needed him. No longer torn between honor and desire, he had clearly seen her weary anguish before she had mustered that brave smile for his sake. Protecting him again. As ever, blind to the fact that she herself was the one in need of protection.

The moments just before she had been shot were etched indelibly into his memory. She'd been sitting beside him, looking at him. Leaning an elbow against the table. Then she'd glanced down at her wrist and smiled a little. He'd given the Witchblade a quick glance as well, but the bracelet had looked dark. Inert. Then she had stood. And the window had shattered.

It hadn't given her any warning.

Unknown how long the shooter had been waiting patiently for Sara to present an easy target. Certainly long enough for the Witchblade to know what was about to occur. To alert the Wielder. Yet it had remained silent.

What had been its intent? She could easily have been killed; the Witchblade did not take such steps lightly. There was a message here. A meaning, if one could discern it. Perhaps he could somehow assist her in grasping it. At the very least it might prevent the Witchblade from taking further measures of an even more drastic nature.

Possibly her new case would give him some insight. He cautiously approached the computer, which breathed at him steadily from its perch on Father's desk. It was merely a tool and, like any tool, could be misused.

// "I am not a merciful man, Ian," Father had told him, and his voice had sounded almost regretful. //

There was no reason to hesitate. The haunted eyes of Sara's reflection tugged him forward. He pulled the chair back into place and sat down.

***

"Found you." Danny's voice was triumphant.

"Gotta run," Sara said immediately into the phone. "Talk to you later." She'd gotten the feeling Jen couldn't help anyway. Probably she'd just been stringing Sara along, hoping for some cash. Something about Jen's eyes the last few times Sara had met her... she'd been on something. And whatever it was, it was eating Jen alive. Soon there'd be nothing left but a corpse waiting to happen. Sara had seen it enough times that she knew bitterly there was nothing she could do. Much though she hated to accept it, she had to start looking for a new contact in the Bronx. Damn it.

As she walked up to stand behind Danny, he pointed at the missing person's report on the screen. Under "Distinguishing Marks" was a pierced tongue. Yep, pay dirt. The woman was 23 and blonde with blue eyes. The right height, the right weig--ouch, Vick hadn't been exaggerating when she'd said "way too thin."

Ah, there you go: she was a model. You had to appreciate the irony. All that work to be gorgeous, and then she'd died like this. Beauty really was only skin deep. // Or in other words, // Sara thought, // peel off enough skin, and no one looks beautiful. //

She sighed and put a hand on Danny's shoulder. "Good job, partner."

"Shall we?" He gave her a sad smile.

"Yeah."

They went to notify her next of kin.

***

Frustrated, Ian shut off the computer and pushed back from the desk. Nothing useful there. Discerning the victim's identity had been straightforward enough once he'd read the information Vicky Po had so helpfully recorded. Furthermore, the details of the crime had given him some ideas about the killer's mindset. Yet some essential detail was missing. He could feel it.

With a restless glance around the room, he decided a workout might benefit him. Reentering the living room, he went to his discarded coat. Drew the katana from its hidden scabbard. Walked down the hall toward the foyer. Its wide-open space had always struck him as ideal for these exercises, and now that he lived in the house alone, there was no reason not to indulge himself.

Along the way, he unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it on the floor. Stripped off his gloves. He always felt unnervingly exposed without them, but they interfered with swordplay.

// Why aren't you with her? //

When Sara had pierced the veil of time, it had affected him as well. Stray thoughts and dreams came to him, not quite his own. They played havoc with his memories of this timeline. Made him say and do things he would never have dreamed of, before. Irons had taken a dim view of this blossoming unpredictability. Had seen it as a sign of instability.

// You were the perfect scalpel. //

Narrowing his eyes, he bowed curtly to an unseen opponent, raised the blade, and began.

***

At the photographer's studio, Sara shifted on her feet and scanned the room. Danny was talking to the models in a low, sympathetic voice. When they had seen the tongue stud, a number of the women had reacted with shock, fear, and sadness. By now a few of them had started crying, carefully blotting the tears before they could fall. Sara shook her head and turned away, faintly disgusted. It was a good thing she had Danny to handle stuff like this. All she wanted to do was shake the girls by the shoulders and try to get them to wake up. Someone was *dead,* for God's sake. Horribly, violently dead.

A small, slim man elegantly dressed in black approached her and asked, "You wanted to see me, detective?"

"You're the producer?" Automatically she flipped out her badge so he could see it, then pocketed it when he ignored it.

"Yes. Jacques Cauchon, at your service." Although he inclined his head, his gray eyes never left hers. He held out a hand.

Forcing a polite smile, she took it and

// fire crackled all around her, the smoke stinging her eyes //

blinked at him, then let go hastily.

A faint frown crossed his face, and he turned his hand, still extended, palm up, then folded his fingers. When he finally lowered his arm, she felt idiotically relieved.

Recovering, she said, "So, uh, what can you tell me about Gina Maris?"

"She was a beautiful girl with a great deal of ambition," he said. "She could have gone far. Such a pity." For all the emotion in his voice, he might have been commenting on the weather.

***

The sword was all. It flashed and struck. Rose again, then delivered a vicious slice. Above him, the chandelier chimed discordantly in the draft of the blade's passage. Ian could barely hear it.

// It is written that no man can serve two masters. //

He drew back the sword, and thrust it into his imaginary opponent's stomach. A bead of sweat trickled down from his temple.

// I thought I could prove the exception. I was mistaken. //

Not real. Never happened.

// You gave me life. It's yours to take back. //

He shook his head, turned, and launched into a flurry of parries and ripostes, dancing across the floor. Abruptly he found himself facing a framed photograph of Irons and Winston Churchill.

It wasn't enough that Irons had owned the house--many properties, actually, and many houses. He'd put little mementos of himself everywhere, as well. An oil painting of Irons smiled at him from the stairs, comfortably ensconced in a red velvet armchair. From an alcove in the foyer, a marble bust of Octavian sneered. It had more than a passing resemblance to Irons, who had commissioned it. No hubris was too great, it seemed, for the man who had dared to pit himself against the Wielder. The man who had called himself Ian's father.

Every room that Ian could bring to mind was somehow marked with Irons' presence. There was no escape.

Ian had never thought of wanting to. Until now.

// I am nothing but what you made me! //

Panting, he found that he had shoved the sword into the photograph. Straight through it and deep into the wall. He pulled it out and whirled. Octavian had threatened to parade Cleopatra through Rome in chains. In chains. To a queen.

With a silent snarl, he strode across the room and slowly, deliberately slid the razor-sharp blade through Octavian's throat. For a moment, as he stood there, blood seemed to gush from the wound. Then he stepped back, shocked, and the sword clattered to the floor.

***

"You get anything?" Sara asked shortly, slamming the car door shut and buckling the seatbelt.

Danny gave her a brief, assessing glance, then started up the car. "Nothing much. Got the name of her roommate. No boyfriend, and her parents live in Indiana."

"Better than I got. That Cauchon's a creep." She rubbed at her wrist. Her fingers were tingling oddly. After a minute the sensation went away.

Disappointment in his voice, he said, "You really gotta work on your empathy."

"I gotta work? How about them? Cauchon practically hitting on me while I ask him about his murdered model? All those girls too worried about their makeup to cry?" Awful. She just wanted to go home and take a long shower. And people wondered why cops got cynical about human nature.

"They're just doing what we all do, Pez. They're working through it. Show must go on. They're models, so they model. We're police, so we police. That's how it works."

She sighed. "I guess. Sorry. I'm--"

"Not that I wouldn't make a great model." Idly he reached up and started twirling a lock of black hair around a finger. "But you, you're a little too--"

"Butch?" she snorted, unwillingly amused.

"I was going to say, too antsy. You'd never have the patience for it." He gave her a sidelong glance out of the corner of his eye. "You realize that's the eleventh time you've looked at your watch since we went there. Got somewhere to be?"

"Huh? No." If that wasn't just like him. Lead in with the jokes, get her distracted, and then wham--right between the eyes. He'd have been a hell of a boxer. Not that she wanted to go up against him again, thanks.

"You've been a little out of it all day. You okay?"

Her cell phone rang. Saved by the bell. She snatched it up. "Pezzini."

"It's me. Look, I know you said your... *friend*... didn't need these results anytime soon, but--"

Oh, God. Vick was going to tell her now. "You know, how about I drop by when we get back?" she interrupted quickly. Danny turned too give her a questioning look. She ignored it and turned to stare out the window.

Vicky was continuing to talk. "I put an extra rush on it, and I just got the results back, so I wanted to let you know as soon as possible."

Nearly panicking, Sara closed her eyes and said, "I can't do this right now. I just can't. Talk to you when I get back, okay? Please."

A pause. "You're keeping this from him, too? Pez."

"Let it go, Vick. I'm begging you." Why had she thought this was a good idea?

"Okay. This is me shutting up." Vicky's voice had gone soft and soothing. "I'll see you when you get back, then."

"Okay," she repeated. "Sorry."

"It's all right. I'll see you later, then."

"Yeah." She hung up and managed to relax her death grip on the door handle. It wasn't fair. Vicky had said it would take longer than this. She hadn't had enough time.

No matter how the test turned out, the rest of the day was shot. She'd never be able to concentrate now. And anyway, she had to let Nottingham know.

"I'm taking the rest of today off, Danny." Before he could protest, she said flatly, "It's personal."

He looked hurt, but he said, "Okay. You know where to find me."

***

Adjusting the water temperature a little higher, Ian welcomed the scalding needles that drilled into his flesh. The tiled floor of the shower felt oddly slick beneath his feet. One of the maids that came by every few days to clean the house must have cleaned it. He tried to recall which day they would next pay him a visit, but it was no use.

He had to-- Had to do something. What was it he'd been trying to do? Ah. Yes, he'd been trying to protect his lady. It was his destiny. Expecting more was to defile a sacred trust with a base desire. In fact, when Thursday came, he should not go. It was better to work through proxy if he could not be trusted to carry out his duty in person. He could be in Japan tomorrow.

Then he turned and reached out to put the soap back into its holder. Slipped on the slick tile and went down hard, knocking his head against the back of the shower.

An unknown amount of time later, the ringing of the phone brought him back to awareness. He found he'd been sitting under the hot spray. Knees drawn up to his chin. Arms wrapped tightly around his knees. Just rocking back and forth. Back and forth.

Stiffly he got up and turned off the shower. Climbed out and wrapped a towel around himself. Went to the nearest phone in a daze. Stood there, dripping onto the carpet and clutching the phone. Knowing what she was going to say.

"I got the test results." Sara's voice was quiet, and he couldn't read anything in it. "Come on over."

***

When he went to knock on her door, she opened it and smiled at him wanly. Stood back and waved him in. He searched her face, but for once it was she who was avoiding his gaze.

"Come in, Nottingham," she said a bit impatiently.

He went in, and she shut the door behind him, then walked over to the couch.

Turning, he simply watched her go and waited.

"Your hair's wet again," she said lightly. "Don't tell me you're making a habit of getting rained on. I'd rather not let Joan back into my head again anytime soon. She's got a mean--"

"Sara." Was that his voice, so harsh and broken? "Please," he whispered.

She turned to look at him, and the light gleamed in her eyes. "Come here."

He took a shuddering breath. Shook his head.

"It's all right," she said simply, and held out a hand. "C'mere."

No, she could not mean-- She was going to break it to him kindly. Nevertheless, he took a step forward. Was this to be the last touch from her he would ever know? His hands opened and closed at his sides, opened and closed. If she never touched him again, how could he bear it? He would go mad.

She stood, took hold of one of his gloved hands, and pulled him forward. Then she sat down, and did not let go of his hand. He sank to his knees before her. Looked up into her face. Desperately he searched her features for some sign. All he could see was peace, and concern for him.

"I can't think of a way to say this without just--saying it. So. The test results are clear cut. We're not related. Not as immediate family, not even two or three generations apart or, um, to the side."

He looked up at her, eyes burning. "Then--"

"Irons lied," she said, and squeezed his hand. "For whatever sick reasons he had, he lied."

Soothingly she ran a thumb over the back of his hand.

The universe was shifting and remaking itself all around him. He closed his eyes tightly and clutched at her hand like a lifeline.

"Don't." Her voice was soft. "Don't hurt yourself like this. Not anymore. Not over him."

Drawn by her gentleness, he bent forward and rested his face against her knees.

"You've got to let him go. Irons was a bad dream. Now that dream has ended." She let go of his hand, and he panicked, but then her fingers threaded through his hair. And it was-- Goddess, had he thought he understood pain? Had he thought he'd understood anything?

***

Gently she stroked his hair, and then his shoulders. He still hadn't said a word. "Ian," she whispered, feeling helpless, "it's all right."

Hard muscles bunched beneath her hands, and he inhaled raggedly.

"He's gone, and this time he's not coming back. He can't ever hurt you again." She could picture some of what Irons had done to him all too easily. The carefully measured doses of affection and punishment, followed by long periods of nothing at all. Carrot and stick. One of the oldest tricks in the book. // My poor knight, how you have suffered. //

As if he'd heard that thought, a half-strangled cry escaped him, and she tightened her grip on his shoulders in response.

Her tenderness seemed to strip him of the last shreds of his self-control. Even the slightest space between them seemed to become intolerable; his hands clutched her close, clawed at her waist, her shoulders, her back. He pulled her to him, bruisingly tight, and shook with the force of his harsh, racking sobs.

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