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When I arrived at Mr. Irons' New York home, I was told that he was occupied and was instructed to wait for him in the Witchblade Room. I still remembered my way around the house and was only a little surprised that the door to the room was open. If the door was open, Ian was there.
This room was smaller than the one he'd had at his England home. Not all of the Wielder portraits were here. I knew the rest were in his study as were the suits of armor and other artifacts. In an alcove at the opposite end of the room was the Witchblade, once again on red silk in a glass case, still in Gauntlet form.
Ian stood before one of the paintings, his stance relaxed and his expression soft. He knew I was there, but I wasn't a threat. He had a buzz cut now and that made me smile. His hair had not been that short since we were children.
I walked over to stand next to him and glanced up at him. "Nice hair."
He looked down at me, grinning. "Not my choice."
I smiled briefly.
He indicated the painting. "It's new."
We both turned to look at the painting. The Wielder was on horseback, her dark hair blowing forward and covering her face. That it was a painting belied the Hellenistic style of the art. It was probably a painting based on an ancient Greek vase. I had learned my lessons well. No doubt Mr. Irons had a team of archaeologists hunting for the original vase. I knew Ian was not considering it as a painting at all.
"Ian," I asked gently, "what do you see in the painting?"
"The Wielder," he replied simply.
"You really see her, don't you? Her face, I mean."
He turned to me, his brows furrowed. "Don't you?"
I shook my head. "Her face is always covered by a hand or her hair."
Ian seemed to accept this but did not explain.
"She doesn't look like me, does she?" I had to ask although I knew the answer.
Ian frowned a little. "No."
I wasn't the Wielder. I suppose I had known that for a long time but had not accepted it. I knew, though, that I was linked to the Witchblade, as Ian was. I was to serve the Witchblade, but I did not know how.
Ian placed a hand on my shoulder. "You will know when you need to. Trust the Witchblade."
I nodded.
Ian turned back to the painting, his hand dropping back to his side. "Mr. Irons is coming."
I wasn't sure how Ian knew that, but a minute later Mr. Irons strode into the Witchblade Room. I steeled myself. I wanted answers to my questions, but I knew my resolve abandoned me when it came to Mr. Irons. His approval, his acceptance of me to be worthy to serve the Blade, was all that mattered.
Mr. Irons was dressed in a dark suit, which complemented his silver hair, and the color of his tie made his normally green eyes seem as blue as the ocean. He approached me, smiling. "Ina, my angel, you are lovelier than ever."
He brushed the back of his left hand on my cheek.. "I hear you have a 'very serious' question for me."
I heard the amusement in his tone, but quickly forgot about it as I leaned into his touch. These intimate caresses from Mr. Irons were rare, and I had learned to cherish them. I closed my eyes briefly, constructing a memory of the moment, since the memory of this touch would have to sustain me.
Finally I was able to say, "I know Ian will be going away for special training. I would like to go as well."
His smiled deepened, making it look insincere. "Ian, please leave us."
Ian nodded once and left, closing the door behind him.
Mr. Irons took my left hand and placed it in the crook of his right elbow. "You cannot go with Ian, my dear." His tone was patient, paternal.
I looked up at him. "Ian and I both serve the Blade, do we not? Would it not want us to be equal in our skill?"
"Do not presume," he replied harshly, "to know what the Witchblade wants, Ina."
I had upset him and that had not been my intention. My question was one of curiosity not rebellion against his authority. I remained silent, hoping he would understand that.
With a gentle tug on my arm, he escorted me to the alcove at the end of the room. We stood before the Witchblade. He looked at it with an expression I could not describe. I waited.
Mr. Irons broke the long silence. "You and Ian serve the Blade by serving me. You have different responsibilities and, as such, have required slightly different training. You know this. Now is no different."
He paused and I considered his words. Before I could ask another question, he unhooked my arm from his and placed his arm around my shoulder, drawing me to him. I could not remember the last time he had held me like that. I closed my eyes, making another memory, remembering to include the soft masculine scent of his cologne.
"It's just as well," he said lightly. "You saved me the trouble of summoning you."
I looked up at him confused. His eyes reflected the amusement in his smile. "Isn't it obvious, Ina? If you go with Ian, who will stay here and protect me?"
He had worn the Blade. He wasn't a Wielder, but the Blade had not killed him. He was special to the Blade. I would now protect him and serve the Blade.