Part 1

Ian Nottingham is standing in the library, still trying to assimilate the memories the ghost – or is it soul? – of his dead predecessor pounds into him. It’s a violent and merciless circle of infinty. But perhaps it only appears this way.

Whatever the case, he’s trapped in the onslaught of jumbled emotions, painful regrets and bittersweet dreams. But he is not helpless. He learns from the mistakes his predecessor made and makes plans for the future. A future that does not involve Irons or Sara as his Masters, but Sara as Mistress to Ian’s Mastery.

“Ian, please come down.” Irons calls from below.

His protégé, of course, obeys. For now. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” he greets them neutrally, swallowing the sarcasm he wants to lash them with.

“How are you feeling today, Ian?” Dr. Immo asks, trying to hide his fear of him, but the new Nottingham knows and smirks mentally.

Yes, be afraid of me.

“Restless.” he answers. What he’s thinking is another matter entirely.

Like a live wire. Frustrated. Horny.

He keeps it to himself, of course. For now he will tell them what they want to hear.

“Do you remember how you spent your day?” Immo continues.

I gave my life for HER. Without claiming HER.

Anger coats that last thought, but there’s no trace of it left when he speaks aloud. “No, sir. I think I’ve been asleep for a while.”

But Kenneth Irons is never easily satisfied. “What do you remember?”

Sara. The Witchblade. My role in their lives.

“My primary mission is to protect you…”

But not for much longer.

“Following that I protect Sara Pezzini, the wielder of the Witchblade.”

As always.

She is mine.

Then, here, now and again.

“Do you know what she looks like?”

The dark-haired man closes his eyes and sees her in his mind. Pleasure, desire and passion curse through his veins. He smothers the urge to smile.

I have always known.

“Exactly.” He smirks just lightly.

But his mentor has noticed and digs deeper. “What else do you know?”

That you won’t live for much longer.

“That there have been others before me. That my immediate predecessor was defective in his emotional make-up. He was soft…”

Too soft. Never took what he wanted or what was his. Never found the courage to get rid of you, Kenny.

“This deficency cost him his usefulness, thus his life. I know I still have some of his memories…”

And the rest will come soon.

“I know I only exist because you allow it.”

Nottingham laughs inside. This is irony at its best. The truth is with or without Irons there’s always an ‘Ian’ around when the wielder is active. A teacher, protector, companion or lover. Sometimes he encompasses all these roles. Sometimes he fails helplessly in one or all of them, due to outside intrigue, misunderstandings or unfortunate age differences between the wielder and her destined man.

But one fact remains the same throughout time. When an ‘Ian’ dies, the next one is born, the memories of his precedessors ingrained within him… body, mind and soul.

This time though… it is the Iron man who provides the grown body over which he believes he has control.

But does his servant work properly?

“Do you feel capable of retrieving Sara Pezzini?” he inquires.

Thought, truth and expectations collide to form words Ian can speak aloud. “Oh, I feel capable of anything.”

“Do you have the appropriate tools?” Irons needs one last assurance.

The improved Ian lifts his hands and looks at them, already seeing what he will do with them. Hearing Immo’s heart rate increase, he glances at the doctor. The old man’s fear has returned.

Kenneth does not notice and issues Ian’s most important task. “Bring me Sara Pezzini.” It’s a command and dismissal.

But Iron’s newest weapon has other plans.

Naturally, plans often don’t go as planned when Sara Pezzini is involved.

***

By the time Nottingham catches up with her, she’s with Jake McCarthy and about a dozen camouflaged Special Unit soldiers in an abandoned building. Dante – the dark-haired assassin can hear and smell the slimebag – is not far when the rookie professes his love to Ian’s woman.

Mine!

Anger wells up inside Nottingham and he decides then and there that surferboy has to die. He can barely restrain himself from doing so immediately. Only the knowledge of Sara’s reaction keeps him from rushing blondie’s execution.

He’ll have to bide his time.

Keep it from her.

Make it look like White Bull’s revenge.

He grins evilly and starts forming a new plan in his mind, while keeping his attention on Sara and the situation, Dante’s appearance, McCarthy’s betrayal, Dante’s downfall and his revelation about Irons’ part in her father’s murder, the SU sweeping in.

But his attention snaps solely to his wielder when he sees the anger in her eyes, sees it vibrate through her body and manifest in her soul. He knows where she’s headed now, what she wants and needs to do.

So he follows her.

As does Jake McCarthy. The latter does it like a loyal puppy, the first like a silent shadow.

Ian considers stealing a taxi and taking her to the mansion himself, but she’s faster, hails one and jumps in before he can reach her. He smirks, but Blondie is annoyed Sara slipped through his fingers.

Again.

The wielder’s protector modifies his plan and the blond detective follows her in his own car, never suspecting that death is stalking him, awaiting him, because Ian is faster and actually knows the layout of Irons’ estate.

They finally cross paths at the hidden back entrance to the mansion.

Irons’ henchman has a scary smile on his face and a deranged glint in his eyes. Jake pulls his gun. It is the only solution, the only thing that can give him any courage at this point. At least that’s what he believes.

Ian Nottingham’s presence has always unsettled him, and he’s only once admitted his fear of Sara’s stalker to himself. But this transformed loon is scaring the hell out of him.

And rightfully so.

Before detective can pull the trigger, his gun is in his opponent’s hand, bending to his will, while the other closes tightly around Jake’s throat, slowly suffocating him. He struggles and fights, is desperately gasping for air. But it’s no use. He is not, will never be as strong.

“She’s mine! Remember that!” Nottingham threatens.

The blond rookie knows who ‘she’ is, but he’s puzzled. What is the use remembering a threat when you’re about to die?

And this is his last thought.

The myth that you see your life flashing before your eyes when you leave this world doesn’t apply to him.

He’s part of another myth, a player on the chessboard the Witchblade created, a figure bound to a game of life that had a beginning, but will never have an ending.

He’ll be born again and not remember a thing, except that one crucial claim he heard at the point of his death. It’ll remain with him forever, an unconscious thought shaping his future actions. The wielder is not his, but Nottingham’s – or whatever his name will be when they meet again to serve the Witchblade and its wielder. As it is destined.

***

Satisfied from his last kill, Nottingham stalks in on Sara and Irons. They are arguing and the Witchblade is in sword form, extended towards the man who ordered her father’s execution and made Ian’s precedessor’s life hell.

Sara is struggling, caught between the need for revenge, the morals installed by her father and the codes she lives by as police officer.

And the rights…, the Witchblade whispers, you have as wielder.

Irons only makes it more difficult to stay on the right path with his taunting.

His creation has seen enough, has felt enough, has heard what the Witchblade wants him to do.

Kill him.

He draws his sword and severs Irons’ head from his body in one swift, skillful move.

Sara leaps back, avoiding the crumbling body, her eyes wide with shock as she looks up and her gaze locks with…

“Nottingham?” she has to ask.

How can this be?

She saw him die not too long ago.

But now he’s back and there’s no doubt it is him. He looks so different, yet she has no trouble recognizing him, even without the beard that always obscured his face before. She’s seen his features often enough to remember, to know them by heart.

“Sara.” he greets, boldly gazing into her eyes.

This is new.

And he feels different, too. Still dangerous, maybe even more so now. His lost puppy expression is gone, as is his crush. Before her stands a predator, a wild, untamed and aggressive male, a warrior who oozes confidence, potency and raw sexuality.

A god.

Not even she is immune to the lure.

Nocturnal self-destructive bad boys, she hears Danny whisper in her head, reminding her of preferences.

And suddenly she’s struck with the realisation that her personal stalker is just her type.

She swallows, but he just grins knowingly.

“Sara.” His voice sounds the same, but it is not a mumble anymore. It’s confident and a rather seductive rumble.

This is a man who knows what he wants. And what he wants right now is her. It’s all in his eyes, in his graceful moves as he approaches her hungrily.

She recongizes his walk for what it is and takes a step backwards, trying to avoid him. He’s not deterred. She is the prey, he the predator. There is no need to run. This is the primal dance between man and woman.

Still… this is Nottingham, she’s never considered… no, that’s a lie. She has acknowledged his beauty before now, has seen his strength and agility, has speculated, wondered what a lover like him could achieve. But his talking and submissive behaviour made her shy away from even contemplating to ever taste him.

But he isn’t submissive anymore now. He is still stalking, yes, like a big jungle cat, mysterious, mythical and dangerously appealing.

He has reached his full potential.

Is this what it takes to make her give in?

She is confused, but the decision is already out of her hands. And his are on either side of her hips, holding her trapped against the wall he’s backed her up against. There’s no time to plan or struggle. He leans in, captures her lower lip between his and sucks it lightly. Tingles errupt like sparks of electricity in the flesh he’s caressing, then shoot down inside her body in a wave of heat.

But almost immediately his lips are gone and she moans at the loss. Her request is obvious, so he attacks her mouth with his own again.

She closes her eyes, abandons herself to the skillfull onslaught of his lips, teeth and tongue. Curling her arms around his shoulders, she pulls him flush against her to quench the need to feel his weight crushing her.

The prominent bulge pressing into her stomach makes her heartbeat spin even more out of control. She rubs against him, a commanding move disguised as pleading. But he understands, knows her intent, her need for he feels the same.

One hand sneaks under her sweater and starts exploring her breast. The other slides down the length of her thigh, lifting it in the process, and comes to rest beneath her knee, creating an impeccable cradle for his hips.

Unconsciously, she’s risen to her tiptoes and is using the lepels of his jacket to keep her body elevated, her crotch in perfect alignment with his. He rocks into her and she responds in kind, then releases his mouth to moan loudly. And for the first time in her life she condemns the thickness of her jeans. She wants him closer, his hot hardness on her slippery mound.

No, not enough.

Inside.

Sliding.

Gliding.

Riding.

“Please!” she begs him.

He freezes at the sound, stops nibbling her neck and kneading her breast. The word - until now unheard from her lips - is music to his ears.

Yes, she is his. Only he can give her what she wants, what she needs.

Letting go of her leg, he takes a step back and makes quick work of her zipper. With both hands he slides her pants down.

No gloves, she marvels, surprised how warm and smooth his hands are.

He kneels to help her out of one leg. It puts his face right in front of her crotch, though. Her wet boy shorts are taunting him, her flavor distracting him and he loses all patience.

Not that he ever had much of it to begin with. It is Sara after all.

He rips the offending material away, pushes her legs apart with his hands before he dives in, lickering her from top to bottom and back down again.

Mine! his mind screams.

She tastes like the mortal equivalent of ambrosia.

Heaven.

He wants to be there.

Then stands faster than a lightning bolt.

Before her senses have caught up with his moves, her bare is ass in his hands, he’s lifted her to the right angle and plunged into her slick depths.

He groans.

She gasps, only now aware that her legs have automatically wrapped around his waist and her hands are already freeing his luscious hair from its confines. She has always wanted to touch his soft-looking curls of darkness, to bury her hands in it.

And now that he’s moving within her, just at the right pace, going excatly deep enough to cause maximum friction and pleasure, she grabs at his hair in ecstasy, holds onto the strands like they are the last threads holding her to this world.

He claims her mouth again, ravages it, devours her with lips, teeth, tongue and cock. And just when she thinks she can take no more, that she will finally shatter, he picks up the tempo, takes her even higher.

His thrusts become shorter, more powerful, almost forceful in their execution, transforming the bumping of their bodies into sweet torture. She breaks away from his mouth, desperately searching for her breath, but all she can do is moan her pleasure, her need for more... of him.

“Come for me!” he commands with such authority and agression, she actually obeys what he demands of her for the first time since she’s known him.

She falls apart even as she digs her nails deeper into him, satisfaction suffusing her every cell. She doesn’t wail, she doesn’t scream, she comes on a loud ‘Ahhh!’, half a gasp, half a moan, shuddering through her whole body.

He smirks arrogantly, waits for her sight to refocus… on him.

When it finally does, he lets himself go, plunges erratically into her. Two more thrusts and he’s there, coming, spilling his hot seed into her womb and fighting the urge to close his eyes as his orgams takes him. He wants her to see what she does to him.

But she sees more than he bargained for: the killer in him.

And Jake’s death by his hands.

She pushes him away with all her strength. He is too surprised to hold onto her. She lands on her feet and immediately brandishes the Witchblade. A second later she runs him through with it in sword form.

“You bastard!” she screams, disgust, anger and hurt marring her beautiful features. “You killed Jake!”

“Bitch!” he hisses right back.

She’s not supposed to kill her protector.

Yet she twists the sword, hurting him badly in vengeance.

He doesn’t voice his pain, but she can see it in his eyes. Yet there’s no sympathy left for this monster in front of her. And there’s only one way to get permanently rid of him. She pulls the blade back and before he can even defend himself, she swings it and severs his head.

Shocked and angry, she falls to her knees in desperation. The loss is too crippling.

And seeing his still, headless body, she crawls away in disgust. She’s choking, weeping, exhausted, can barely see her surroundings, but somehow she makes it to the couch on her hands and knees. She buries herself in it, seeking comfort in the cold leather as she wails, cries herself to sleep.

tbc…

Don't kill me yet for killing (evil)Ian. Have faith!

next part

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