Circles

By Lori

Part 2

Nov 15, 2000

I

"Well, Ian, what do you think of Sara's newest neighbor?"

Ian Nottingham stood in his favorite alcove, head bowed in subservience, and contemplated his master's question. "I do not think she means to physically harm Sara."

"But?" Kenneth Irons queried.

"She knows more of the Witchblade than you do and her influence may be detrimental to your plans."

"Can we use her?"

"Unknown. She calls herself a witch, and claims to have lived centuries."

"Does she have the Witchblade markings?"

"No. I cannot feel her like I do Sara, yet she has visions and knows that I exist."

"Has she tried to communicate with you?"

"No. But she stares out of her window, directly to where I am standing, where a normal person would not be able to see." Ian looked down at feet.

"I can see something else is troubling you about her. Tell me what it is," Irons commanded.

"I have seen her at night, with her lights off," Ian glanced up, directly into his master's eyes, "practicing with a sword." He enunciated each of the three
words with awe, then bowed his head once more. "She is very adept. This is an unusual occupation. I have entered her apartment when she wasn't home, but the sword is nowhere to be found. I believe she carries it with her at all times."

"Yes. I can see why this would trouble you. Keep observing her. I must find a way to meet her and assess what threat she may be to me."
Ian nodded and retreated once more into a subservient position and waited for his master to talk once more. Sometimes it took minutes, sometimes hours. Ian had learned patience at a very young age.


II

Jake sauntered into the precinct, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Methos had kept him awake half the night. Not that the old Immortal had done anything but sleep, but damn, he had a five thousand year old legend sleeping on his couch. Part of him couldn't take it in and the other part was worried because of the unknown. What did Methos want with him? Methos seemed very receptive to hearing all about Jake's problems, but that couldn't be the reason he left Paris. There must be another reason.

"Hot date, McCarty?" Sara called over to him as he filled a cup with coffee.

"No," he said then ruined it all by yawning again. "I've got a friend staying. He flew over from Paris yesterday and surprised me." What an understatement. "I guess we stayed up a bit late bullshitting."

"Yeah, well. Danny and I are just leaving to check out a murder."

"I'll come with you." Jake was eager to go.

"No, Captain Dante wants to see you."

"Comin', Pez?" Danny called.

"Yeah, be right there," she called back, then turned back to Jake. "He's enjoying throwing his weight around. Judge D'Angelo was here earlier and
Dante was just eating up the attention."

Jake shrugged his shoulders, not wanting to get into a captain-bashing contest with Sara. He needed to at least act impartial. Not getting a reaction, Sara threw on her coat and joined Danny.

Jake went over to his desk and began sorting through the endless reams of paperwork. He had the file pertaining to Maria Mazani's death, which he went over again, looking for any clue. Since he knew what really happened, all he needed was something admissible in court. Tapped phone lines and eavesdropping didn't cut it.

"Busy?"

Jake looked from his desk to find Methos leaning against the wall. "Pez and Danny went to a murder scene."

"Poor Jake left behind. Must be hard being a mere rookie."

Jake decided to ignore the sarcasm. "What brings you here?"

Methos entered the room. First he hung up his coat on the tree and with a conspiratorial smile he continued toward the desk. Bending down he whispered in Jake's ear, "To scout out the enemy. I feel him very close."

Jake felt his throat settle in the pit of his stomach. "Great. You intend for Dante to know we're friends?"

"Roommates, McCarty. Don't forget, I've moved in with you." Methos carefully moved a few folders and sat upon the desk dangling his feet. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Jake was saved from answering by the sight of Captain Dante. The man's eyes bored into Methos, who looked totally relaxed. In fact his legs were swinging, gently hitting the side of the desk.

"This is not a social club, Detective McCarty. Kindly ask your friend to leave."

"Don't yell at McCarty." Methos jumped off, causing Dante to back up a few steps. "It's my fault. I wanted to see where he worked. We're old school chums and I dropped in on him yesterday without warning."

"Where do you live?" Dante asked.

"Paris, mostly. I'm a history professor."

"What period are you the most expert in?"

Jake had to laugh at the obvious ploy to find out Methos' age.

"All periods. There is something to recommend each era, in my opinion. Take colonization of the United States. The courage and arrogance the
immigrants must have had…"

Jake knew that Methos was capable of carrying on the absurd conversation for hours just to irritate Dante, so he decided to interrupt. "Did you want to see me, sir?"

"Yes, McCarty. But it can wait. I see you have more important things to do than your job. Let me know when your visitor leaves." Dante turned to leave, hesitated, then looked back. "This is a police station. I hope you're not armed."

Methos put his arms in the air. "You're free to frisk me if you wish."

Dante smiled. "Not this time." Then he departed.

"That went well," Methos remarked.

"You think he's waiting by the door for you to leave?"

"It's the middle of the morning. Even he wouldn't be that blatant."

"Did he act like you thought he would?"

"He seemed typical for a police captain."

"Known many?"

Methos nodded sardonically. "Known a few, even was one once."

"Is there anything you haven't been?"

"A surfer." With that, Methos grabbed his coat and sauntered out just as he had sauntered in.

Jake decided it would be a good time to talk to Dante. At least it would keep him from tailing Methos. While Jake believed Methos could take care of himself, he didn't want to take the chance of an ambush.

Jake knocked on Dante's door.

"Enter."

"You wanted to see me?"

"That friend, how well do you know him?"

"We were drinking buddies at school. He could really put the beer away. The girls really liked him, too. Why?" Jake instilled as much innocence in the
question as he could.

"Nothing. Just don't trust him. I hope I don't have to tell you not to tell him department secrets."

"Believe me, he doesn't care about what we do. But I know my duty, sir." Jake thought he avoided lying pretty well, not that he cared.


III

Ian followed the woman, Cassandra. The name rolled off his tongue like expensive Scotch. He felt himself drawn to her, but didn't know why. It was like a buzz in the back of his mind telling him to stay close, she might reveal something important. She took him on a journey through the middle of Manhattan. First stop was into Saks. Next she left the department store and headed to a small café.

A waiter showed her to a table and almost against his will, he found himself seated across the table from her.

"Do you recognize me?" she asked.

Her voice slid over him, compelling his attention. "You live a floor--"

"Not from this time, but from before. When you were Joan of Arc's perfect knight."

Ian gaped in surprise. His visions showed him to be a knight serving the Witchblade, but how did this woman know this?

"I was there," she answered, though he hadn't asked. "I know *you* and I know that your heart is pure. However, as before, you are torn between two loyalties. One of family and duty, and one of passion."

Ian kept silent, but thought to himself that this time his passion was corrupted.

"I will tell you who you are, or rather were," the witch spoke, weaving her magic.

Images coursed through his mind. Swords, blood, a painted white banner and a woman on the white horse vied with one another for dominance, until all three merged and became one.

"You were the Duke of Alencon."

And suddenly he was.


March 1429-Chinon

Jean d'Alencon, a royal prince and cousin to the king, strutted across a huge hall on his way to the back garden where he was to see Charles. Men-at-arms flanked him. A summons had come from his dauphin requesting his presence at court. No doubt, Charles wanted to see him in the flesh, to make sure of his good health. Five long years, a fifth of his life, had been spent under English guard. Now free, d'Alencon had ridden his horse from Saint Florent to Chinon to pay his respects.

There was another reason for his haste to see Charles. Reports had come to d'Alencon of a maid who declared that she talked to God and His Saints and was sent by Him to drive out the English. The entourage went out a back door where he found his kinsman talking to a young woman.
At first he remained quiet. The woman was begging to be given an army in order to raise the siege in Orleans. D'Alencon ignored the words, but absorbed her fire, and listened to the eagerness in which she wanted to begin her formidable task.

When he drew near to the pair, Jeannette's eyes became locked on his. He felt her interest down to the farthest reaches of his soul, where it kindled a passion to be at her side.

"Who are you?" she asked before Charles could begin introductions.

"He is the Duke of Alencon," the dauphin replied.

Jeannette's face lit with a smile that seemed to originate in heaven. "You are very welcome here. The more who are of royal blood who stand together, the better it will be for France."

D'Alencon still had not spoken, but stood next to his cousin and let her words flow around him. The need to protect her, to help her, overwhelmed his ability to utter meaningless words. Still she smiled at him as if she understood his thoughts.


Nov. 15, 2000

Suddenly Ian broke from his reverie and found himself alone, the woman gone. Panic made his throat tighten, but his training kicked in and slowly he was able to breathe normally. Fear was not new to him, but reacting to it was. The realization that she had exerted some kind of mind control made his chest seize once more, but suddenly the image of Jeannette, or rather, Joan of Arc, in all her womanly power flashed before his eyes. She had radiated with divine purpose and, with little else but her convictions, she had led a group of disheartened soldiers to victory.

Ian let himself wallow in the passion of his memory when it abruptly changed. Joan became Sara and the pure passion he had felt for Joan evolved into the shameful lust that he had for the current wielder. This lust would be his downfall, but he was unable to control it.


IV

Sara left the crime scene confused about everything. There were the visions of snakes and beautiful women posing for a camera. Then she'd see her friend Maria, staggering around, high or drunk, in her apartment. One scene bled into another, with both women dead, and Sara no clearer as to what was happening to her. The things in her mind clouded her eyes so much that she was useless at the crime scene. Danny was the one who found the tongue stud, although Sara had started trembling when she saw the snake decorating the top.

"You okay?" Danny asked as they got out of the car, back at the precinct.

"I'm fine, really. Just a headache."

"Getting a lot of those lately?"

Sara gave him a wan smile and followed him inside.

"What did you find?" Captain Dante pounced as they walked in.

"Individual bones with no evidence of skin were positioned in the snow. Have no idea as to the time of death." As Danny answered, he pulled out a small plastic bag. "Found this--tongue stud."

Dante took the bag and looked at it. "How about you, Pezzini? Find anything?"

Sara was aware of the conversation going on around her, but her mind kept flashing a little girl, dark hair, sitting on a step. She blinked and looked at Dante. "Indentations around the body, but don't know of what. Looks like the killer placed each bone individually in the snow to resemble something, some pose in his mind."

"Let me know," Dante said as he handed the bag back to Danny, "as soon as Vicky discovers anything about the bones." With a last look at Sara, Dante sauntered off.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Danny asked, concern etched on his face. "You seem a bit off your game."

"I didn't sleep good last night."

Danny snorted and stalked off to their little alcove. He didn't believe her and acted ticked that she hadn't confided in him. Sara was confused. She didn't know how to explain what was going on with her. The stupid Witchblade was giving her visions of stuff she didn't understand. Now she had two dead women and she had to find the killers. Correction: she knew that Gallo had killed Maria; it was the proof she needed.

The Witchblade flashed again, this time showing a woman, looking just like her, with an old-fashioned hairstyle. "You don't need the proof, Sara. The Witchblade will aid you in your quest for justice."

That went against everything that was inside her. You worked within the law, not as a vigilante. She was not like that, but she felt the Witchblade trying to lead her in that direction.

Walking to her desk, she found Jake and Danny deep in conversation that ended abruptly as she drew close. "What?" she asked, knowing they wouldn't answer.

"Nothing, Pez. Jake thinks he may have something."

She looked at Jake, who was shifting from foot to foot. "Spit it out, McCarty."

"I overheard Dante on the phone this afternoon. He didn't know I was near, but he was complaining to someone that James Pezzini must have hidden the evidence, cause he was sure you didn't have it."

"What evidence?" Sara felt her blood quicken in excitement.

Jake still looked a bit nervous. "I don't know. But then he said something about the possibility that Siri had it, and that the man was too smart to give it to you."

"Joe Siri? He has something my father gave to him?"

"Possibly," Jake stressed. "I don't know anymore than that."

Sara walked slowly over to her desk and sat down. "Ask him, Sara," the Witchblade whispered in her head. The voices became paramount.

"Everything is connected. Siri knows."

"What does he know?" Sara asked her voices, but suddenly realized that she had spoken aloud as Danny and Jake turned to stare at her. Recovering her wits, she explained her outburst. "I can't figure out what Daddy could have told Joe and why he hasn't told me."

Danny looked sympathetic. "Don't know Pez. Maybe you should go talk to him."

"Yeah," Jake added. "You go talk to Captain Siri and we'll go up and find Vicky. She may have discovered something."

Sara stood, grabbed her helmet, and left. She needed answers, and her father's old partner might be a good place to start.

She made the trip to Siri's house in record time. His wife, Maria, answered the door and let her in. Sara was surprised to see suitcases and boxes lining the floor. "Going somewhere?"

Joe gave her a guilty look. "We're selling the house and moving near Jason and Cali."

Sara recognized the name of his son and daughter-in-law. "I hear they have two kids now."

"Cali just had a baby boy; you know how the little ones grow."

"I understand, really. Is that why you retired?"

Joe refused to look her in the eye. "I'm getting old Sara. But, I wouldn't have left without seeing you." He fidgeted from one foot to another. "I have something for you. I wasn't sure the best way of giving it to you, but…" He let the word trail off.

"What is it? Something that belonged to my father?"

His startled eyes jumped to meet hers. "Yes. Wait a minute, let me get it."

Sara went over and sat on the sofa while he retrieved whatever it was. There was a sinking feeling in her stomach that if she hadn't come over, she would not have known about this thing of her father's. She looked at the pictures on the fireplace mantel of Joe's wife and kids. There was one of her father and Joe, young, in uniform, with their arms around each other's shoulders.

Joe came in carrying a box. "Don't look at anything now. Wait until you get home and then go through it. Call me tomorrow morning if you have any questions."

"You know something of what's in here, don't you?"

Joe looked uncomfortable. He refused to even meet her eyes. "Look at what's inside first. I just have a feeling, I know--never mind. Look at it first.
We'll talk later."

"Sure, Joe. Thanks, you know, for everything." She looked at him intently and gave him a small, tremulous smile. His manner made her distinctly nervous. What could possibly be in the box?

With a sick feeling inside, she strapped the box to her bike and drove home. Walking into her apartment, she threw down he coat and helmet, grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat on the couch to go through the box.

She opened the top and found papers folded inside. A picture of her parents, sitting on a porch-swing, holding a pink bundle, smiled up at her. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. They looked so happy. She must be only a few months old in that picture. Then she picked up the first document and found it to be an adoption certificate. The adoptee was listed as Sara-female-eight weeks old. Adopted? She was adopted? Was that what Joe was aluding to?

She jumped to her feet and called his house, still carrying the official document. Joe answered.

"Is it true?" she asked without identifying herself.

He had no trouble understanding her meaning. "Yes. Your mother couldn't get pregnant. They were so happy when they were selected to get you."
Sara felt overcome with emotion. Stumbling to her bed, she flopped down and curled instinctively into a fetal position, tears pooling in her eyes. Her identity was being stripped away. "Why didn't you tell me?" She clutched the phone tight against her ear.

"I'm telling you now."

"Only because you're leaving."

"You deserve to know. Your mother died so young and by that time, Jim felt like you were truly his own. After he died, I saw no reason for you to doubt yourself, and there was so much else going on."

Sara brought her knees closer to her chin. "Who am I, Joe?"

"You're Sara Pezzini, daughter of James Pezzini, and don't you forget it."

Sara couldn't speak. Her throat had closed to the point where even breathing was difficult.

After several moments of silence Joe sadly said, "Good bye, Sara," and then hung up.

The tears spilled from her eyes. She let go of the phone and threw her arm across her forehead. The reddish glow of the Witchblade illuminated her face. Briefly glancing at it, she begged for her pain to cease, but it did not.

The sun set, leaving the room in darkness. Sara fell into a dreamless sleep, unaware of the presence in her apartment. The shadow knelt beside the bed. He took off a glove and lightly caressed her forearm. The intruder's fingers continued down the arm, past the wrist wearing the Witchblade and along her thumb. Gently he removed the document from her hand. "All will be well," he comforted her. "Sleep." With one finger, he rubbed her cheek, relishing the texture. Gently he wiped a few tears away, then abruptly stood.

Footsteps barely heard tread upon the floor, stopping only at the box. There was a rustling of paper. The man picked up a videocassette, looked at it, made a move to leave, then brought it back. Closing the box, he turned haunted eyes back upon the sleeping form, before he disappeared out the window, just as silently as he had entered.

The Witchblade's red stone swirled as it sent tendrils of itself into Sara's flesh. It invoked memories from her deep subconscious; memories of suppressed passion that had lasted through many lifetimes.


May 1, 1429-Orleans

Jeannette rose early and went to hear mass. Her Voices praised her accomplishments so far, but warned her that her real fighting had yet to begin. She knew Dunois had left for Blois to bring the reinforcements and supplies she'd brought from Chinon and she had to wait for them to arrive. She prayed heartily for patience.

The sturdy body of Jean d'Alencon was seated next to her in church. She didn't know what he prayed for, but when she made the sign of the cross and accidentally touched his chest with her elbow, he jumped and quickly slid further away, his eyes still cast down in prayer.

When mass was over, he accompanied her on a ride about the city. Alencon was boot-to-boot on her left and her steward, d'Aulon, was on her right.
The people crowded around their processional, anxious to see her. When they began to converge too closely, d'Aulon grabbed her bridle and Alencon her arm.

He whispered in her ear, "They only wish to revere you, lady. Smile at them."

That was her first indication that she had been feeling overwhelmed, and he had noticed it first. She did as he asked, feeling comforted by the feel of his strong fingers upon her arm.

After the parade, Alencon escorted her back to Jacques Boucher's great house. The treasurer himself was not in attendance, for duty called him elsewhere. Alencon stayed and joined her for dinner. Their eyes met frequently over the table. He was so perfect in face and form, but she knew she must never speak these thoughts aloud, for he belonged to another woman and she belonged to God.

She quickly initiated a conversation. "When do you suppose the Bastard will return from Blois?"

"Three or four days. Impatient with the delay?" he asked, gently mocking.

"Yes. My Voices urge me to act now. I fear my time to influence the army is short."

"How so?" He looked alarmed.

"God has promised me but a year before my time is done."

"Because you are killed in battle? I will protect more fully."

"I fear not battle, only betrayal--"

"Not me!" he roared. "Am I not your perfect knight? Sworn to protect and guide you on this perilous journey to freedom from the English?"

"Yes, Jean. You are all that and more. I do not fear *your* betrayal, but more of a general one."

"Of the dauphin? Of the French people?"

"I do not know--only that the Saints urge speed--for I have much to accomplish in this short year."

"I will fight my royal cousin, persuade him that you are France's only hope."

Jeannette rose from the table and stood next to her gallant knight. Tears spilled from her eyes as she rested her head on top of his.

"You are only a man," she told him, feeling the sorrow to the depth of her soul. "The dauphin will lead France down another path."


V

November 15, 2000

Ian closed the window and climbed the rest of the way to the building's roof. There he collapsed into a sitting position, arms and legs crossed. He had the adoption certificate; Sara wouldn't be able to trace the agency that had handled the legalities. Neither would his master. Lazar had told him to keep that a secret.

But the tape--what was on it? It had to be important. He would return when Sara wasn't there and take a look. She was in no condition now to view it. There was time.

Voices came to him from the alley behind the building. Silently walking over to the side, he listened carefully.

"You sure it's going to blow as soon as she turns on the ignition?"

"The spark in the engine will cause it all to detonate."

There were sounds of tools scraping together and grunts of exertion by two men.

'That's a beauty of a job. She'll never see it till it's too late."

They congratulated each other and left. Ian jumped from the roof and landed on his feet, unhurt. With quick-sure hands he dismantled the bomb, making Sara's bike safe once more. Then with suppressed fury he went after the two men and eliminated them.


VI

Jake walked into his apartment, surprised to find it empty. Methos could very well be playing his stereo loudly, or drinking beer and leaving the bottles scattered all over the place. As Jake's eyes scanned the tables and counters, he was unable to find the slightest evidence that he even had a guest.

Taking a frozen dinner out of the freezer, he popped it in the microwave and went to change into a ragged pair of jeans and a ripped flannel shirt. He would be another homeless person tonight as he staked out Dante. It was the day for the White Bulls' monthly meeting and they were having it in the back room of Vitelli's, Dante's favorite Italian restaurant, same as they did every month.

Jake finished his dinner of Chicken Parmesan and milk. He spent several minutes putting dark charcoal on his face and neck, making it look like dirt. Next he took out his dark long-haired wig, secured it to his head, and placed a wrinkled felt cowboy hat on top. Then he grabbed his most comfortable, but "seen better days" down coat to complete the ensemble. Now he was ready to Watch.

Jogging by the corner market, he grabbed a shopping cart, and next, going to his hidden box in the alley behind the store, he put in the cart a bunch of rags and boxes, making the cart look like his home away from home. Satisfied with his accoutrements, he ambled to Vitelli's. Going first to the back alley, he loosened the brick near the closest window. From there he pulled out a wad of old rags. This made a direct connection to the room that held the meeting. Although Jake wouldn't be able to hear everything, he was able to catch quite a bit.

He took a seat between the wall and his cart, protected from sight at least a little. It had worked for the last four meetings, and he was confident it would work for this one. If only he could get in. He had tried becoming friends with Dante, but his overtures were always rebuffed. It wasn't because of Pezzini, because before he even began working with her, Dante had treated him with suspicion.

Soon the White Bulls arrived. He could hear women giggling and men joking around with each other.

It wasn't long before Dante spoke to the group. "I'd like to thank the Refined Escort Service for their company tonight."

Jake was disgusted that they had hookers decorating the meeting.

"First order of business is to say that I have in motion a way to eliminate the thorn that has been in our side for months. I am hoping that by tomorrow Sara Pezzini will trouble us no more."

There was cheering and glasses clanking at the news.

"I have a commendation to award this month. Would Detective Tommy Burgess come up here?"

There was some clapping and chairs scraping the floor.

"Tommy here was able to break up a heroin transaction, shooting both the buyer and the seller, but the money and drugs were never located. It was a sorry day for the NYPD, but our scholarship fund has been increased by twenty-five thousand dollars. Great job, detective."

Now there was cat-calls and heavy clapping. When it had quieted down, Dante spoke again but more quietly. Jake couldn't distinguish anything. This went on for about thirty minutes, when one lone voice rose above the rest.

"What are we going to do about McCarty?"

Jake stiffened in shock. He couldn't tell who spoke.

"I think I have an idea for that little problem, too," Dante answered. "Dean Gorner, are you here?"

"Yes, Captain Dante."

Jake groaned. Just what they needed. Sara couldn't stand Gorner. They had been working for several months trying to find Torres' killer, with no luck. Gorner mocked them every time they met up with him at a crime scene.

"With your partner dead, you might need someone to help you. I suggest you recruit the *rookie*." There was a connotation that Dante put on the word that made Jake very nervous. Dante continued. "Have McCarty help set up phony deals and maybe one will go bad and he'll die. I'll be sure to
set up an appropriate memorial." Everyone sniggered.

Jake couldn't hear anymore with all the shouting, but thought it prudent to leave. If he got caught eavesdropping, they'd kill him where he sat. He'd have to replace the rags later; for now he just slid the brick into place and began walking home. As he unlocked his apartment door, he realized how badly he was shaking.

As he entered, he found Methos lying on the couch and a blanket over him. His head was propped on his arms and the TV was showing the evening news. Jake felt relief enter his body. Dante wouldn't touch him with Methos near. The other White Bulls would follow Dante's lead.

"Out carousing?" Methos asked sardonically.

Jake walked past the couch and into the kitchen. He pulled out some Jack Daniels and took a swig directly from the bottle.

Methos, possibly seeing how upset Jake was, joined him in the kitchen. "What happened?"

Jake gulped the last swallow, letting it warm his cold stomach. "Was Watching Dante. Heard him tell the White Bulls that he was going to set me up for bad drug deal and purposely let it go bad." He took another gulp. "And get me killed."

Methos took the bottle away from Jake and put it in the sink. "I think you've had enough of that. The first order of business when you're threatened is to keep control of yourself, not get drunk."

Jake had no control and was borderline hysterical. "This has never happened to me before. Dante doesn't want me dead because I'm a Watcher; no, it's because he thinks I'm a Fed. I'm not a Fed, it's just my--"

"Slow down, McCarty," Methos interrupted. "Let's go sit down," he suggested, leading Jake to a chair.

Jake could feel small tremors rippling through his body.

"If you think you can't handle it, I'll make arrangements for you to go to Paris and stay at my place. But what would happen to your partner? Would you throw her to the lions? She needs you here."

Jake began to calm down. It was scary knowing that an Immortal wanted you dead. Usually when that happened it was only days before the fear became a reality.

"That's better. Now I suggest you get some sleep. Let me think about this tonight."

"Are you going to kill him?"

Methos gave him an unreadable look and said, "At some point."

Jake wasn't happy with the answer. He wanted Methos to promise to kill Dante tonight.


VII

Ian entered the mansion and made his way to his master's study. It had been a long night and he longed for bed. Only asleep could he let his imagination loose and dream of Sara the way he wanted her. His favorite fantasy was teaching her how to wield her sword, his body behind hers and he showed her how to lunge, parry and riposte. Than maybe some hand to hand combat where he'd pin her to the ground, rip off her clothes-- Shit, he was at his master's door. He knocked, calming his libido.

"Come in, Ian."

His master was sitting at his desk, the large screen TV on with the news. Pen was scratching against paper, as Ian waited his master's pleasure. At last, Irons looked up. "Do you have the adoption certificate?"

"No. It was not in the box. Joseph Siri informed Sara of her adoption, but the documentation was not there."

Irons slammed his hand on the desk. "Damn! I want to know how Sara was taken away from us. You two were to be raised together. Thwarted at every turn."

Ian stood, waiting for the next question.

"What else?"

"Gallo is still trying to kill Sara. He had two men rig her bike with a bomb."

"You diffused it." Irons worded it more as a statement than a question.

Ian didn't need to respond.

"I want you to find Gallo. Listen and find out his plans. If you can, initiate or force a confrontation between him and Sara. Let her try out her fledgling
powers and swat the fly. It would be good practice for her."

"Now, master?"

"No. It would be better to wait for morning. Be there then."

"Yes." Ian backed up, knowing the interview was over.

His master wrote a few more things down, then stood up. Walking up next to Ian, Kenneth Irons ran his fingers down Ian's cheek. "You can go to bed now." He paused then added, "Sweet dreams."

Ian leaned into the caress momentarily, then straightened, once more in control. Both left the room, each headed in a different direction.
Ian slid between the satin sheets and snuggled into the pillow. He emptied his mind and let it float, slowly letting a picture of Sara filter in. Her eyes were soft, imploring him to help her. As unconsciousness settled, Sara disappeared and Jeannette took precedence.


Friday May 6, 1429-Orleans

Soldiers, townsmen, and knights fought against the English all day. Alencon had trouble keeping his charge in sight. She had a tendency to go boldly into the thick of battle, shouting encouraging words and waving her banner. With blood and death surrounding them, Alencon had trouble knowing when to scold or praise her for her courage.

"Please stay within my sword's reach, Jeannette," he begged.

"My lord duke, my men need me. This bastion needs to be taken today. God had willed it--it must be done."

"Yes, Tourelles is important." He gave a sigh of defeat, for she was already moving away.

De Morency rode up. "You fight. I will make her mind me," he boasted.

With that, Alencon watched the knight of little renown follow Jeannette and cut her off from a group of English. De Morency brought his sword up and took on the enemy. Alencon saw her move away from de Morency, while he was thus occupied, and ride toward a group of townspeople--shouting. The words were lost in the frenzy. Alencon's heart dropped to his knees as he spurred his horse to her.

"Do you wish to die today?" he shouted. "Take care of your life, for your death will kill us all."

Looking chagrinned, she let him lead her out of the fray and to a vantage point where all could see her and the banner, and she could keep track of their progress.

Alencon regretted not participating in the battle, but her safety was the most important task he had to fill. Mounted, side-by-side on their respective war-horses, watching the French defeat the English was the most glorious spectacle he had ever witnessed. Everything was heightened that day.


November 12, 2000

The battle scene dissolved within Ian Nottingham's mind to be replaced by a scene that had never occurred. His lovely Sara was at the Rialto Theater, butchering people left and right while her cop partner lay dead on the floor. Her body was poetry in motion as she kicked, hit and slashed those who opposed her.

When all her enemies had been killed, she dropped to her knees and cradled Danny's head in her lap. But it wasn't the Asian's head, it was his own head in her lap. And he wasn't dead. His eyes opened, as she bent to kiss him. Glorious tears fell from her eyes as she thanked God that he was still alive and then she began raining kisses all over his face. His arms rose to encircle her, bringing her closer--two halves of a whole, one light and one dark. This was his personal nirvana. Sara loving him openly, without reservation.

Even within the dream, he knew it wasn't real.


Nov 16, 2000

I

Sara woke, finding herself in bed. Disoriented, she remembered calling Joe Siri and crying on the phone. Everything after that was a blur. Sitting up in bed, she glanced at the bracelet surrounding her arm. The red swirled, giving off a slight glow. Then her mind saw Ian Nottingham enter her room, and mess with the box Joe had given her. Muttering profanities, Sara threw off her covers, jumped out of bed and went to check if anything was missing. The tape was still there, along with a bunch of papers. She had no idea if he had taken anything, important or otherwise. There were certificates of all varieties. Several had her father's name; she choked as the realization hit her anew. James Pezzini was not her father.

There was a VCR tape included that was unlabeled. Sara put it in the machine and then came back to the box to continue looking at the papers inside. A hard metallic object scraped the bottom. Pulling it out, Sara recognized it as a shell casing. It was gold colored, with a black bull engraved on the side.

Suddenly her father's face lit the screen. Shock held her immobile as the man described his actions in trying to expose a corrupt group within the NYPD called the White Bulls. Things became clear as her father named Bruno Dante as one of the young leaders. The Witchblade swirled once more, and Sara witnessed Dante ordering Tommy Gallo to kill James Pezzini.

Struggling for control, Sara stood and began pacing in her loft. She took several whacks at her punching bag before deciding to call Danny. When his wife told her that Danny was at the school with their kid, Sara immediately called Jake. The decision to include Jake was instinctive, even though Danny had been her first choice.

"Yeah, Pez. What's up?"

"I can't talk over the phone. Can you come over here?" Her voice broke with her extreme anxiety.

"Sure, I can be over in a few minutes. Are you okay?"

"Siri gave me a box and there's information about a group called the White Bulls--"

"I'm hanging up Sara." He didn't sound so sleepy anymore. "I'll be over as soon as I can. Don't go anywhere and don't let anyone but me in."

Sara was a little shocked at his attitude. It sounded like he knew something. Could he be trusted? The Witchblade assured her that it was okay.
She hung up the phone and went back to the TV and rewatched the tape. Soon a knocking came at her door. Sara froze, her heart pounding, sweat breaking out across her forehead.

"Sara?" a feminine voice called out. "It's Cassandra. Is everything okay? I don't want to intrude, but I'm getting the feeling that something's wrong."
Sara exhaled slowly. For some reason she knew that Cassandra was not involved with the White Bulls. Whatever else her game was eluded Sara's understanding, but in this instance company was better than being alone. "Just a minute," Sara called out, turning off the tape and walking to the door.

Cassandra was wearing a jogging suit that looked more for lounging than something one would sweat in. "Come in," Sara said. "Ready to give me some more riddles to solve?"

Cassandra gave her a warm smile, although the relief was evident on her face. The woman had been genuinely worried. "They aren't supposed to be riddles, but rather inspiration to lead you into innovative thoughts. The Witchblade is different for each wielder. Some use only the clairvoyance aspects; others prefer the hardware. You may need them both. We live in difficult times. It's not always clear who the enemy is. Joan of Arc knew she had to deliver France from English hands. Cleopatra needed to preserve Egypt from Roman dominance. Who is your enemy?"

"I have so many I don't know where to begin," Sara responded wryly.


II

Ian positioned himself within the shadows, looking at the building where Gallo had his offices. Several men got out of a car and entered. Focusing his superior eyesight, Ian memorized the faces. Opening his sense of hearing, he listened to the progress the men made as they were cleared through the first security outpost and made their way into the inner sanctum.

"Is she dead?" Gallo asked the two men.

"No," one of the men answered, his voice raspy as if he had a cold or his throat had been injured at some point in his life.

"I have morons working for me," Gallo remarked with disgust. "Why isn't she dead?"

"She hasn't left her apartment yet. I went to the bike and the bomb Carl and Lou installed, but it was gone. I put on another."

Ian laughed to himself. He had removed that one earlier that morning.

Gallo's chair slid and Ian could hear his shoes scraping on the floor as he walked. Suddenly two slugs were fired and bodies fell to the floor. There were more footsteps. "Have someone clean up this mess," Gallo called from his office.

Ian let the memory go of the faces of the two men. He wouldn't need the knowledge anymore.

"If you want something done right, I guess you have to do it yourself," Gallo muttered to himself.

His master had been right in asking Ian to tail Gallo. This would prove an interesting encounter. Ian would have to make sure that Gallo allowed Sara to use all the aspects of the Witchblade so she could learn by practice. Once she drew first blood, her lessons would become more interesting. He totally ignored the fact that her blood would also have to be shed, to initiate the symbiotic union of blade and wielder.


III

Methos watched Jake hang up the phone. "Your partner in trouble?"

Jake looked frantic. "We've got to leave now. I don't know if Dante's got my phone tapped, but Sara just told me she's got some evidence on the White Bulls. He could be on his way over there right now to kill her."

Methos didn't need anymore prodding. "Let's go then. It's probably time I met this paragon of womanhood."

It took very little time to reach Sara's apartment building. Methos went directly to the elevator, but Jake ignored the open doors for the stairwell to the left.

"The damn thing doesn't always work. Sara says it has a tendency to stall between floors and then not start up again."

Methos eyed the trap with distaste. "Lead on, MacDuff." As soon as Methos' foot reached the third floor, he felt the presence of another Immortal.
"There's another Immortal here," he grunted, reaching in his coat and pulling out his sword.

Jake blanched with fear. "Dante beat us here."

The two men ran up the last flight. Jake went to Sara's door, and Methos kicked it in, sword in front, ready to defend himself against the vigilante Immortal cop. He stopped midstride, his jaw dropping in shock. He didn't know who to look at first.

First there was Jeannette, looking out of place in her modern dress--crop top and wrinkled jeans. Then there was Cassandra, his nemesis, the one who wanted him dead more than she wanted to breathe. His brain worked over the situation, at once realizing that Dante was not here and had never been there. He lowered his sword, waiting for Cassandra to act. Would she attack?

She didn't, but snarled, "I should have known you'd turn up."

Methos chanced a look behind him. "You forgot to warn me," he scolded Jake.

Jake's eyes were as big as saucers. "I didn't know."

Cassandra stepped forward, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I think we need some introductions."

Jake stepped back a step. "I'm Sara's partner, Jake McCarty."

Cassandra looked at Sara. Methos followed her example, staring at the girl who had meant so much to him. "I'm Adam Pierson, a school chum of Jake's," he responded, using the same story he had told Dante.

Cassandra murmured suggestively, "De Morency."

Methos stiffened. "You knew?" He was shocked. Cassandra had known who and what he was back during those days. Why hadn't she killed him when she had the chance? Was the Witchblade that important to her? Did it control her thoughts and actions, too?

Cassandra ignored his question. "What brings you here so suddenly?"

Methos shrugged. "Thought she might be in some difficulties. She called Jake and told him some news that made him fear for her life."

This time Cassandra stiffened, looking affronted. "You thought I would harm this child?"

"I am not a kid," Sara cut in. "I am--"

Methos ignored her outburst and spoke to Cassandra. "No. We didn't know about you. Her captain wants her dead, and Jake thought he might beat us here."

Understanding crossed Cassandra's face. "I begin to see. I too arrived because I sensed her distress. This captain, is he one of us?"

Sara gazed incredulously at Methos. "Don't tell me you're a witch, too?"

Methos smiled ironically. "I can't compete with Cassandra's powers." He turned to Cassandra again, "And the answer about Dante is yes."

Cassandra frowned. "This complicates things."

"I will take care of Dante. But I think we need to talk privately." He waited, and Cassandra nodded. "But I don't want to leave them alone. Dante wants Jake just as dead."

Sara gasped. "What have you done, McCarty?"

For the first time, Jake contributed to the conversation. "Sara, why don't you show me your evidence and let *them* talk over there by the window."
Methos liked that idea. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be totally alone with Cassandra anyway. They might both want the same thing now, but it was always subject to change. He didn't trust her not to try to kill him as soon as it suited her purposes.

She smiled at him, acting as if she could read his thoughts. He hoped he wasn't that transparent. He'd worked for millennia to have the perfect bland expression.

The two Immortals walked over to the window, and as soon as Sara turned on the VCR tape, Cassandra began her questions. "Why are you in New York?"

"Felt the time reversal," Methos answered. "I knew somehow the Witchblade had found a new wielder, and that she had come into some kind of
trouble."

Cassandra didn't respond to his answer, but admitted, "I almost felt myself move from one universe to another."

Both were quiet, contemplating.

"Do you have any idea of what went wrong the first time?" Methos asked.

"No. I get flashes, but nothing concrete."

Methos gazed at the woman who had been his slave and then almost an executioner. Did he dare trust her now? Sara needed the help, but could two people with their kind of history put everything aside for the good of the Witchblade?

"What have you seen?" she asked.

"Death. Destruction. Everyone dies. There is a man in black--"

"Ian Nottingham." She paused, then whispered, "Alencon."

Methos stiffened. "I haven't seen him. There is also a man called Irons, but I don't know how he's involved yet. Lastly, there is Dante, the immortal captain who wants both Sara and Jake dead."

"Jake recognizes me."

"He's a Watcher, like Joe Dawson."

Cassandra nodded, accepting the information. "I have had some visions myself. There is first, Gabriel Bowman. He is a young man very interested in history and ancient magic. It was through him that I met Sara. However, the Witchblade led me to this apartment building."

Methos accepted this truth. "Anyone else?"

"I have gotten glimpses of this Irons you mentioned. I don't know very much about him, but for some reason, this time line, or just this time in general, has been corrupted--perverted for some reason--and that's why everything has been going wrong for Sara. I don't know how to make it right."

"You don't think we can make a difference?"

"No. Something major has to change, but what that is I don't know. It is like we're living in a mirror where everything is distorted or the opposite of what it should be. Someone has been purposely manipulating fate."

Methos hadn't considered this. "It's not Dante; I don't think he has any idea."

Cassandra agreed. "I think it's this Irons, who is somehow influencing circumstances, forcing Sara into situations that are against her nature. Then there is Alencon. He is different. Not the perfect knight from before, but warped, inverted, perverted, but trying to do right."

"Like a fish swimming upstream?"

"Yes. And never reaching the spawning bed."

"Someone's holding his tail. That would be our boy Irons." Methos' mind began circling around the problem.

"You take Dante's head while I check out Irons," Cassandra instructed. "We need to find out more about him."

"Of that I agree." Methos gazed at the Immortal woman standing in front of him. Tackling Irons would be far harder that taking Dante's head. Whereas Dante was just a corrupt Immortal that needed to be dealt with, Irons was something much more. Yes, he had knowledge of the Witchblade, and probably knew its capabilities, but something else was going on. A stray thought occurred to him. "Do you think it's possible that Irons has put on the Witchblade?" he asked Cassandra.

"No. He would be dead," she responded, sounding certain.

Methos however, wasn't. Men were not supposed to wield it. What if he put it on, felt it's power and made him insane with trying to control it. Methos could relate with that sort of lust. He had lived with the lust for power for more years than he wished to recall. Just looking at the woman in front of him made the feeling creep up on him again.

Cassandra interrupted his speculation. "It was very clever of you to call the Witchblade the Woman's Glove when you were with Jeannette. You seemed to know about it before you met her."

Methos let go of his train of thought and returned to the present. He wasn't sure how much to tell her. "How long have you known about it?" he asked her.

"A very long time. I was part of a religious order dedicated to Mnemosyne. We worshipped her and spread her teachings to the world. That was when I was first introduced to the Witchblade. We believed that Mnemosyne and the nine muses created the Witch's Glove. It was our job as priestesses to teach new wielders and educate those around her to respect the weapon's power and superiority over mortals."

Methos gave her a dubious look. "You really believed that?"

"At the time, yes. The Witchblade is ancient, older than even you. Who can say how it was made or even how long ago it was forged. I know only that it can shape the world, direct destiny and bring the people to it that it needs."

"It brought you and me to New York," Methos muttered wryly.

"Yes. It needs both of us to fix the corruption. But tell me, Methos, when did you first come into contact with the Gauntlet?"

He could see real curiosity in her eyes. "I've had only two encounters. The first was in Rome. Well, if you want to get technical, I first learned of it in Alexandria when it belonged to Cleopatra. I saw her use it, and its power was universally recognized. She claimed it was a gift from Isis when she became queen."

"That I knew of. I helped to arrange the gift."

"When Octavian defeated her, he removed the bracelet and gave it to his wife, Livia. It rested on her wrist for the rest of her life, but she never once saw it mutate into a weapon. In fact, I don't think she knew of its power."

"She used the precognition aspect. I suspect she had no call to defend herself so the weapon wasn't needed."

Methos nodded in agreement. "I was hired in the palace as Claudius' tutor and stayed for many years. The Witchblade made it my task to remove it from Livia's wrist and get it out of Rome."

"You did this?"

"It wasn't easy. I waited until just before her death. She summoned Claudius to her bedside to make sure he remembered his promise to make her divine. I went with him, and when she lapsed back into sleep, it seemed to fall into my hand. I slid it onto my upper arm and hid it within the folds of my tunic"

"You actually put it on?"

"It put itself on me; I didn't know very much about it."

"Like only women were supposed to wield it?"

"I definitely didn't know that. But it did nothing to harm me. I carried it out of Livia's room and to my own quarters. I arranged for its transport to Britain, but first I had to hand it over to the bearers. That was when I learned what it truly was." Methos shivered, remembering the fear and astonishment when the bracelet had encircled his throat and entered his mind.

"Did you die?"

"No. I don't think so." He paused, letting the memories run their course. "The Witchblade told me to give it to this woman, the wife of a Roman general on his way to Britain. She would need it in the untamed, uncivilized land. I did as requested and didn't see the Glove for another fourteen hundred years."

"Joan of Arc."

"Yes. I made myself part of her entourage and thus indispensable to her."

"I only found out about your involvement after her capture."

"Or else you would have challenged me," Methos added.

Cassandra smiled. "Perhaps. I kept out of sight, spreading the rumors of the Maid of Lorraine, waiting in case she had need of me."

"She had only a little more than a year to achieve her goals. Couldn't you have done something to prolong her time?" Methos asked, his thoughts tortured with the memories of Jeannette's last days.

"Wielder are rarely given a happy life," Cassandra informed him. "They are not allowed to form close attachments. Loved ones have a habit of dyingwithin the chaos that surrounds them. Sara is no different."

"Are you going to train her?" Methos asked, curious.

"Yes. She needs to learn the basics of sword fighting, and how to call upon the Witchblade for what she wants."

"Has she gone through the Periculum?"

Cassandra sighed. "Yes, before the time reversal. She doesn't remember it or understand her own feelings. That is what I need to focus on."

"Do you think it will make her go through it again?"

"I don't know. Maybe it wants her to fix this mess first."

"That must mean there is a way to fix it."

"I must believe that," Cassandra spoke with conviction.

IV

As Jake watched the video intently, Sara sat on the couch very confused by the actions of her three guests. She could hear Cassandra and Adam Pierson mumbling over on the other side of the room, but couldn't make out what they were saying. Absently she twisted the bracelet around her wrist, hoping to overhear what they were discussing, but it didn't help. She had to wonder about this strange man who had burst through her door, holding a sword like he meant to use it on her, then folded inside himself when he saw Cassandra. All his emotions for one single second had been written all over his face, then they had disappeared without a trace. Sara's first instinct had been to attack, to defend herself, but the threat vanished so fast there hadn't been time for movement.

The next thing she knew, the entire situation had gone past her into a realm she didn't understand. Adam and Cassandra knew each other, and together they dominated the room. It was the first time that Sara could see the power emanating from Cassandra and to a limited extent, Adam Pierson. What shocked her the most was Jake's involvement. It was clear he recognized Cassandra and was wary of her.

Jake was now sitting on the edge of his seat, staring at the picture and absorbing everything. Sara, shocked as she had been about her father, felt curiously detached now. It almost felt like she was floating, seeing what was happening around her, but not really participating. The hum of her visitors circled around her like a buzzing bee.

Nottingham, telling her that "everything is connected," was followed by Cassandra repeating almost the same thing. Gabriel mentioning the fact that Cassandra declared herself a witch and wasn't it a coincidence that she moved a floor beneath the Witchblade wielder. Adam Pierson, school friend of McCarty's, knew the witch and had an underlying fear of her. Sara could sense that as clearly as the temperature of the room.

The humming around her grew more distant as her mind worked through her puzzling thoughts. Flashes of herself and Jake ran through her mind, things that hadn't happened yet, a picture of herself that wasn't really her, but--

"Sara?" Someone was shaking her. "Sara, are you listening to me?"

Sara blinked; her mind went blank. "What?"

"This tape is important evidence," Jake told her. "We can use it to nail Dante and the rest of the scumbags."

Everything is connected, echoed in her mind. "What do you know about the White Bulls?" Sara asked, suspicions rising within her.

Jake paused, staring at her. "This can't leave the room, but I'm a Federal agent sent in undercover to expose the White Bulls and get rid of them."

"Why haven't you told me any of this before?" she asked, outrage making her voice shrill.

"I'm undercover; I'm not even supposed to be telling *you* this. But I really need a partner. I've been made, and that's why Dante wants me dead."

Sara leaned back, considering what she had just learned. "Is your friend Adam involved in this?"

Jake shifted in his seat. Sara could tell he felt uncomfortable talking about it. "Not really. He knows, but he's not a Fed, and not involved directly."

"And her?" Sara asked, indicating Cassandra.

Jake glanced over at the two still talking quietly on the other side of her loft. "I really have no idea about her. I didn't expect her here at all."

"So you do know her. Who is she? Is she really a witch and been alive for centuries?"

Jake shifted in his seat once more. "Everything I've heard confirms that she could fall under the witch category."

"Alive for centuries?"

"I have no idea when she was born or where."

"Jake, that's an evasion if I've ever heard one."

He shrugged his shoulders. "I can't help you more than that, unless I knew what she wanted. Then I could give you more information."

Sara was not about to tell him of the Witchblade, so she stayed silent. She knew he had more information, but wasn't going to tell her. Maybe they should go back to discussing the White Bulls. "So, what's the next step? Is it safe for you to go to work?"

"Yes. I have lots of evidence that I've obtained illegally, but nothing to tie in Judge D'Angelo with Dante. I can't bring down Dante until I can connect the judge to him."

Sara gasped. "D'Angelo is involved?"

"I think he's the leader. Without taking him down, everything else would be in vain."

Sara had to agree with that. "How can we get more evidence?"

"By solving your friend's murder. We must be able to tie in the judge, Dante and Gallo in with that killing; then we'll have the whole organization."

"Sounds like you've got it solved."

"But without proof. There is nothing to tie in the judge with Maria's overdose."

"Tell me everything, Jake."

"The judge called Dante, who then called Gallo to do the hit."

Sara felt her anger build. "How in the hell do you know that?"

"Maybe the same way you find out things, but don't tell me how," Jake countered.

Sara scoffed, but remained silent. She had the Witchblade to show her things. What did Jake have?

"We all have secrets, Sara. You chose not to share yours with me, and I chose not to share all of mine with you. I just confided in you that I was a Fed. What have you shared with me?"

She was caught and he knew it.

"What's going on, kids?" Adam asked, walking over with Cassandra. "Having a tiff?"

Sara observed Adam sit down on the couch next to Jake, and Cassandra going to stand on the opposite side of the couch. Sara then saw Adam exchange a look with Jake before turning his attention back to her. "Let's see this incriminating evidence."

Sara glared at him, but he gave her bland smile as he picked up the remote control and rewound the tape. "This is none of your business, Mr. Pierson-"

"Please call me Adam," he interjected smoothly.

Cassandra whispered something. Sara looked over at her, and the woman repeated it. "De Morency, Jeannette."

Sara stiffened in her seat. The name meant nothing to her, but Cassandra obviously thought it should. The four sat through her father's explanation, although Sara found herself observing her guests instead. There were definitely undercurrents between Adam and Cassandra that she couldn't decipher.

When it was over, Adam Pierson stood. "Cassandra, are you going to stay here with Sara? I think Jake should take the tape to his Fed friends for safe-keeping, while you watch over her in case Dante comes calling. Your mere presence should keep him outside her door."

Sara stood up, affronted. "I don't need a babysitter. If Dante wants to come for me, I'll be ready. But he doesn't work like that. He'll call in Gallo or someone like that."

"I agree. Gallo would be the one to do Dante's dirty work," Jake spoke out. "But I still think having Cassandra here can only help."

Sara took a deep breath, holding on to her anger. Let the men go, then she'd just have to persuade Cassandra that she could take care of herself.


V

Jake left Methos at his apartment and headed to the station. Danny was sitting at his desk, reading over a file.

"Whatcha got?" Jake asked, hanging up his coat.

"Vicky's report on the woman we found in the culvert. She says the bones had been scoured clean by an organic digestive acid, but the puzzling part was the impurities. The acid isn't the kind you can buy from a chemical company, but reptilian in nature. There are also multiple stress fractures in all the bones as if they had been squeezed, before death."

Danny handed the report to Jake. Suddenly, Danny reached in his desk and found the clipboard with the missing person's report. "I know who she is. Look."

Jake saw a picture of a pretty woman with her description. "Gina Maris. They've even mentioned the tongue stud. Dominique Boucher is listed as her employer and the person to have listed the girl as a missing person."

So the two detectives headed over to the modeling agency. They talked to Ms. Boucher, who introduced them to the victim's roommate, Karen Bronte. Danny asked if they could go through Gina Maris' things, and Ms. Boucher gave her model permission to leave.

"Gina didn't have much," Ms. Bronte told them as she showed them around.

Danny went through the bedroom, looking in the closet and dresser drawers. Jake stayed in the living room and talked to Karen. She was beautiful, he thought, trying to tear his eyes away from her face and glance around the expensively decorated apartment. The first thing his wandering eyes collided with was a picture of a woman who looked identical to Sara.

"Who's this?" Jake asked Karen.

"It's my grandmother. I never knew her, but she was supposed to have been a spy during World War II."

"Hey, Danny," Jake called out. "Take a look at this." The two men stared at the picture. "It's unbelievable."

"They say everybody has a twin," was Danny's only comment.

"Think we should tell Sara?"

"No. She's acting squirrelly enough without this."

Jake had to agree. He put the picture back, but found it hard to forget about.


VI

After the men had left, Cassandra began pushing furniture over to the side of the room. With a mere glance from Cassandra, Sara immediately began helping.

Once they had cleared the center, Cassandra stood, assessing the area. "You are lucky to live in a loft with such high ceilings and wide space. Wish it weren't quite so narrow. We'll just have to deal with it." Next she pulled out a sword. "It is time for you to learn how to use one of these."
Sara stared at the weapon in awe. "It's beautiful."

"And deadly. Most blades need to be cared for; cleaned, sharpened, and kept ready for any emergency. You do not need to do this with the Witchblade, for it is a part of you. It draws life from your body and returns it magnified, after each use."

"You mean after I kill with it?"

"You do not need to kill, but you need to know how to kill." Cassandra pointed her sword toward Sara.

Sara felt her bracelet become a gauntlet, and then a sword thrust out from her fist. Cassandra began her lessons, showing Sara both arm motions and footwork. The women sparred throughout the afternoon. Cassandra stopped them once for lunch, giving them time to rest and talk.

"Tell me about the Witchblade's past," Sara asked, for the first time feeling one with the ancient magic that had claimed her.

"The Witchblade has gone by many names. It comes to a deserving woman when it is most needed. It is able to shape destiny and people's lives how it sees fit. The women are always powerful in their own right, with some kind of task to fulfill. Joan the Maid, had to rid France of the English. Cleopatra had to keep Egypt as a sovereign nation, which she did in her lifetime. But forces were too great for her, and love became her downfall. The Witchblade doesn't like its wielders to form serious attachments, and it ruthlessly gets rid of them. It isolates, making the wielder dependent only on itself for emotional sustenance. As long as your heart does not become involved, one can use men to gain your ends."

Sara saw flashes of images in her mind. They were confusing and swept by so fast she was unable to discern what was going on. A woman wearing the
Witchblade was fighting against her. Next, Sara was sitting on the ground with the head of a man in her lap. He was dead while she mourned profusely. Sara tried to get a clear picture of the man, but his features were elusive within the vision.

Cassandra continued with her teachings. "Jeannette had both Alencon and de Morency, both of whom you know. But she also had a host of other very loyal knights and soldiers to help her. But she loved none, and none were foolish enough to demand more from her."

Sara shook off the feeling that she had lost something precious, and concentrated on what this woman was trying to tell her. "Why me?"

"I suspect a relative of yours once wielded the Blade. Once a woman bonds with it, it comes an integral part of her. It invades all the cells of the body, leaving memories or something of that nature. If that woman reproduces, all the offspring have pieces of the Witchblade flowing in their veins, so that if they encounter it, the Witchblade recognizes them."

Sara thought about that piece of information. She now knew she was adopted. Who could have been her real parents? "I don't know anything about my ancestors. I just found out yesterday that James Pezzini was my adopted father. I looked in the box, but I can't find any details of who gave birth to me."

"Ask the Witchblade. It knows."

Sara closed her eyes, her hand touching the bracelet, twisting it around her wrist, commanding, asking, then struggling. Nothing came.

Cassandra got up and came around behind Sara. "Relax your body but not your mind," Cassandra instructed as she placed her hands on Sara's shoulders, kneading them gently.

Slowly Sara felt her teeth unclench, and her arms become limp.

"Welcome the intrusion into your mind. While you ask, you're also fighting it."

Sara saw a woman who looked just like her.

"Let the visions come," a voice told her from far away.

The woman was giving birth. The room was not a hospital, but a bedroom. Several women hovered, encouraging her labor and wiping her brow. A man sat between her legs, muttering in another language. Sara thought it was German. "Push," he said.

A squalling baby girl burst from her womb. Amid all the oohs and ahs, Sara could feel the woman's exhaustion and her exhilaration.

"Did you see your mother born, Sara?" the voice asked her from far away. "Or was it you?"

Sara looked at the woman who resembled her so closely. The Witchblade glowed furiously on the new mother's wrist.

"We must hide her," a nurse interrupted the new mother's bliss, "before the soldiers come."

The man held out the baby to the woman lying on the bed, and Sara got a good look at his face.

Sara spoke up. "I know the doctor. I see him around, but he never talks." Slowly the vision faded, but the feeling that the man could see and hear her,
held. Sara became agitated and turned abruptly in her chair, knocking Cassandra's hands away from her.

"I know him. He's got shoulder length light brown curly hair. A round face…" But the picture in her mind dissipated. "I can't see him anymore." She brought her fist down on the table, making a glass fall to the floor. "I see him everywhere, watching me, but before I can do or say anything, I've forgotten him."

Cassandra began cleaning up the spilt soda. "That's Lazar," she revealed matter-of-factly. "He watches over wielders, but is never allowed to interfere."

"What do you mean?"

"He is a kind of witch, like me. Ancient in age and wisdom, but not allowed to participate in life. Sometimes he can talk to us, but mostly he stays in the background."

"He delivered my mother."

"Probably no other doctor could be found."

"Is he human, like me and you?"

"No. I don't think he is. We can ask Adam when we see him next. I think he knows more about Lazar than I do. Lazar talks to him in dreams."

It was overwhelming to Sara. She was tired of things that didn't make sense in a normal world. Cassandra seemed to understand because she suggested they begin sparring again.

As Sara felt the Witchblade engage, the image of the little girl with the doll came back. For some reason she knew that the little girl was the baby from her vision and that she was not her mother.

Armed with more knowledge, Sara was able to keep up better. Thrust, parry, repost. It came naturally to her and many of the movements were similar to boxing. One such counterattack nicked Cassandra in the arm, and she began to bleed. Sara immediately stopped. "I am so sorry."

"Would you stop if I was an enemy? Don't feel remorse for injuring your opponent; capitalize on it."

"But your arm?"

"It is nothing. Continue!" Cassandra made Sara wield her sword again by coming at her, slicing through the air in a forced attack.

Sara didn't forget the cut and soon she sported one of her own, and still Cassandra wouldn't let up. "If you are injured in battle, you must ignore the pain, forget it's there, or your attention will waver and you will die."

For another hour, Cassandra was relentless. When the clock struck five, both women could hardly stand.

"I think we're done for today. You've done quite nicely."

Sara went into the kitchen as ran some cold water onto a paper towel and began cleaning her cuts. She noticed that Cassandra did not do the same.

"Don't you want to clean up some of that blood dripping down your arm?"

Cassandra nodded. "I suppose." She took some wet paper towels and wiped her blood. Sara watched, but couldn't see the cut in her arm. Cassandra felt her curiosity because she smiled and gently reminded Sara, "I am a witch."

Sara gave a wan smile in return and responded, "I'm going to hit the shower."

Cassandra replied, "I think I need one, too. I'll run down to my apartment and be back in an hour. Then we can get some dinner."

Sara agreed, but had no intention of waiting. After a quick shower, she intended to be out of her apartment and on her way to the police station. She couldn't goof off all day.

Just as she started up the cycle, she noticed Nottingham standing off to the side. She turned off the cycle and walked over to the man in black. "What do you want?"

"Nothing, Lady Sara. A mere glimpse of your face keeps me going all day."

Sara snorted in disgust. "That's just your way of saying nothing."

"Events conspire around you. The Witchblade draws many to it."

"Jealous, Nottingham?"

He kept his eyes down while handing her a box.

She looked inside and found remnants of three bombs. "Where'd you get this?"

"Those who wish you harm are most insistent." Nottingham lifted his gaze. "To fully grasp the Witchblade you'll need to shed some of your own blood, Sara." He reached his hand up, as if to touch her, then quickly dropped it as if she had spurned him, yet she hadn't moved.

"What do you know that's going to happen?" She knew he was trying to tell her something, but whether Irons or Nottingham's own mind was preventing plain speech was unclear to her.

"Expect the unexpected. These bombs didn't work; they will try something different."

Sara looked inside the box at the three different timers and pile of wires. It appeared as if Nottingham had disabled three separate bombs. "Did you-," she started to ask, but he was gone. Realizing that she couldn't ride her bike to work carrying the explosives, she took out her car and carefully loaded the box inside.

The first stop at the station was the bomb squad. She handed off the box to them with instructions to let her know as soon as they had evaluated the contents.

After that, she went directly to her desk, where she found Vicky's file on the dead girl and Danny's notation that they had identified the victim. Sitting at the computer, Sara ran some background checks into the modeling agency and Dominique Boucher.

After surfing through several modeling sites, she accessed an international database, and was shocked at the first picture that came up. It showed Dominique Boucher with several people, including Kenneth Irons. It was dated in the 1950s, and Irons looked exactly the same. He hadn't aged since the picture had been taken.

Clicking an icon, Sara blew up the picture to get a closer look at the Boucher woman. Her eyes almost bugged out of her head when she saw the woman's hand resting on Iron's shoulder, her wrist sporting the Witchblade. Sara tried to enlarge the picture again, but the graininess didn't make it any clearer. "Everything is connected," echoed in her mind.

For several more seconds she stared at the bracelet in the picture, then jumped to her feet. She had to see Dominique.

She scribbled a note to Danny telling him that she was going to talk to Dominique. Instinct was telling Sara that the woman was involved in the murder and that it was all connected to the Witchblade. As she left the office, she thought she saw the same little girl with the hat and dark hair walking down the hall. Several officers walked in front of her, and when the path was clear once again the girl was gone. Sara attributed the girl to an affirmation of her theory and continued on her way. Something was making her hurry, but she didn't question it.

She flew out the door and went to her car. It was times like this that she wished her bike were there. It was pitch black outside, but she had little trouble finding her keys and starting the car. Pulling into traffic, she passed one car and then went through a yellow light.
Suddenly an ominous feeling washed over her. Little hairs on the back of her neck rose as she imagined someone breathing behind her. Swallowing thickly, she looked in her rear view mirror and saw Gallo's leering smile reflected there.

"Buon giorno, Bella. What's your hurry?"

Sara quickly gained control of her fear. Nottingham's words, "Expect the unexpected" echoed in her mind. "Hi, Killer," she responded, refusing to be
cowed.

"I've always liked that moniker," was his quick comeback. "Watch out for the potholes, 'cause I want to talk to you before I snuff out your little mortal life." He rubbed the gun against her head, lifting her hair. "I like the peach-fuzz hairs standing up on the back of your head."

Sara refused to talk. Her mind raced as it tried to think of a way out of the situation, yet find a way to trap the gangster in a confession. He did say he wanted to talk. Unfortunately she wasn't wearing a wire, nor was there a tape recorder anywhere in the car. Her cell phone was in her pocket, though. Maybe she could place a call and have part of a confession taped on her answering machine. That idea had possibilities.

"You know," Gallo kept talking, "your holier-than-thou attitude used to really make me angry, but now I just find it amusing. You and me, we're really not all that different. We are both hunters and we both like to kill."

Sara felt revulsion over the man's words. She did not like to kill. Sometimes it was necessary, but it never gave her pleasure.

"Pull over there," Gallo ordered her.

Using the turn to hide her movement, she pulled her cell phone out.

"There's an alley around the corner that brings back memories."

As she opened the door, she used the split second of Gallo's lack of sight to push the fast dial button to Jake's apartment. Hopefully, Jake's guest wouldn't pick up the receiver. After the number was pressed, she slid the open phone back into her coat pocket. Gallo was beside her in a second. They walked a ways then reached some stairs leading down.

"This is exactly where I killed your father. I did that job myself, and it seems that you're even harder to kill than your old man. I sent in an assassin. He was found dead the next morning on the roof of a neighboring building. Then I had someone plant a bomb, in fact several, on your motorcycle. That too didn't work." He sounded miffed. "It seems that you can't get good help now-a-days."

Sara stood next to Gallo, feeling the ghost of her dead father haunting her. She had to keep him talking. Who knew how much tape was available on Jake's machine.

Suddenly, Sara felt Gallo's grip on her arm tighten. She followed his gaze and saw a figure resembling a medieval knight in black armor. Recovering her wits, she clubbed her captor and ran. Seeing a chain hanging in front of her, she swung from the top of the stairs to the bottom and took off running. As she rounded a corner, Gallo fired his gun. The knight melted into the shadows.


VII

Methos decided to head down to the station and meet up with Jake. He was bored. After seeing Cassandra he had needed time alone to think, but now he wanted company. It was obvious that Jake didn't know about the Witchblade and the edge Sara had on Dante, but the fact was that Dante was an Immortal and Sara did not know how to kill him--permanently. That was his own job. And it wasn't going to get done with him sitting in a lotus position on Jake's living room carpet.

Precinct Eleven was busy. Detectives and uniformed officers were scurrying every which way, and Methos decided to back out of the door, as a herd of men were about to run over him. They flew into cars and turned their sirens on. Jake came bounding out followed by a man of Asian descent.
"Gotta go, Adam," Jake spoke with worried urgency. "Call came in with shots fired. I think Sara's involved. A car with her tag was sighted in the vicinity." As Jake swept by, he whispered, "Dante's in his office, grinning."

Methos let the Watcher go. If Sara was in trouble, he could do nothing to help. She had to learn how to depend on the Witchblade. However, with Sara and Jake both accounted for, with alibis, it might be a good time to take care of Dante. Methos leaned against the building and waited.
It took another thirty minutes before he felt the presence of another Immortal. He absently gripped his sword's hilt within the folds of his coat, anticipating, and waited for Dante to show.

"Pierson, what do you want?" Dante asked, sounding peeved as he exited the precinct.

"A bit of your time and then your head."

Dante gazed around him, obviously looking for someone to help, but they were all gone. Methos smiled wolfishly. "It seems your friends are off to make sure Pezzini winds up dead. Very gallant of you to stay behind."

"Listen, I don't have time for this now. Why don't we meet--?"

"Now, Bruno Dante. I challenge you. There can be only one." Methos smiled again as he pulled out his sword, aggressively moving forward.
Dante turned and fled. His direction was towards the parked cars, possibly to retrieve his sword. Methos followed him.

Dante got to his car and ripped the front door open. Methos stabbed the front tire, letting the air out. The Homicide captain pulled his sword out of
his trunk, and the fight was on.

The sun had set, but there were enough lights in the parking area to properly illuminate the combatants. Methos didn't like this, so he subtly worked his opponent into the shadows and off the police grounds. Dante seemed willing to be led. Their swords clashed, Methos testing Dante's skill, noting that his footwork was heavy as if he had weight in his shoes.

"Why do you hate Pezzini so much?" Methos asked, both curious and wanting Dante to get angry.

"What makes you think I do? She's a detective under my supervision who happens to flaunt authority, refuses to consider back-up, and believes she's invincible. Sara Pezzini is a danger to my other detectives."

"Of course, it has nothing to do with the fact that she knows you called the hit on her father, now does it," Methos goaded.

Dante attacked more vigorously. His sword flashed faster, which Methos parried with little effort. The Immortal policeman seemed to know the area, but didn't seem to know how to use it to his advantage, but Methos did.

"She has no proof," Dante scoffed as he took a swing, missing Methos' chest but leaving his own open, which the oldest Immortal took advantage of. "Uuh," Dante grunted as the Ivanhoe left an open gash above his pants' waistline.

"I beg to differ. She knows about you and her father and the White Bulls, and something about a judge, I forget his name. Why she hasn't had you arrested is because she's still trying to determine how insidious the infiltration into the different departments it goes."

Dante had a wild look in his eyes. "She told you all this?"

"I hate to disappoint you, but I'm not the only one. Even the head of the FBI knows it." Methos laughed with derision. "The whole thing is about to come crumbling down around your ears. I'm just doing my part to ensure you don't end up in jail," he added tongue-in-cheek, calculating that this last comment would send Dante over the edge. He'd either cheat to escape, or increase his efforts in the battle. Methos was prepared for both. He kept his eyes glued to Dante's eyes and when the captain lowered his gaze, Methos saw the gun come out. With a flick of the wrist, Methos aimed to cut off Dante's hand. Dante used his sword to block the Ivanhoe, but it didn't stop the other knife that Methos pulled out of his sleeve and threw, penetrating Dante's chest. The gun was able to get off one shot, which Methos was able to avoid, but Dante dropped the firearm in the next second to grip the knife handle and pull out the blade. Methos used the pain and surprise to swing his sword once more and separated the head from Dante's body.

The quickening started small. Fibrils of light streamed from the exposed neck, wavered in the air, then slammed into Methos' chest. He sank to his knees to receive the electric drug. His mind, instead of relieving Dante's life, took him back to France and his service to Jeannette. Only once had he had to combat a challenge when he was in her service, and that was against an Englishman outside Orleans.


Toulleries-Raising the siege at Orleans. Saturday, May 7, 1429- early morning

Methos felt the presence of another Immortal. Hundreds of soldiers and cavalrymen littered the area. There was no way he'd be able to distinguish this special foe. He circled his mount, swinging his sword at an Englishman who came up alongside him. Methos' shield was held in his left hand, ready to defend his body.

Then Methos saw one of the opposition ferociously slashing at everyone in his way. He appeared to be looking for someone, his eyes moving to the next man as soon as he had dispatched the first. The knight was wearing dark-colored plate armor upon his shoulders and chest. He wore no helmet, and his eyes were now fixed upon Methos. The oldest immortal had determined the origin of the presence he felt. Methos lifted his sword in a mock salute.

The English knight prodded his horse toward Methos. "You side with the French whore?" he spat out, along with a little blood.

Methos' steed flattened his ears and lunged to take a bite out of the Englishman's horse, who neatly avoided the barred teeth. Both horses pranced around the other, with their riders paying little attention, except to make sure that there was at least a sword's length of distance between them.

"She is no whore, but a holy woman doing God's work."

The soldier responded by raising his sword. "Then I shall have your head, witch's slave."

The challenge was on.

Methos dropped his reins, using both sword and shield to battle the other Immortal, and his legs to steer the horse. The Englishman brought his sword down, but Methos had the horse side-step, and his shield deflected the rest of the blow. Methos kneed his horse to the left, bringing his sword down upon the shoulder of his opponent. The bash staggered the other knight but he was quick to recover, by a jab through the mail covering
Methos' forearm. The stab caused a small oozing of blood, but it healed fast.

The two Immortals continued in the same vein, circling their horses, each looking for an opening to land their weapons and each using their shield to divert the strikes. Methos was able to wedge his sword once between the plate and the mail near the Englishman's thigh, which drew some blood.

Methos urged his mount forward. Standing up in his stirrups, he hefted his sword up and bashed the other knight with a downward stroke, causing him to lose his balance and tumble to the ground. The sword stayed in the Englishman's hand, but the shield landed under Methos' horse's legs. The horse tripped, both breaking the shield and unseating Methos, who was prepared and was able to swing his leg over and land on his feet.

The English knight was soon upon him. The hand-to-hand combat that ensued was brutal, nasty, and fast. Each wanted to wear down his opponent first. One shoved, the other grappled. Punches came as frequent as sword lunges.

Carefully Methos angled his opponent away from the heat of the battle. English, with their French allies, fought the French patriots, each sure of their own righteousness. The English Immortal grinned maliciously as he followed Methos away from the blood-soaked ground and onto greener land. One particular hit caused Methos' helmet to dent in such a way that it became impossible to see. He took several steps backwards and ripped off the armored headpiece and sent it flying. The Englishman took the advantage and brought in two quick thrusts, the first landed on his shoulder, causing a small rip in the mail, but the other Methos was able to deflect.

"You should be afraid of the Maid," Methos taunted, continuing his verbal barrage, hoping to break the other's concentration. "She has been sent by God to help the French regain their land."

"She uses spells and witchcraft," the knight responded, swinging low, but Methos moved, avoiding the hit to his knees.

"Our armies are led by God. Who commands yours? A greedy English lord and his half-faced captain." Methos could feel the heat building inside his armor.

Enraged, the knight began attacking faster. "Salisbury and Suffolk are worth ten of your Dunois and La Hire's. The Maid is but a figurehead that your soldiers hide behind."

Methos smiled inwardly as the last words came out of the man between large breaths. "Do they know that you leave the fray to battle me?"

"Yes. They knew that I searched for someone who was a greater evil than the Maid." He panted, showing his fatigue.

"They will be disheartened when they find you headless upon the battlefield," Methos responded, refusing to show any weakness.

"It will be your head they find," he panted, "not mine."

Methos knew that he too was getting winded. The sheer physical exertion was taking its toll. As the fight wore on, each thrust became slower with fatigue and it became a contest of endurance. The ground became slippery. Methos lost his balance and ended up rolling to the side just as the other's sword arced toward his neck. In a counter-move, Methos brought up his fist and sword hilt and punched the back of the Englishman's knees, sending him toppling to the ground. The fall gave Methos time to lift himself to a kneeling position and strike the man in the face with his mail-clad fist. Blood oozed from the knight's nose, and his eye began to swell shut. Using the man's momentary paralysis, Methos dragged himself to his feet and brought the Ivanhoe down for the kill.

The quickening was small, enough to drop him to his knees, but not enough to set the ground on fire. Methos staggered back to his horse, and mounted wearily. Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, he rejoined the melee. At the edge, he took stock of the way things stood. Both sides were fighting vigorously, but he couldn't locate Jeannette. Where was she? Instinct told him that she was in trouble.

He engaged the enemy and slowly worked his way through the thick of the fighting to the other side, where he found Dunois and several others crowded around Jeannette, who was lying on the ground. As he came abreast, he watched in horror as she argued with the men around her and then drew an arrow out from her left shoulder. Methos eyes watered as he imagined the pain the lady was experiencing. That arrow should never have hit her. If he had been by her side, using his body as additional armor, she would still be whole, and he would be the one having the bolt pulled from his body. Remorse flooded his soul.

Methos dropped to his knees beside the Maid. She looked up at him, consoling him with her gaze. "God said I had to spill some of my own blood. It is the price for our victory today."

Methos met Dunois' eyes. All around them the English were celebrating that they had killed the witch. The French were losing heart. How could victory come from this disaster?

"Help me up, de Morency."

Wine, olive oil, and lard oozed from under the dressing Dunois' surgeon had applied to her wound. Methos helped her to her feet and she hobbled further into the trees. Sun baked down upon the heads of the other soldiers as they observed Methos and the Maid's progress.

"Where do we go?" Methos asked.

"I need to pray. My voices will tell me what to do next."

Methos stood at her back, sword ready, in case of attack. As he waited, Methos couldn't help wondering what kind of inspiration the Witchblade was giving Jeannette. There was very little that could turn today's defeat into any resemblance of victory. Suddenly he felt he was being watched. Turning, he saw the piece of metal around her hand and arm gazing up at him. In the center an eyeball had appeared. For several seconds he was transfixed, then the shutter closed and it became the gauntlet once more. Releasing his breath, Methos once more turned to guarding the Maid. All doubts had vanished. In the end they would be victorious.


Present-Nov 16, 2000

Reality slowly intruded upon Methos' consciousness. He was in a dark alley, with a bloody sword and a decapitated homicide captain at his feet. With a quick look to the left and then the right, Methos withdrew his sword from Dante's chest and wiped it on the dead man's coat. Taking the other sword as well, Methos quickly left the scene of the crime.


VIII

Sara Pezzini looked quickly behind her to see that Gallo was gaining ground. She had to get an edge, some protection from the bullets flying at her. Ducking down a stairwell leading into the subway, she jumped the turnstiles, then took the down escalator at a dead run. More shots were fired. She dodged down a tunnel leading onto one of the platforms. There was a train departing just as she arrived. Hiding behind one of the concrete pillars, Sara waited, trying to catch her breath.

"Come out, Pezzini. I'll make it quick. Two to the back of the head--just like your father." Gallo paused, then added, "And Maria. Probably wondering why I did Maria. Why bother with a junkie who's going to used up in a couple of years, right?"

Sara took a deep breath, wishing the Witchblade would do something to help her. "I know why you killed my friend," Sara called out. "It was a favor. Judge D'Angelo called Dante who then called you." She could hear Gallo's steps getting closer. Reaching down, she pulled her gun out from an ankle holster. Firing several times, she was able to put Gallo on the defensive and give herself enough time to jump down onto the tracks and get further away.

"Very good deduction. Dante asked me to do your father, too. Seems he was getting too inquisitive. Just like you. Meddling in affairs that are not your concern. Now you're going to meet the same fate as your father. There's no way out." Gallo crept closer.

Sara jumped from the tracks and hid behind another post. She went to reload her gun when she noticed that her phone was gone. It had to have fallen out when she jumped. Cursing, she peeked out from behind and fired again.

"You're not going to kill me," she told him. "I'll arrest and charge you with the murder of both my father and Maria, and then I'm going to take down the White Bulls, one by one, starting with D'Angelo; then Dante and the rest will soon follow." She paused. "How do you fit in? Do they pay you?"
"Only by granting immunity to me and my associates. And favors. We do each other favors, like me taking care of you."

Sara's mind began to wander. She tried to focus, but could only see mist and then a flash of herself climbing up a ladder. Above her were men with bows raining arrows down upon her head. Then she was back in the present. How much time had elapsed?

"You may get rid of members within your own department," Gallo continued to taunt her, "but there are others all over the city. The organization will only be maimed by your interference."

Sara flashed suddenly to that morning, standing next to her bike, when Nottingham delivered his prophetic statement: "To fully grasp the
Witchblade, you first need to shed some of your own blood." Was that why it hadn't helped her yet? She had to get hurt? Furious at herself for trusting a fickle ornamentation, she reloaded her gun once more, determined to bring Gallo down now.

Stepping away from her concrete shield, she rapid-fired at Gallo walking closer and closer to the man and farther away from her security. The man back-peddled, but fired his own gun. Without Sara even noticing, the bracelet had morphed into a gauntlet, and she instinctively used it to deflect the slugs heading for her body.

When she got closer, Gallo dropped his gun and began a series of punches and kicks, which Sara easily repelled. Soon her gun was also gone. She clubbed him across the head with the metal glove and knocked him to the ground. His hand, moving fast, reached inside his coat and withdrew a knife. As she went to knock it out of his hand, somehow she miscalculated, missed, and the knife went into her shoulder.

The mist clouded her face once more, and she found herself on the ground with a group of medieval knights clustered around her and an arrow protruding from her shoulder. Their lips moved, but no sound reached her ears. Pain overwhelmed her.

"To fully grasp the Witchblade you must shed some of your own blood." Again Nottingham's voice brought her back. "Trust the Witchblade, for it trusts you." Hadn't Nottingham told her that, too?

"It's all over, Bella." Gallo was leaning over her, gun steady in his hand.

Sara felt the strength return to her limbs. A power radiated throughout her body, making her strong. The Witchblade twitched around her hand. Hate mixed with resolve flooded her senses. Sara brought up her hand and punched. However, the gauntlet had morphed once more. A sword thrust out, impaling Gallo through the heart. A bullet burst from the gun, bouncing on the ground, away from Sara's head. Gallo fell on top of her.

Then there was silence. It was deafening in its extreme. Sara could feel the weight of the dead man on her chest, which was fiery with pain. Somehow, the Witchblade retracted, and the knife from her shoulder ended up wedged between their bodies. She released her arm, but could move nothing else.

Consciousness retreated and she found herself once more on the battlefield with an arrow in her shoulder. Men she recognized, but couldn't name, talked above her. One was obviously a surgeon since he had bandages and poultices with him.

"Did I not say that blood would flow out of my body above my breast? My Voices told me so, but they did not say I would die this day." Sara heard her own voice saying as she sat up and pulled the arrow out of her shoulder. Then pain clouded her vision while the doctor administered his aid.
"Help me up, de Morency," her voice commanded. The dream Sara knew their names. Of course she did, Sara thought half-hysterically.

"Where do we go?" the knight beside her asked.

Reality mixed with her visions so that Sara couldn't tell which was which.

"I need to pray," Joan spoke, with assurance. "My Voices will tell me what to do next."

As Sara looked up, she saw not the knights, but the man Adam Pierson, clad in a knight's armor at her side. Confusion made her gasp. De Morency?
Wasn't that what Cassandra had called him?

Was she Sara or Joan the Maid? She heard voices, but didn't respond. "Help me up in my horse," she asked her captain. Two big strapping men lifted her up. Nottingham handed her the banner. No, it wasn't Nottingham; it was Alencon.

"Easy, Sara. We've got you."

The weight upon her chest went away, but the fire remained. She looked at the man holding her, expecting to see de Morency, but found Danny, dear Danny, instead. Jake was on the other side. A gurney was being brought up alongside her.

"We'll take over. Go to sleep."

Not able to hold onto reality any longer, oblivion descended. She had won this day. Despite the pain, she felt exultant.

IX

Jake staggered through the door to his apartment. It was almost morning. He had spent the last few hours at the hospital while they had sewed up Sara. Luckily for all she was unconscious, because a wounded, alert Sara was not something to contemplate.

Jake was surprised to find Methos awake, drinking a beer and watching television. "Why are you still awake?"

"You ought to check your answering machine," Methos suggested without looking at him.

Jake walked over and pushed rewind. There was only one message but it seemed very long. "How was your evening?"

"Didn't do much. After I saw you, I followed Dante, took his head, came back here to clean up, then listened to your message."

Jake stiffened in shock. He wasn't even sure what to react to first.

"You took Dante's head?" The machine kept going.

"Figured that since you and Sara were otherwise occupied, it was as good a time as any."

The machine stopped. Jake pressed the play button.

Gallo's voice came out of the speaker. "This is exactly where I killed your father. I did that job myself and it seems that you're even harder to kill than your old man. I sent in an assassin. He was found dead the next morning on the roof of a neighboring building. Then I had someone plant a bomb, in fact several, on your motorcycle…"

Jake hit stop and turned to Methos. "Is everything here?"

"Everything. Sara is one smart cookie to think of calling you. Not many people have that much tape in their machine."

Jake colored. "I get a lot of messages because of the Watchers. It's not uncommon to have ten or twenty messages in one day."

Methos laughed. "Guess it's a good thing. Now you have enough proof to get your judge. Dante, of course, won't be a problem, except for the fact that he was beheaded. You'll have quite an investigation there."

Jake was so tired he could hardly think. Gallo was dead. Dante was dead. He had the proof to bring down the White Bulls. It had happened so fast.

"Go to sleep, Jake. You'll need to be awake tomorrow when Dante's body is found."

Jake absently nodded. Sleep. He needed sleep.


X

Ian Nottingham crept into his master's den. Kenneth Irons was sitting on a high-backed chair, legs crossed, watching a tape of a Joan of Arc movie. Irons didn't acknowledge him until the end.

"She did well tonight, don't you think?"

"She was blooded and she killed. A good initiation."

"Do I detect disappointment in your voice?" Kenneth swiveled so they were face to face.

"No, master. I am happy Tommy Gallo is dead. I just didn't expect her to be in so much pain."

"My poor, sympathetic Ian." Kenneth lifted his hand, which prompted Ian to fall to his knees. The older man caressed the dark tresses. "She has to feel pain. Her life will be tormented from here on out. It's best that she gets used to it now. I think Sara can handle physical pain better than the emotional kind. What do you think?"

Ian leaned into the hand on his head. "Emotional pain is the hardest to bear," he agreed.



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