Halloween Contest
Author: Lassar
Title: One Man’s Angel is Another Man’s Devil
Rating: PG-13
Winner: Popular Choice
© Lassar

Author’s notes: Read ‘em or be confused. This is set in the Season 2 that we should have had. There has been no spear messing with Kenneth’s devious and subtle mind. Danny is alive and well, his niece Mija has straightened out. Joe has retired and is still alive, not yet having reason to cross Bruno Dante. Jake is still an undercover feebie (not that it matters in THIS story) but not yet one of the White Bulls. Ian still has a master to serve, however much his allegiance may be flagging in the Wielder’s presence. Gabe is NOT Sara’s romantic interest. In fact, he’s spending the holiday at a comic book convention called ConTraception.
The weapon and the book ‘Avesta’ are from the Mythology page on the official Witchblade website. (It really is a religious text as well, but I didn’t check to see where the Witchblade site’s quote came from. It’s a BIG book)
Disclaimer: If it were mine, we’d be watching season 4 reruns right now, and the men of Witchblade would wear considerably less clothes.

One Man’s Angel is Another Man’s Devil

“Unauthorized group heading toward the library, six males, two females. Unit four, intercept and return them to the unrestricted area.” There wasn’t the least bit of crackle in the message, or in unit four’s reply, which was about the only thing Nottingham was pleased about. The signal strength was very good, even in the midst of so much metal and stone. The fact that it was the sixth such message in as many minutes was something Ian suspected he was going to have to resign himself to.

Even though the guests were supposed to stay in the main ballroom, they inevitably found their way into the most far-flung locations. Last year the chambermaids had gotten quite a scare when an intoxicated guest passed out in the linen closet on the third floor. There he had remained until the morning shift came in to clean.

The superstitious little maids, most of whom spoke no English, had thought they had found a dead body. Considering the political backbiting and position jockeying that went on at these little events, Nottingham was rather surprised to find the fellow alive himself.

His musings were broken off by the crisp voice of the security dispatcher sending another team after a pair of stray guests. Two men in dark suits moved out of the shadows and down the hall after their targets.

So as not to create a jarring note, all the members of the security staff were dressed in black tuxedos with black satin masks. Although never one for dressing up, Ian was disinclined to object. The clothing was black, did not hamper movement, and came with new ear mikes. They were compact, efficient, and comfortable. The old ones always felt like they were on the verge of falling out. Best of all, the coiled cable behind the ear was gone. No matter how he confined his hair, Nottingham always lost several strands to the damn thing.

Ian moved carefully through the crush. Kenneth threw a very lavish masquerade ball each Halloween, and every year the guest list seemed to grow exponentially. There were far more people to keep track of than he would have liked, even with all the extra security that Nottingham had put on the roster.

There was one name that had not shown up on the invitation list, and Ian had been torn over whether or not he wanted to see it there. Sara Pezzini’s name was strangely absent, considering Irons’ rather proprietary interest in the lovely detective.

It made Nottingham’s job easier if Sara was not there to distract him. On a personal level Sara confused him, blowing hot and cold. Despite her prickly nature, Ian found himself continually drawn to her. He wondered what she was doing tonight, and why Irons had not invited her to the party.

Nottingham knew better than to ask, but he couldn’t help wondering all the same. The fiery brunette and the artifact she carried always seemed to find trouble. He hoped, for her sake, that Detective Pezzini was taking the night off. This night above all others, the veil between worlds was very thin. There was no telling what Sara might encounter on the darkened streets.

Sara thought she looked strange as a blonde, but the short skirt and uniform top were flattering. The trademark ponytails were almost to her knees, so the blonde wig had been ruthlessly bobby-pinned to Sara’s scalp. She didn’t want the mass flying off her head while dancing. The faux would probably hurt someone or land in the punch.

All in all, it could have been worse. One year she’d been Maleficent, the villainess from Sleeping Beauty. The tall horned headdress kept catching on doorframes. She’d damn near fallen on her ass a few times, especially once Vodka was added to the punchbowl by a rather generous hand.

Halloween was the one holiday that Sara took off. She requested it every year, and got it or switched with someone for one of the more coveted events like Christmas or Thanksgiving. Neither of those days Sara was interested in having off since her father, the last member of her family, had died. Sara hated those few occasions that she had a day off during the season. She always ended up sitting at home, alone and feeling sorry for herself.

It wasn’t that Sara didn’t have somewhere she could go. She did. Danny always offered, and so did Joe. A few times she’d even taken them up on it. Staying with Joe reminded her too much of her father though, and she ended up depressing both Joe and herself with remembrances.

That certainly did not endear her to Joe’s wife, who quietly resented Sara and the ‘Blue Wall’ dividing her life that she represented. She never said anything, a captain’s wife to the bone, but the hostility was there.

Sara thought it must be hard to watch the one you love lead a life you could never truly share. There was a reason for the high divorce rate among law enforcement personnel, and it wasn’t the screwball hours or the overtime. It was the fact that some things you could not share, and other things that you dared not. One person with nightmares in the relationship was one too many.

In the end, a lot of cops ended up married to the bottle. Sara was beginning to wonder if she was going to be one of those. She had very few friends, and they were all people she worked with, or were some kind of emergency services personnel. On the dating scene she was as much a predator as any of the guys. Work hard, play harder, was her motto.

Relationships were messy, and required more time and energy than Sara had to spare. Her exes all had the same complaint, that the job came before they did. It hurt to realize that they couldn’t be content with what she had to give. Even when she’d given up on the normal guys and started dating only men with the same lifestyle as she had, the complaint remained the same.

The only man in her life who really understood and accepted her was her partner, and he was married with kids. Going to the Woo’s didn’t bring up memories of her father, but it was hard to watch Danny be surrounded by his family. It made her feel the lack of such elements in her life more keenly.

Halloween was another holiday entirely. The Woos threw a Halloween party in the basement of their church, and that she never missed. It may have started out as a religious feast day, but to Sara it was a night to be someone else. Gone was the hard as nails female detective who lived for the job. In her place was someone else, usually a cartoon villainess.

Last year she and Danny had dressed as Jessie and Jamie of ‘Team Rocket’, the bungling villains from ‘Pokemon’. They had been the hit of the party; enough people had kids that they easily recognized the two. One of the duty sergeants had shown up to the party as a Pikachu, and they spent half the evening coming up with elaborate plots to catch him. It had been so much fun that she almost broke her ‘no repeat’ rule and did it again this year.

Sara had wavered over her costume for this Halloween. Having caught Jake watching ‘Thundercats’ on more than one occasion, despite his protests that he wasn’t, she had debated dressing as Cheetara. It would be a great way to tweak the rookie, who took himself waaaay to seriously for a surfer. Totally. Especially since he couldn’t seem to talk without using ‘Dude’ in every sentence.

Danny wanted to be Severus Snape this year, but Sara didn’t really feel like playing any of the females from Harry Potter. They were all rather motherly. The only one who looked like she still had any fun in her was Madame Hooch, the Flying Instructor.

In the end she had given in to Vicki’s insistent pestering. Sara joined her, Vanessa from E.S.U., Lee, and her niece Mija, as the five members of Sailor Moon. Sara had never really watched the cartoon much, but she knew the basic plotline and most of the characters.

She had thought it was a funny idea, but it really wasn’t her thing. Sara probably would not have gone in on it if she had not been aware that Lee would feel slighted if she didn’t. She walked a tightrope with Danny’s wife. Unlike Joe, Danny was of an age with her, and they spent way too much time together for any spouse’s comfort. Sara was always careful to make Lee feel like part of the group, and to do her best to make the connection she shared with Danny as something like the bond between siblings.

If Sara were to refuse to be part of the costuming theme it would look bad, even after finding out which character she was to play. Somehow she had ended up as Serena, the team leader. Her alter ego, Sailor Moon, was a dingbat blonde who always managed to save the day, in between fits, swoons, and faints. It wasn’t really the kind of character she identified with at all. Sailor Mars would have been ok, but Vicki had called dibs.

It was chilly and overcast this year, perfect scaring weather. Sara looked ruefully at her reflection. It was hardly the sort of thing to inspire fear. She looked like a nautical cheerleader. Next year she was going to be something really scary, and all her friends could go hang.

With a wicked grin Sara picked up her coat and headed for the door. The party didn’t start until seven, but Sara liked to get there early and help with last minute set-up. Sometimes Lee didn’t get everything done she wanted, or ended up being out later than planned Trick or Treating with the kids. This year was no exception.

Sara’s knock was met with a harried “Come in! Door’s open!” from Lee.

“Alpha one, we have another couple heading down the back stairwell by the coat room. Please advise.” Dispatch queried.

“I will take care of it.” Nottingham adjusted his lapels and checked his cuffs as he wended through the glittering throng to a guarded exit. The motion disguised the fact that he was brushing his hands over hidden weapons, checking their readiness.

The two were probably going to find a quiet corner to make out in, but Nottingham could not take that for granted. Besides, he disliked the idea of individuals roaming unsupervised through the mansion. Only the common areas had surveillance equipment, once they left the camera’s eye, they could be up to anything.

The odds were strongly against them setting up to do harm to Kenneth, or to steal some of the smaller objects d’art. That sort would have been weeded out during the investigation process before invitations were ever sent out. Even if they had somehow managed to substitute themselves for the original guests, getting away with anything once they arrived would be far more difficult than they could imagine.

If Nottingham or his security force didn’t get them, which was highly unlikely, the house itself might. The mansion was dangerous. Certain rooms were booby-trapped, and some of the artifacts in the trophy room were as likely to kill if handled as a cornered lion. Nottingham didn’t understand why Irons kept some of the things; they made him sick just being in the same room with them. He had never wanted to touch them, although Kenneth did, with impunity.

A shrill scream pierced the air, coming from just ahead. Had the two fallen afoul of the house defenses so soon? That shouldn’t be possible. They would have had to run full out from the moment they left the camera to be near any of the secure areas. Ian quickened his pace; any thought that he would find only two frightened and chastened lovebirds at the end of his course forgotten.

Only thieves or assassins would have any reason to move so quickly. Ian reached behind him, pulling his sword from the spine sheath on his back. His gun stayed holstered. The sound of shots fired would carry, coming to the attention of anyone else in the area. Besides, Irons would be very put out if Ian shot up part of the mansion unless he had no other choice.

Calling for backup never occurred to him. He could handle far worse than what was waiting for him. He might even have fun for a while. Nottingham smiled for the first time that evening, and it wasn’t a pleasant one.

The scream had seemed to come from the antiquities library, where Mr. Irons kept any ancient text that did not relate to the Witchblade or any of it’s legends. The room itself was not trapped, but the door was. Kenneth could not conscience a book to be damaged, however inadvertently.

The trap was a subtle thing, set in the doorframe itself. The lock was difficult, exactly what one would expect, right down to the poison needle. The thief that got around it would think himself clever, and never realize that there was a second mechanism. A certain carving on the doorframe must be pressed when opening the door or an airborne virus would be released.

The scent would seem as no more than the strange air that one encounters in an area little used, but it was not. Based on the ancient viruses that claimed many an incautious archeologist’s life, it entered the lungs and was revived in its new moist and warm environment.

With a little tweaking, Vorshlag had bioengineered the virus to act faster than it’s ancient counterpart. It took minutes instead of days to kill, around five to seven minutes, as a matter of fact. Just long enough for the thief to (hopefully) grab whatever he was after. Irons always wanted to know what they had been commissioned to steal; it helped narrow down who had sent the thieves in the first place.

The timing was wrong for that though, and there should not be anyone to scream in any case. Both intruders would have breathed the virus. Perhaps one had weak lungs, or was already unwell? Any preexisting pulmonary illness would speed the process along. Perhaps that was it?

Nottingham felt a surge of regret. He had been looking forward to a little righteous violence. As he came closer to the library, Ian could hear the shattering of glass. The screamer had apparently gathered their wits enough to finish the theft. He gave the unknown thief marks for professionalism and eased past the half-open door.

The church basement wasn’t used for much, just the occasional fundraiser or ice cream social. Sara wasn’t sure if the cobwebs were props or a natural occurrence, and she wasn’t going to get close enough to find out. The obligatory paper skeletons were on the walls and jack-o-lanterns decorated the DJ booth and the buffet.

It was cool, but warmer than the wind had been from the back of her Buell. Sara shrugged out of her coat but left the pants that she had pulled on over her costume. It wasn’t that warm. She would take them off once people started arriving.

“How’s tricks?” Sara asked as she joined Lee, who was placing snacks on a table in the back of the room.

“Tricks are fine, it’s the treats you’ve got to watch for. I always end up on a diet after Halloween.” Lee grinned as she took a bite out of a sugar cookie with orange frosting.

“Amen. So, what do you want me to do?” Sara asked as she dunked a gingersnap into the pumpkin dip.

“The punch is still in the fridge. Could you pour it into the bowl and add a little Vodka? Just enough to be tasted, that way whoever is always spiking it won’t. Last year I couldn’t feel my face by the end of the party.” Lee smacked Sara’s hand as she reached for another gingersnap.

“Yes mistress. Igor will stir the punch. Igor is a good slave,” Sara muttered as she shuffled toward the door to the kitchen, although she wasn’t offended in the least.

Lee giggled behind her at the salvo. She knew she was bossy, but it was the only way to get anything done with a teenager, a small child, and a husband underfoot. Thank God that right now she only had the teenager to deal with. Danny was still at the house getting his costume together while waiting on the babysitter to arrive.

For a time the three worked in companionable silence, the Doctor Demento Halloween CD playing in the background. At seven fifteen the guests started to arrive. Sara slipped back into the kitchen to put her pants with her jacket. She also needed to put the headband thingie on. A quick search of her pockets told Sara that she had lost it on the way over somewhere.

Sara was about to shrug it off when she had a thought. She looked at the bracelet on her wrist. “Hey you, make yourself useful.”

The stone whirled and pulsed sulkily, but came free of Sara’s wrist. The Witchblade lengthened and thickened, becoming an open circlet with the jewel in the center. Feeling a little smug over the gauntlet’s obedience, Sara put it on. She never once considered what might happen with the red stone over the chakra point often referred to as the ‘third eye’.

It was not a library. It was an abattoir. The remains of the two would-be thieves were scattered over an eleven-foot section of the library. Blood had even reached the chandelier, glittering droplets hanging from the crystal, giving a red tint to the room. There wasn’t a piece left that was big enough to identify the fallen.

This was not how the virus worked. The lungs would fill with fluid and the victim would drown. No muss, no fuss. Ian scanned the room, unmoved by the blood and bits that had once been human. He could not afford to be distracted; inattention could lead to the same fate. Besides, Nottingham had seen worse. He’d even done worse.

Ian continued to scan for the source of the violence, although his senses detected nothing but the passing whiff of ancient power, like ions after lightning. The glass he had heard shatter had been the bay window that overlooked the courtyard, not one of the display cases. In all likelihood, whatever had attacked the thieves had already escaped the mansion. Nottingham checked the room thoroughly anyway.

Books that had been old when the first pilgrim stepped from the Mayflower were a wet black in the changed light, their spines absorbing blood and spreading it outward to the text. Irons was going to be furious. Many of the books were one of a kind. Irreplaceable.

Ian did not spend enough time in here to know every text by heart, but there were certain books that contained very dangerous knowledge indeed. Had there been another thief? One who had succeeded, but had been surprised by the other two? A special anti-personnel device could have been responsible for the rather spectacular mess. The military’s Research and Development people were very creative.

Given the night, the location, and the lingering taint in the air, Nottingham did not think so. Much more likely, the intruders had attempted to steal an artifact that should have been left undisturbed. Now that he thought about it, Ian could feel it, nagging like the hole where a tooth should be.

Nottingham closed his eyes to better focus on the sensation. A pull led him to the left of the exploded flesh. Something had been…here. An empty spot in an open display case throbbed with it’s recent void. A simple curving blade had rested there. It had been made of an iron and gold alloy referred to in the ancient Persian text that also resided in the case, called Avesta.

The book was still in its place, still open to the page that referred to the forging of such metal. Ian did not need a translation for the passage. He knew the language well enough. Nottingham had read a copy of this book as a young adult. Irons had explained that the Vatican had once thought this the source of the Witchblade until further study proved otherwise.

Blend iron's edge with the sun of gold.
Could gold alloyed or admixt be...
Fired-white and chilled in wine-dark blood,
Thus is born the thirsty Blade, never dulled

The weapon was a relic recovered on one of Irons’ many expeditions. Kenneth had been pleased to acquire the blade, as they were extremely rare. He placed it in the display case with the original text and showed it off for a few months, allowing no one to touch it. Ian had stared at it, traced its image on the cold glass, fascinated by the gleaming short sword.

Ian even found himself in front of it in the middle of the night, but he had never laid his hand to the hilt no matter how tempted he had been. Nottingham was glad he had never yielded to the siren call, if such was the reward. Come to think of it, Nottingham had never seen Irons touch it either.

Whatever it was, it was free now.

The first few hours of the party were always the same whirlwind of greetings. People calling to one another, heckling each other’s costumes, and grazing at the snack bar. Sara moved among them doing the same. Danny actually made a pretty good Severus, but Jake she needled shamelessly. He had gone the cheap route and wrapped a bed sheet around him like a toga.

Vicki was the only one left to show. Sara couldn’t imagine what was keeping her. Po loved the holiday as much as Sara, maybe more so. Her office was full of little horror movie jokes, like the brain with the label Abby Normal, a round barrel that said property of the US Military, a severed hand floating in formaldehyde, and a weird little metal ball with old scalpel blades that could have been from Phantasm.

Sara was glad that Vicki didn’t have a house to decorate, since she was perfectly capable of bringing specimen jars home for that authentic look. Kids would run screaming from the Po house, you could be sure of that. Hell, so would their parents. Sara smiled at the images the idea created.

“What are you smiling at young lady? Ten points from Gryffindor.” Danny let one lip curl up in a sneer, but his eyes were dancing.

Sara suspected he was having way too much fun with his persona. She was not having any real fun with hers, other than watching people try to figure out who she was. The blonde hair really did make her look different. “I was just imagining what was keeping Vicki. You know how she is.”

“Yes, I do. Have you tried to call her cell and see what’s keeping her?” Danny asked, realizing the time. Vicki was usually one of the first to arrive, right after Sara.

“Not yet. My phone is in my coat. Can’t get called in to work if I can’t hear my phone.” Sara gave Danny a conspiratorial grin; she knew his was at home. Lee always made him leave it behind on Halloween for similar reasons.

“I know what you mean. Well, let me know if we need to go get her. This is not a good night to have car trouble. All the amateur weirdos are out tonight.” Danny rolled his eyes. Another reason both shared for not liking to work Halloween was all the wannabes running around committing petty vandalism.

“Yeah, all the professionals consider ritual murder on Halloween to be passé.” Sara chuckled and headed for the kitchen. It wasn’t quite true; there were still some die-hard traditionalists. They’d both earn their pay in the next few days as the planned homicides came to light, but there was nothing they could do now.

A fierce pain drove behind her eyes, blinding Sara as the Witchblade stirred. Pezzini swore under her breath and leaned on the doorjamb. Somehow she had made it into the kitchen, which was mercifully empty. She could not really fight the Blade when it chose to show her something, the best she could do was delay for a time. Get somewhere secluded to fall apart in.

Now the vision consumed her, pulling her down into someone else. She was running, fleeing a dark and evil presence that wanted to kill her. Blood pounded in her ears, almost deafening her, but it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t hear it anyway. The monster didn’t make any noise. The vision wasn’t very helpful though. Sara couldn’t tell where she was, only that it was a dimly lit alley. Metal fire escapes and heaps of garbage were a universal constant in this city.

The difference in height made Sara suspicious, and as soon as she wondered, she realized she was a child. A small teddy bear was tucked under her arm as she ran. How had she missed that? Sara concentrated, trying to detect anything that would tell her where this was happening. Skirts flapped around her legs, cold air bit her lungs, the fuzzy legs of her bear thumped against her side, and she still didn’t know where she was. The darkness reached for her; close enough to feel his breath.

The creature sensed that the child was not alone. It pulled back and hissed something in a language that made the air crackle and break into shards. The vision released her as suddenly and completely as it had taken her, leaving Sara dizzy and sick. She panted, heart hammering from exertion and fear. Whatever had thrust her back had been hideous in it’s shadowy malice and old, very old.

It was still out there, hunting the child.

Sara cursed and grabbed her coat, Vicki forgotten in the mingling fear and fury consuming her. That thing was not going to sink its claws into the child if she had anything to say about it.

“I have entrusted to you the safety and security of my person and my home. Have I erred in doing so?” Irons tone was cold and angry, but somehow off. Ian realized after a moment that the discordant thread in his tone was one of barely concealed glee.

Whatever had happened in this room had occurred because Kenneth had engineered it. Irons had probably hired the thieves through a string of intermediaries. Nottingham wondered what Irons had intended to gain with this little charade, but played along. The last thing he wanted to do was let Kenneth know just how well Ian understood him. That edge might save his life some day. Nottingham bowed his head in deference and waited. Irons would tell him soon enough what he wanted.

“Silence is not always the safest answer Ian. The damage to my library is incalculable, as many of the texts were the only ones of their kind. I want the perpetrator dealt with. See to it immediately.” Irons raised one hand in dismissal.

“What of the article stolen?” Ian could only refer to the nature of the sunsteel obliquely if he wanted any answers. If he asked directly, he would be met with silence, or worse, a riddle. Truth to tell, he liked those about as much as Sara did.

“The weapon was created to slay supernatural evil. I was never quite sure where it would draw the line as to one such as myself. Were you to handle the blade, it may well try to claim you for itself. The warrior bloodline meant to hold them DOES run in your veins, however distant. I do not suppose you would find it an enjoyable experience; sunsteel blades have limited intelligence and are very domineering.” One lip curled up in Irons’ usual amused smirk.

Nottingham dropped his head to hide his reaction. This was the first he had heard such a thing of his own past. He suspected Irons had dropped that little tidbit of information to distract and tempt him. A sentient weapon, created and consecrated to the destruction of evil, was a sword fitting for a true knight.

To hint that the sunsteel was his birthright, and then tell him not to touch it, would encourage most men to do the reverse. Ian had seen Kenneth perform such subtle manipulations before, and was not about to be caught by them. He would somehow subdue and bind the blade, or he would destroy it, but first he must find it, “Will the weapon allow its bearer any autonomy, or will it have immediately set out questing for some evil?”

“Given the sword’s purpose, I would imagine it is out hunting now. Since it left the mansion, I can only assume it believes me to be a lesser evil. I am not sure whether I should be insulted or relieved. I do wonder what the blade could be seeking?” Kenneth arched a brow, his tone smooth with just a hint of wonder. It was the sound of a man who already knew the answer to the question he was asking.

As suddenly as that, Ian knew what the sentient sword was hunting. Nottingham breathed out her name softly, “Lady Sara.”

“Surely this does not surprise you? One man’s angel is invariably another man’s devil. The Witchblade is the most powerful supernatural entity on the continent, perhaps in the whole world. A religion that gives all the power to the male would be threatened by so much feminine strength. It would threaten their power base. They would see such a thing as a creation of evil. More than that, its nature is inimical to that of the sunsteel. Male and female, night and day, sun and moon.” Irons held his hands out to demonstrate their polar opposition.

“Each will attempt to control or destroy the other, but initially they will do so through the medium of their wielders. If Sara Pezzini should fall to the sunsteel, the Witchblade will survive for a time. Only under very specific conditions can it be destroyed. Make sure that time to arrange those conditions is not available by retrieving it immediately.” Kenneth stared at Ian, making sure he understood the gravity of what he was saying. This plan of his was not without risk.

Sara Pezzini he could afford to sacrifice, the next wielder could hardly be less tractable than she, the Witchblade he could not. Since the Periculum had somehow already occurred, he could harvest enough of her blood to maintain himself until the next wielder was born. Oh, not as comfortably as he was now perhaps, but it could be done.

Of the two ancient enemies, Jamin, the sunsteel bearer was far more educated in the Mysteries. His response to his two double-crossing accomplices proved that. It was entirely possible that such knowledge would tip the scales in his favor, even though the sunsteel did not have as much raw power to work with as the Witchblade. No matter the outcome, Jamin would be weakened enough from fighting Sara Pezzini for Ian to slay him and recover both weapons.

“If the Wielder cannot stand against the sunsteel, how can I?” Nottingham tilted his head, looking for all the world like a raven eyeing something that it wasn’t certain it should eat.

“The sunsteel is vulnerable to the foibles of the religion that created it. I trust I need not explain further.” Kenneth spoke in the tone of a disappointed tutor, whose pupil had missed the obvious.

“If the Witchblade should win the day, what would you have me do?” Nottingham waited quietly, as if the answer was of no import, although his mind was screaming in protest at the idea of Sara falling under that curving blade. What had Kenneth meant, ‘the foibles of the religion that created it’? Ian racked his brain for answers in the long silence.

“If Miss Pezzini should emerge victorious, she will not do so unscathed. If she is weak enough, finish the kill. If she is not, give her aid. Make her feel indebted to you, which in turn makes her indebted to me.” Irons smiled again, his eyes as cold as the Northern Sea.

The order was no surprise. Nottingham knew that Irons had grown concerned over the intractability of the new Wielder. No doubt Kenneth intended for the weapon to weaken Sara, maybe even defeat her. It was always amazing to hear Irons plotting. No matter what happened, he was prepared to strengthen his position.

Knowing himself truly dismissed, Nottingham swept out of the room. The silk tails of his tuxedo fluttered softly behind him in his haste. It was vaguely annoying, but he did not feel that he had time to change. Not if he were to save Lady Sara.

Sara reached up to her forehead; the Witchblade was giving her a brutal headache. She had intended to rip it from her head, but the ‘Blade practically leapt from her brow to her wrist. Once there it changed immediately to the armored gauntlet that was it’s alternate form. The Witchblade was eager to go on the offensive. For the first time in a long time, wielder and weapon were in complete accord.

They did not have to go far. The Gauntlet’s insistent pull led Sara to the left of the church. The girl was crouched behind a dumpster two blocks away. Her blonde hair gleamed, even in the shadows. The child was incoherent, shivering with fear and cold, but otherwise unhurt. Sara pulled off her coat and swathed the small figure in leather. “You’re going to be ok sweetie. I’m going to take you to the church over there, ok?”

The child had big blue eyes, whose unblinking gaze gave Sara no clue as to whether or not she was being heard. With a shrug, she picked the girl up, settling her against her hip. Sara was careful to keep the Gauntlet free. It had been too easy. This whole thing smelled like a set up.

Pezzini scanned the area around her as she retreated to the church. She was not surprised when a shadow separated from a building at the end of the block, effectively cutting her off from the direction she wanted to go in. Sara set the child down on the curb, her eyes never leaving the waiting silhouette.

As soon as Sara straightened, the shadowy figure stepped out into the light. Her adversary was dressed in robes that would not have been out of place in one of the big budget religious movies filmed by Cecil B DeMille in the twenties and thirties. Somehow it didn’t feel like a costume though.

Pezzini studied her opponent’s face as he drew closer. The coarse, slightly curly hair, olive complexion, and dark eyes marked him as some flavor of Mediterranean. Their eyes locked and he spat something in that same language from the vision.

Sara didn’t understand a word, but the tone translated just fine. She raised her gauntleted arm, the blade springing forth like an exaggerated middle finger. “Oh yeah? Screw you too buddy.”

In response to the Gauntlet, he unsheathed the curved short sword at his waist. The metal had the strangest golden sheen in the light cast by the streetlamp. He did not waste any more words, closing with Sara in a rush of bright metal and flapping white robes.

The two clashed in the center of the dimly lit street, the ringing echo of metal striking metal seeming unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent night. Lighting arced from each contact as the two exchanged a flurry of blows.

Sara was just as relentless with the Witchblade as she was in a boxing arena. ‘Bob and weave and hack and slash,’ Pezzini thought to herself with a grin. The footwork wasn’t any different. The Blade was an extra weapon, one that lengthened her reach. The fact that she had never trained to fight with anything but her hands didn’t hamper her at all, as her opponent was rapidly coming to realize. Sara got past his defense, the Witchblade laying open his bicep. She had been trying to disable him, but the loose robes fooled the eye and tangled the blade. He wasn’t nearly as injured as she had intended.

Jamin reeled back from her strike, his right arm cold and unresponsive from its contact with the accursed moonmetal. The servant of the enemy was well versed in physical combat. He would not, much as it galled him to admit it, triumph in a trial of arms. But the sunsword was capable of more than one form of attack. “Nivaêdhayemi hañkârayemi ushtavaityå gâthayå ashaonyå ashahe rathwô, nivaêdhayemi hañkârayemi gairinãm ashahvâthranãm pouru-hvâthranãm mazdadhâtanãm ashaonãm ashahe rathwãm, nivaêdhayemi hañkârayemi speñtâ-manyêush gâthayå ashaonyå ashahe rathwô, nivaêdhayemi hañkârayemi verethrakhnahe ahuradhâtahe vanaiñtyåsca uparatâtô ashaonô ashahe rathwô.”

The sunsword began to glow, its length more brilliant than white phosphorus. It was like looking at the noonday sun. The light continued to intensify, until even behind closed lids it seemed to burn into the eye. Sara turned her face away with a curse. It was damn hard to fight what you couldn’t see. The Witchblade responded by manifesting the entire suit of armor, complete with helm. The slitted visor helped cut the glare somewhat, but Sara still could not see anything.

On the other side of the burning light Jamin smiled, unaffected by this manifestation of divine assistance. It was as he had hoped. The wicked creature had neglected the spiritual in favor of the physical. He swung at her armored neck, knowing that it would not be proof against the celestial flame singing through his scimitar.

Some fighter’s instinct warned Sara that her opponent was attacking again. She brought the Witchblade up in a parry and felt it grate against metal. Pezzini was glad of the internal warning, but wondered why the Blade had not supplied a defense. Did the light blind it as well?

A frisson of fear passed through Sara. For all her complaints about the supernatural interference the Witchblade provided, she had begun to rely on it. Well, she had gotten out of bad spots before without it, and she would do so again. Pez strained her ears for the sound of her enemy, knowing that sight was useless. It was all she could think to do. The next time Danny wanted to practice blind fighting, Sara was going to join him instead of teasing him from the sidelines. Assuming there was a next time.

Jamin frowned as she blocked him. How had she known? Perhaps it was simply fortune. He shifted slightly, changing his angle, and lunged for her breast. Whatever had helped her before almost failed her. She lunged aside at the last moment, but it wasn’t enough. Jamin could feel the sunsword slice through armor and grate over a rib.

To Sara it felt like she had been slammed with a burning timber. She tried to roll with the strike. The pain was incredible. She couldn’t even cry out, the blow stole her breath. She doubled over reflexively, but that pulled on the burn. She straightened almost as fast as she’d curled, and this time she had air enough to swear with, “Shiiiitttt.”

The woman was practically kneeling at his feet, lost in the pain of her wound. Jamin breathed a prayer of praise to his gods. Victory was almost at hand. He lifted his sword for the killing blow.

“Aat tem varem kerenava caretu-drâjô kemcit paiti cathrushanãm hathra taoxma upa-bara pasvãmca staoranãmca mashyânãmca sûnãmca vayãmca âthrãmca suxrãm saociñtãm, âat tem varem kerenava caretu-drâjô kemcit paiti cathrushanãm narãm aiwi-xshôithne caretu-drâjô kemcit paiti cathrushanãm gavãm gâvayanem!” A voice called from the shadows.

Jamin froze, his eyes wide with horror as the celestial flame retreated as if it had never been. He turned to the tall man emerging from the darkness. The male striding toward him with a vengeful face could have been one of his own people, but his accent denoted one who had learned the language, not grown up speaking it. He shifted his dimmed blade toward this new threat.

Ian was grateful that Sara did not speak ancient Persian. She might run him through herself for what he had just said, but claiming her as his wife, his pregnant wife, changed the rules of the game completely. His opponent could not call upon the supernatural powers of the sunsword now, for he was ritually unclean for causing harm to a woman with child. He must serve out his punishment and be cleansed before he would be fit to ask for divine assistance again.

It didn’t matter that she was ‘evil’ by their doctrine; even a dog was accorded such deference. Oddly enough, the same punishment applied for either offense, be it woman or bitch. Nor did it matter that Sara was not ‘in the family way’, as belief was all. Since his enemy could not know either way, and it was such an unexpected protest, he had reacted with guilt. Now Ian had to make sure he didn’t have time to question his word. He moved the last few steps that would commit him to combat.

Sara clutched her ribs and watched in confusion. Her eyesight had yet to return to normal, spots kept dancing across her vision. All she could tell was a big dark blur was fighting the big white blur. Had Danny somehow blundered into this? But the voice had not been Danny’s, and she would have bet the language they were speaking didn’t sound like any flavor of Asian she had ever heard.

Jamin felt a sinking sensation in his breast. This man was not armed with anything more supernatural than superior Japanese steel, but his speed and skill might yet land a killing blow. If he fell, what would happen to the sunsword? It would fall into profane hands. That he could not allow. He might be struck down for his impertinence, but he had to try, “Athrô ahurahe mazdå puthrahe tava âtarsh puthra ahurahe mazdå xshnaothra ýasnâica vahmâica xshnaothrâica frasastayaêca.”

Nottingham heard his opponent call upon the god of fire for cleansing, and knew he could not afford to continue his current course. Ian had wanted to question this man, he knew things that Irons did not, or at least would not tell him. He was also a holy warrior, crusading in accord with his gods. It was hard for Nottingham to strike him down in such a callous manner, but he had no choice.

Ian touched his sword to his forehead in salute and moved with the unnatural speed that was part of his legacy, honed by a lifetime of training. It was doubtful the Persian understood what had happened. Flame had barely begun to flicker across the blade when Ian stepped into and through his defense.

Jamin felt the kiss of cold steel against his throat, then the warmth of his life pouring out, and then a burning light flowed across his eyes. The gates of heaven opened for him, and he left his earthly concerns behind in a wash of flame, assured that the blessed weapon had been protected from the hands of the Fiend and his servants.

To Sara the black blur suddenly appeared on the other side of the white blob, which burst into flame. She turned away from the painful resurgence of light. Just when her eyesight was beginning to return too, damn it. Well, either she looked away quickly enough, or the Witchblade was able to heal her now that the other was not blocking her power, because the building she was now facing began to come into focus.

Sara listened to the crackle of flame behind her, straining for an undertone of footsteps. She disliked not facing whoever the black blur was. Pezzini was not innocent enough to buy the old saw ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ Having him at her back made her shoulder blades itch, but she was going to give her eyesight as long as she could to recover. Being blind had been frightening enough that she did not want to chance a repeat until she must.

“Sara?” the silken voice that carried across the sound of fire was as familiar as it was unexpected.

“Nottingham?” Sara turned, eyesight be damned. There he stood, a vision in a black tuxedo, his hair rigorously confined so that it gave the illusion of being short. Ian really should have had a walking stick instead of a sword to complete the picture of a gentleman about town, but Sara was hardly likely to complain.

Ian’s eyes widened. Sara’s armor had disappeared during the fight, but he had not had time to take in what she was wearing under it. He was stricken quite speechless by the ensemble. It was very NOT the sort of thing you expected to see Detective Pezzini dressed in. His lips twitched as he struggled to contain a grin.

“Thank you. You saved my life.” Sara said hesitantly. Gratitude was not something she was comfortable expressing, but she owed it to him. Pezzini knew when she was in over her head, and she had been. She was suddenly aware of the blonde pigtails that trailed from that same head, brushing against the backs of her bare knees. She fought the urge to fuss with the wig, contenting herself with the fact that it was Halloween, and everyone was dressed funny. Except Ian, he looked very dashing, definitely a far cry from his usual military surplus sale look.

“You’re welcome.” Ian bowed slightly. The shock was wearing off and he remembered his orders. Orders he had deviated from quite severely. At least Sara felt some form of gratitude for his interference. It warmed him, even though he knew that he had been obedient to Irons command, he would have never intervened. If that little fact got out, it would certainly bite him in the ass. Somehow he couldn’t be moved to care just now, not with those brilliant green eyes gazing at him.

A sudden flare of that same brilliant white light from the battle created weird shadows that danced along the empty street front. Both turned back once the glare faded to find the corpse completely consumed. A few ashes drifted down to rest on the gleaming golden blade that lay on the pavement.

Ian looked at the blade with disbelief. He had not expected it to survive the inferno. The sunsteel could not just be left lying around. With a sigh of regret, he stepped away from Sara’s side. He wondered if his gloves would be enough of a barrier between it and his flesh. After a moment of internal debate, he took off his white silk scarf. Silk was supposed to be an excellent insulator against magic, and another layer between him and the golden blade couldn’t hurt. He swathed the weapon in the white cloth and turned to Sara.

Sara had watched Ian go to deal with the sunsteel, then remembered the little girl and turned to where she had left her. Her leather jacket was there, but no child. Pezzini picked up her coat and a small clay figurine dropped out. It broke as it struck the concrete.

Suddenly it was all too much. The pain in her side, the unasked for supernatural weirdness of her life, and the fact that she had almost died came down on her like a weight. Moving like an old woman, Sara struggled into the leather jacket. She was so cold.

Nottingham saw her distress, and understood its source. How could he not? He moved over to her side and offered his arm for support, uncertain whether she would take it, but hoping she would.

A black clad arm was extended toward her good side. Sara hesitated for a moment and then took it. She was glad for the warmth and support, even if it was just for a little while. Tomorrow she could go back to being her usual hard-ass self.

The two walked the last block back to where Sara had parked her motorcycle in companionable silence. They stood, neither one willing to break the moment. Ian gazed into Sara’s eyes, hesitant to speak, but feeling that this moment might never come again. “Sara, I…”

“Yes Ian?” Sara prompted as Nottingham hesitated.

“I just wanted to say that,” Ian paused and wet his lips. If she rejected him, he wasn’t sure how he would cope. He gathered his courage around him and tried to continue, “I…”

Headlights bounced down the street, illuminating the pair and breaking the moment. Vicki Po had arrived to the party at last. Her rather abused Gremlin pulled in next to Sara’s Buell, ‘Werewolves of London’ blaring from the speakers. Vicki, a.k.a. Sailor Mars, let out a little squeal as she got out of the car, “Oh, you found somebody to dress up as Tuxedo Man! That’s great! Well, what are you two doing out here? It’s a little cold to be making out on the back of a motorcycle! Come on!”

A different type of shock set in, one that Sara was more familiar with than Ian. Dealing with Vicki was always like this. Nottingham looked at her and mouthed, ‘Tuxedo man?’ After what had just happened, the whole conversation seemed terribly surreal.

“Sailor Moon’s love interest of course! I can’t wait to see you two dancing. It’ll be just like the cartoon. Hey, put your mask back on. Nobody is supposed to know who Tuxedo Man is.” Vicki had not missed the silent question, her eyes bright with glee and perhaps a little ‘spirit’ of the bottled variety. She grabbed Ian’s free arm and dragged them both toward the church.

Ian looked over the dark head to Sara with pleading eyes. He was totally at sea. Sara suddenly saw the humor in the whole thing and began laughing. Supernatural bad guys with flaming swords didn’t phase Nottingham, but one little curly haired woman had him completely cowed. “Yes, put your mask back on Tuxedo Man, you did promise me the next dance after all.”

Nottingham knew he had done no such thing, but he was not about to protest. The chance to spend time in Sara’s arms was not to be missed. He fished the black mask out of his lapel pocket and put it on.

He could always tell Irons he had been cementing Sara’s good will. Ian was going to be in trouble enough over the sunsword, which he was far from eager to return to Kenneth after seeing what it was capable of. Spending a little extra time in the Wielder’s presence was hardly going to make any appreciable difference in his punishment.