If you are familiar with the characters from Witchblade, you can skip to Chapter 2.

For those unfamiliar with Witchblade, you may want to at least go to a fansite such as http://www.bladetv.com/story/main_characters/index.htm

to see what they look like (in particular the dreamy Ian Nottingham). Here's a little primer on the main characters (paraphrased and/or copied from the official site & the fansite bladetv.com):

 
The premise, in brief:

While investigating the murder of her childhood friend, NYPD Detective Sara Pezzini comes in contact with an ancient gauntlet, which melds onto her wrist and protects her from harm -- forever changing her destiny. It is the Witchblade, an ancient weapon that heightens her powers of perception and transforms into a formidable sword that is one with its wearer. With an arsenal of amazing powers -- and a mind of its own -- the Witchblade is both a blessing and a curse. Now Sara must learn its secrets in order to master its mystery before it masters her.

Sara Pezzini

NYPD Homicide Detective Sara Pezzini is a vexing combination of street smarts, intelligence and beauty. Sworn to uphold the law, Sara will go to any lengths to bring criminals to justice. When she comes in contact with the Witchblade, the ancient weapon stirs to life and affixes itself to her arm, bestowing on her unusual powers that she does not yet understand. As she struggles to discover the truth about her past and the legacy of the ancient weapon, Sara finds herself entangled in the growing mystery of the Witchblade.

Sara has had to endure many heartaches and losses. Her mother died when she was very young. Both her father and her partner, Danny Woo, were murdered. With help from Gabriel Bowman, she continues to learn more about the Witchblade and her past despite Irons' attempts to prevent it. Sara's fighting skills and awareness are magnified by the Witchblade. She has Witchblade visions and flashes that help her solve cases. When she fully harnesses the powers of the Witchblade, she will become too powerful for Irons or anyone else to exploit.

Ian Nottingham

Adept at subterfuge and martial combat, Nottingham is a walking lethal weapon. A mysterious -- and deadly -- omnipresence, he has been under Irons' tutelage for most of his life. As Irons' right hand, one of his missions is to monitor Sara's use of the Witchblade. Always nearby when the Witchblade springs into action, Nottingham's relationship to Sara and the Blade remain a mystery at this time -- as is the depth of his relationship to Irons...

His past is still a mystery. He's been with Irons' since he was a child and is rumored to be Irons' son. Although Ian appears tough and capable -especially in his roles as bodyguard, assassin and watcher- he lacks the maturity to be independent and to interact with others in a way equivalent to his age. He over-relies on Irons for support and accepts his role as Irons' servant. He can physically overpower Irons, but still tolerates Irons' criticism and disparagement (and occasional physical abuse). Ever since the Witchblade chose a new wielder (Sara Pezzini), Ian has been monitoring her for the Blade-obsessed Irons. Ian admires Sara for her courage and becomes torn between his allegiance to Irons and his admiration for Sara.

Jake McCartey

A former champion surfer from the West Coast, Jake is now a rookie police detective assigned to train under Sara. Though his laid back style is a bit unconventional for a NY cop, his investigative skills are solid. His admiration for Sara may extend beyond their professional relationship. [We later learn that he is actually an undercover FBI agent working to bring down the White Bulls, a large organization of corrupt police officers in the NYPD.]

Danny Woo

Sara's best friend, former partner and now a ghost, Danny serves as Sara's touchstone, her guardian angel. Danny was killed in the line of duty while he and Sara were investigating reputed mobster and murderer, Tommy Gallo. The Witchblade allows Sara to see and converse with Danny, who continues to help and guide her from beyond the grave.

Gabriel Bowman

Gabriel bowman is a dealer in ancient artifacts who immediately recognizes the Witchblade's value and agrees to help sara research the weapon's past. As one of the few people can trust, Gabriel becomes an important ally and friend.

Kenneth Irons

An eccentric billionaire entrepreneur rumored to have made his fortune through illegal arms dealings, Irons' connection to the Witchblade runs deep. A collector of art and ancient weapons, the Witchblade was in his collection -- on loan to a Midtown museum -- when it was first "found" by Sara. He still bears the scars from his failed attempt to wield the weapon (two concentric circles on his right hand) and is in many ways still possessed by its power. Irons continues to monitor Sara's use of the Witchblade as he runs his diverse corporate empire, Vorschlag Industries, which includes media holdings, real estate and biotech development.

Since he can't own the blade, he tries to control the Witchblade through the woman chosen to wield it. Irons is also involved in projects that involve DNA and reproduction. His brief attempt to wear the blade has prolonged his life. (His birth certificate says he's ninety-six years old in 2001.) His contact with the Witchblade has also bonded him forever to the Blade and connects him to Sara. Irons tries to hide certain facts about the Blade from Sara. He preserved Elizabeth Bronte's body.

Elizabeth Bronte, a former Bladewielder & love interest of Irons, was a WWII spy for the British; because of her uncanny resemblance to Sara, Sara believes that Bronte may be her grandmother. Bronte was killed (murdered?) in a mudslide while touring Botswana with Kenneth Irons (in 1950 or 1951).

Captain Bruno Dante takes over Homicide and Special Crimes when Joe Siri retires. Dante uses his position to leverage absolute power over the department. It is immediately clear that Dante dislikes Sara; we later learn that he Is a major player in the White Bulls & was the one who killed her father (following someone else's orders).

Official sites:

http://www2.warnerbros.com/witchblade/archive.html

http://www2.warnerbros.com/web/witchblade/home.jsp

THE WIDENING GYRE (Part 1)

The woman was a little surprised that even in a city as large as New York at this early hour of the morning the streets were pretty empty. Despite the January cold and faint morning light, there were a few people walking along the sidewalks, but the only cars she saw for several blocks were the ones parked along the street. There was a slight breeze and she tightened her red cloak around her. She passed a young couple and heard the young man say, “Happy New Year, baby.” The woman stopped for a moment. She had lost track of how long she had been on the run. She had not realized it was New Year’s Day. Another year had passed with a broken family, another year that she missed seeing her children age. She wondered briefly what her husband looked like now. She imagined him to still be the dashing pilot she had married, but with a head of gray hair. Distracted by these thoughts, she did not notice the black town car drive up from behind her until it was right next to her, the passenger side window opening. She saw the rifle, and somehow she couldn’t get her feet to move. She only vaguely registered the people reacting around her, some running and some screaming. She saw the muzzle flash and thought of her family. She would never know that her youngest, her daughter, had barely survived being pushed out a two story window. She would never know that her middle son was shot dead protecting her eldest. She would never know that just yesterday her eldest son had been in a warehouse two miles away desperately searching for her. By the time she collapsed on the sidewalk, she was dead.

~*~*~*~*~

Sara Pezzini sat in her office at an ungodly hour on a Monday morning doing the unthinkable: she was organizing her desk. The Christmas holidays were always busy and the files were starting to pile up. There was sign out in the bullpen declaring “Tis the Season” and, in their heads, all the homicide detectives automatically added “for murder and suicide” – it was grim, but it was true. For good or bad, that also meant that the majority of those cases had closed pretty quickly. She had reached the last file at the bottom of one pile; it had a small Post-It note on it with Jake’s neat handwriting: More Bckgrnd on D’Angelo

They had closed that case a few weeks ago – Sara had killed the murdering Sullivan brothers with the Witchblade in self-defense. The official report said they had been killed by a sword found at the scene. Sara was fairly certain Nottingham had covered her ass on that one. She frowned, realizing that she would have to be more careful but not sure how to go about it. With the case closed, she hadn’t bothered looking at the info Jake had dug up on D’Angelo, the fertility doctor who had sired the Sullivans.

“Read it.”

Sara jumped at the voice. “Dammit, Danny!”

The ghost of her dead partner smiled at her. “And good morning to you, too.”

She gave him her patented, exasperated glare. “Do you really have to spook me like that?”

“Do you really want me to make the ‘spook’ joke?”

Sara tried not to smile. Instead, she showed him the file. “The case is closed…or is there another homicidal Sullivan out there?”

“Just read it. You never know when the info may come in handy.”

Sara glanced at the file, and when she looked back up, Danny was gone. She whispered, “Happy New Year, partner.”

She sat back and began to read. There wasn’t much about D’Angelo in the file; it was mainly employment information. He had run a fertility clinic in Manhattan; before that, he had worked at another fertility clinic in Atlanta, Georgia called The NuGenesis Family Group. Her focus on the words blurred for an instant…

A red file folder with only an identification number on the tab.
A test tube full of blood.
A boy’s voice saying, “Cree craw toad’s foot, geese walk barefoot.”

Sara let out a breath, as the visions subsided. She didn’t understand what the visions meant. Did they have something to do with her or with another case? Had her biological parents gone to this fertility clinic? If they had, did she care? Or was this not related to her past at all? And who was the little boy?

She kept reading; towards the bottom of the page was some financial information on NuGenesis. It was owned by an international corporation. Sara flipped to the next page, predicting it would say that the international corporation was Vorschlag, but she was wrong. It was a company called The Centre, headquartered in Blue Cove, Delaware. The name triggered only faint recognition in Sara – she thought she had seen the name either on the side of a building or as a sponsor on PBS. It was a large corporation, but it didn’t advertise itself.

The door to her office opened and Sara looked up to see a moderately surprised Jake come in with two cups of coffee in his hands and a slip of paper in his mouth. He handed her a cup then took the paper out of his mouth. “You’re here early.”

Raising the cup, Sara nodded her thanks. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Jake held up the paper. “We got a body.”

Sara stood and grabbed her coat. She shook her head, muttering, “Too damn early.”

Jake nodded and said a little sadly, “Happy New Year.”

~*~*~*~*~

Sara was glad that Officer McGrath had been the first on the scene. He was a good cop and had done everything by the book. A perimeter had been set up, witnesses were corralled off to one side giving their statements to another officer, and the forensics gang was bustling about.

Jake and Sara walked up to McGrath. Sara, as always, took the lead. “Hey, McGrath. What you got for us?”

McGrath led them behind the police tape. “Victim is a woman, early sixties, shot once in the heart. No ID on her.”

He raised a hand to the small group of people talking to another uniformed officer. “Witnesses say a black town car drove up, she was shot and it drove away. License plate was either blackened out or not there, dark windows, no one saw the shooter or the driver. I put an APB out on the car, but nothing yet.”

Sara nodded. “Nice work.” Sara looked around the scene and spotted Danny standing over by the body. “Jake, why don’t you start talking to the witnesses and I’ll check out the victim.”

It wasn’t really a question, and Jake complied. Truthfully, she preferred for them to interview witnesses and go over the scene together, but if Danny was loitering near the body, she wanted to check it out on her own. When she looked back towards the body, Danny was gone.

The ME on the scene was Pete – he was nice guy, despite being way too cheerful in the early morning hours. Clipboard in hand, he stood next to the body writing notes and glanced up as Sara approached him. He gave her a bright smile. “Morning, Pez.”

She smirked. “I’m glad you didn’t put a ‘good’ in front of that. What have we got?”

“Female, early sixties, gunshot wound to the chest. Large caliber. She died right away.” He checked his watch.

“About forty minutes ago.”

Sara squatted down by the body and pulled back the tarp. The woman was a strawberry blonde and going gray. Her long hair was tucked into a bun, and she wore no makeup. Sara’s vision blurred, triggered by a set of visions…

The woman outdoors, with a head of red hair and bright blue eyes and arms wide open, “I’m the proudest mommy in the whole world.”

The woman, old again, on a boat, in the same red cloak, clutching her wounded arm, “Forgive me, Lord, forgive me.”

Sara waited a moment for her vision to focus again. The hole in the woman’s chest left no doubt as to the cause of death. Sara looked around and didn’t see a purse, only a transparent evidence bag lying next to the body. She looked up at Pete and indicated the evidence bag. “That all she had on her?”

Pete nodded. Turning the bag over in her hands, Sara examined the contents – some small bills and a wedding ring. The wedding ring was plain with no inscription. Given the amount of money she had on her, she may have just been out for some coffee. So she might be local. Sara would have to ask McGrath to coordinate some uniforms to canvas the area. The visions suggested the woman had a child and the ring suggested maybe a husband, so someone might recognize her description or report her missing. Sara set the bag down and covered her body again. She stood, facing Pete once more. “Don’t need to autopsy.”


“Nope,” Pete confirmed. “The wound is pretty self-explanatory. We’ll take some blood and tissue for analysis and do an external examination. With the backlog, results might take a few days. We’ll get you fingerprints, too.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

Sara sighed and headed over to join Jake with the witnesses. She hated Jane Does.

~*~*~*~*~

It had been a long day. After Sara and Jake had spent a couple of hours researching missing persons and investigating who could pull off a hit like the one on Jane Doe, they had gotten another call. It was a domestic dispute that had evolved into a murder-suicide. It was the first (and hopefully last) “holiday double-whammy” this season; the case was essentially closed, but that only meant a little less paperwork. Jake had then run off to do more canvassing on the Jane Doe case. Sara had headed back to the office to start on the reports for both cases. She really didn’t mind writing the reports; it had always helped her organize her thoughts about a case. That it gave her an excuse not to go door-to-door with Jake was a bonus.

After finishing up her report on the murder-suicide, Sara found herself once again holding the file on D’Angelo in her hands and debating whether to look into her past. She slapped the file down on her desk. James Pezzini was my father, she thought angrily. That she was even thinking about finding her birth parents was sign that she was tired and should go home. But what if they know something about the Witchblade? How am I related to Elizabeth Bronte? Her mind kept going back to those questions, questions that Sara considered traitorous to the memory of her father.

An hour later Sara sat at her dining table, staring at the items in the box her father had left for her: a bullet with a bull engraved on the side, an empty plastic film canister, a blank cassette tape, an empty videotape case, a sheet of paper with three rows of numbers on it, a St. Catherine of the Hills prayer card, and several pictures of Sara as a little girl. She wondered if the cassette had been purposely erased and, and if so, whether anything could be recovered from it. She wondered where the film and the videotape were – did Joe have them? Did her father hide them? And if he did, did she want to find them?

She was a little disappointed that Danny hadn’t popped in with words of wisdom and mildly grateful that Nottingham hadn’t let himself in for a chat. She put all the items back in the box and closed it.

~*~*~*~*~

Sara sat at a bar. The first thing she noticed was the haze from the cigarette smoke and the unintelligible murmur of the crowd. She turned in her seat and saw men and women dressed in 40’s era clothes. The soldiers’ uniforms were not American. A man with a British accent introduced the band that began to play an upbeat swing tune.

“Hello, Sara,” said a woman’s voice on her right.

Sara turned towards the voice to find Elizabeth Bronte sitting on the barstool next to Sara. Elizabeth was perfectly coiffed, her demeanor regal and elegant, but there was this twinkle in her eye...as if she had a secret she was dying to share. She is, Sara thought, everything I’m not. How can she be where I come from?

As if reading Sara’s mind, Elizabeth said, “We are related, but not in the way you think. We’re the same person.”

Elizabeth then smiled at her with such warmth that Sara felt tears well up in her eyes.

When Sara awoke the next morning, that was all she could recall of the dream.

~*~*~*~*~

For Gabriel Bowman, it was just another Tuesday morning. Well, late Tuesday morning. He had coffee and cold pizza leftovers then checked the Talismaniac email account – follow-ups to some inquiries for future purchases, a couple receipts from last night’s purchases, one email from one of his various nut-job clients requesting an item that made Gabe cringe, but would no doubt bring in quite a bit of money…nothing unusual. He had a couple of client meetings late in the afternoon, but otherwise his day was free. He debated whether to play Halo or to dust and organize the inventory. He chose Halo, so that he could look busy and “professional” when his clients arrived later. It was nice to be your own boss.

He grabbed a soda and a bag of chips (essential supplies for game playing) from the kitchen. Just as he was settling in and starting up the game, a window popped up telling him someone had entered the shop.

The dark haired man walked towards Gabe. He wore black jeans, black t-shirt, black leather jacket which caused a little alarm bell to go off in the back of Gabe's head. Was this one of Nottingham’s goons? Gabe had been warned not to talk to Sara about the Witchblade, but he had. He had guessed that Sara had “taken care of it” because he hadn’t seen Nottingham since that day. Shit.

The man looked around the shop as he walked closer to Gabe, but didn’t seem to be particularly rushed or particularly threatening. As the man approached, Gabe could see his eyes – brown, friendly but…tired? Gabe prided himself on his instinctual judge of character. It had provided him with good friends and good (i.e., profitable) clients. His instincts were leaning toward “trustworthy” but hadn’t quite made a decision…maybe because the dark hair, the dark eyes and the dark clothes reminded him too much of Nottingham. And Nottingham scared the crap out of him figuratively and almost literally.

He went with his instincts. Gabe said, “Uh, welcome to Talismaniac. I’m Gabriel Bowman. Call me Gabriel.”

The man smiled and offered his hand. “I’m Jarod.”

*~*~*~*~*

To be continued..

The kid, Gabriel, shook Jarod’s hand looking more relaxed.

Gabriel said, “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for information on the Vespasian Scrolls.”

Gabriel shifted a little and shrugged. “I don’t really deal in info, man. Just objects.”

Jarod knew Gabriel had left several queries about a WWII spy named Elizabeth Bronte in different chat rooms and message boards all over the internet. He had covered his tracks pretty well for an amateur, but he had definitely been looking for information. He gave Gabriel a wry grin. “I traced your searches about Elizabeth Bronte back to your PC’s MAC address.”

Gabriel cocked his head to the side, his eyes narrowing on Jarod. “If you did that, then you don’t need me to do your research.”

“True, but the… oh, let’s just call it, ‘rare’ antiquities business is one based on reputation, and you, Gabriel, have quite the reputation.” Jarod shrugged. “I could do the research myself, but it would take time that I just don’t have. I will pay you well for your time and your discretion.”

Jarod understood that building relationships in this business took a long time, particularly when dealing with objects of questionable provenance, but he needed the information. While he still wasn’t convinced about the mystical powers of the scrolls, he felt that there were answers in them as to why The Centre wanted him back so badly. And if he knew that, then he could start figuring out a way for The Centre not to want him back. He also didn’t really believe that they foretold his future – and Miss Parker’s – but he was, admittedly, a little curious as to what the prophecy was.

“What kind of info do you need?” Gabriel asked.

“Anything, really. But most importantly, I need to know what they say or where they are. If you can acquire them, money is no object.” Jarod almost smiled. It was The Centre’s money, after all.

Gabriel’s eyebrows went up ever so slightly. “Okay, I’m in. Tell me what you know about these scrolls.”

“After the Crusades, an offshoot of the Knights Templar known as the Vespasian monks took the scrolls to Carthis – an island off Scotland. For centuries, the scrolls were under the protection of the monks. About two weeks ago, the scrolls were in transport when they were lost.”

Gabriel looked him up and down. “You a monk?”

Jarod smiled. “Not today.”

Gabriel smirked. “Didn’t think so.”

He reached into a jacket pocket and took out a map. He unfolded it before Gabriel. Jarod had checked the maps of ocean currents and, based on the airplane’s approximate location when Mr. Parker had jumped with the scrolls, he had made a reasonable guess as to where the scrolls may have washed up on shore. He pointed to the Spanish Mediterranean coast. “Best guess is that the scrolls washed up somewhere here.”

“If they washed up at all.”

“I have some people looking into that. I want you to concentrate on information – about the monks, the scrolls, what they say. If they were found, someone might be trying to sell them – or study them. I want to know who.”

After haggling over Gabriel’s fee and exchanging contact information, Jarod headed back towards his current hideout a few short blocks away. The money and the myth appealed to Gabriel and he would search for the information and for the scrolls, of that Jarod was fairly certain, but the real question was whether there was anything to be found.

~*~*~*~*~

Jarod looked around his warehouse apartment. The spartan furniture and the few bags of belongings were about the same as almost all the other places he had stayed at in the last five years. It wasn’t home; it was just a place to sleep. A table strewn with Twinkies, Little Debbie cakes, and PEZ candy dispensers was his workplace. Sometimes he had a mattress on the floor, occasionally an actual bed, but usually it was a cot. His duffel contained both his precious belongings and his necessary belongings. The Halliburton aluminum case that contained his life before his escape from The Centre was never far. Most days he didn’t really mind living on the run, probably because he was too busy to think about it. Lately, though, he thought more and more of settling down – perhaps because he had found so much of his family and was so close to finding the one missing member. He wanted to be close to his family, spend time with them… actually get to know them.

He sat at the table and turned on his laptop. While it booted up, he picked up the television remote and turned on the tv. He scanned the channels until he found some local news. He had avoided watching the local news and reading the paper the last few days, trying to avoid an injustice to right and to stay focused on finding his mother. He had tracked his mother from Scotland to Amsterdam and then, following an email tip from Ethan, to New York City. Tracking her in New York had not been easy: a cabbie had picked her up at the airport and dropped her on a corner by a subway station; Jarod had hacked into the transit system’s security video logs and after hours of video, saw his mother exiting a station just a few miles from where Jarod himself was staying. That was his next stop today, after a quick bite and checking his email.

He glanced around the table, smiling at the Little Debbie cakes which he had first bought because they reminded him of little Debbie Broots, but ultimately choosing a pack of Twinkies. He slowly ate the first Twinkie, scanning his email for any emergencies. There was only one new email - confirmation from Broots that he would leave Miss Parker’s birthday present on her doorstep in the morning. Jarod smiled, thinking about what Miss Parker’s reaction would be to the present, a box of Ocee’s special tea for “emotional upheaval” carefully placed in a small toy dump truck and a bottle of the Vespasian monks’ brandy. He told himself he wanted to remind her of how their adventure on Carthis let them reconnect as allies, as friends. He hoped she would be amused and that she would smile that beautiful, genuine smile like the one she had when they found the box in the reliquary… He wanted her to know that he hadn’t given up on her yet. If he was honest with himself, however, he would admit that he wanted to remind her of the last time she drank that tea, of how close they were... He remembered feeling her warm breath on his lips, wondering at the time whether she would taste like the tea… He sighed. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t hurt by her rejection in the limo, but, well, he was stubborn. She knew that. He was starting on the second Twinkie bar, barely listening to the television when a bit of news caught his attention.

“…shot early yesterday morning. Police are still trying to identify the victim. She is described as being in her early sixties with red hair and blue eyes. If you have any information about the woman or the shooting, please contact the 11th Precinct of the NYPD. Sports and weather after…”

No, no, no…Panic overtook Jarod. He was halfway to the door with his coat in hand when he realized that he had to go in with a plan. If it was her, he wanted to be able to track down her killer and a grieving son wouldn’t be allowed that kind of access. It might be a Centre trap – it wouldn’t be the first time they used his family against him.

He went over to his cot and upturned his duffel bag. He sifted through the contents until he found what he was looking for – an FBI ID for Jarod Webster. He went to his laptop and easily accessed the FBI personnel database; after he had hacked into it the first time, he had left a backdoor for himself. He verified that Special Agent Jarod Webster of the Detroit Office (currently on unpaid leave) would pass a background check by the NYPD. He went back to his duffle and opened a side pocket. He took out the laminated picture of his mother. He looked at it for a long moment, the panic starting to overtake him again. He didn’t even know why he had immediately thought it was her. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. He placed the picture in his back pant pocket. He put on his coat, grabbing the badge and ID from the table. He stuffed them in his coat pocket, then headed out to the 11th Precinct.

~*~*~*~*~

To be continued... 

Jake stood outside the precinct, wrapping his arms around his body against the cold January air. The Jane Doe case bothered Jake in a way that he couldn’t quite identify. She was gunned down in a very professional manner, but her clothes, her hair, her lack of make-up, everything about her screamed ‘ordinary mom’. It didn’t add up, but that wasn’t what really bothered him. He sighed. It was just too close to home. He had practically taken the lead on the case, pouring over missing person reports (even after Sara had gone over them) and going down to the ME’s office to get the victim’s prints himself so that they wouldn’t have to wait. He had even had an FBI buddy try to identify her. He knew he was being irrational – of all the cases they’d had, this was the one that he was obsessing over and in the process, he had almost blown his cover. Just ten minutes ago, in the office he shared with Sara, she had said, “I’ve gone over those. She’s not there.”

“Maybe you missed something,” he had replied angrily.

She had put a hand over her bracelet, which Jake knew to be a nervous habit of hers that generally preceded her intuitive leaps. “This case is personal, isn’t it?”

It was, and he had almost said as much, but he couldn’t say so because that would blow his cover. Ex-surfer champ turned NYPD police detective Jake McCartey’s mother was alive and well in San Diego; FBI Agent Jake McCartey’s mother had been shot dead in LA two years ago. He couldn’t share that with his partner and risk blowing the White Bulls investigation.

Jake had given Sara a half-hearted apology and took off to get some air. The one good thing he could say about New York winters was that the biting cold quickly cleared his head. He stepped back into the precinct, heading back to his office.

“Hey, McCartey! Wait up!”

Jake turned, seeing the desk sergeant waving at him. A man dressed in black thanked the desk sergeant and sprinted over to Jake. He was tall, his face serious and intense, and in a vague way reminded Jake of that psycho Nottingham…except Jake didn’t think that Nottingham’s eyes could ever look so sorrowful.

“Detective McCartey?” the man asked.

“Yeah. Can I help you?”

He flashed an FBI badge and ID. “I’m Special Agent Jarod Webster. I’m here about the Jane Doe that was killed yesterday.” The words had come out quickly with that official urgency that demanded Jake’s upmost attention.

Jake wondered briefly whether Jane Doe was one of the agent’s cases – maybe a witness? The black jeans, black sweater and black leather duster that Webster wore made Jake quickly toss that idea aside. No SA on official business would wear anything other than a dark suit (not to mention that Webster’s hair was way too long by Bureau standards), and they would definitely go through channels (i.e., through the captain) to stake their claim on a case. Webster was trying to hide his distress as urgency. This must be personal.

As if reading Jake’s mind, Webster said softly, “I think…I think she may be my mother.”

“Let’s talk in private.”

Anger – or maybe desperation? – flashed in Webster’s eyes. Webster lowered his head then nodded, letting Jake lead him to the office.

~*~*~*~*~

All the Witchblade had shown Sara was Jake standing in front of a casket on a day so beautifully sunny and clear that it had to be California. Sara didn’t know who was in the casket, but she could guess – a mother or a sister or even an aunt, someone who Jake was close to and someone who Jane Doe reminded him of. She hadn’t planned to press him for details; she had only wanted to know whether his objectivity was compromised. Glancing at the Witchblade, she decided she would drop it. They had been partners for a couple of months now, but they weren’t friends. Jake was entitled to his secrets just like she was.

The door to their office opened and a man entered followed by Jake. Sara got that feeling again – the feeling she always got when Nottingham was around. Refuge. That word always seemed to pop into her head when she got that feeling, but Sara had yet to find the words to describe the sensation. It was like a warmth that spread from the Witchblade through her arm to the rest of her body…only it wasn’t quite the physical sensation of warmth; it was a sense of security mixed with something like recognition. That unsolicited familiarity, those feelings that weren’t her own, made her wary of Nottingham every time. She wondered briefly if he was waiting outside to tell her something or just stalking her. Either way, she’d have to talk to him about that.

Jake said, “Detective Sara Pezzini, Special Agent Jarod Webster. He’s here about Jane Doe.”

Webster was lean and athletic with dark hair and sad brown eyes. A small part of her brain processed the thought that Nottingham’s eyes were more soulful. Webster stretched out a hand, “Nice to meet you.”

Sara took his hand and was immediately assaulted with a barrage of visions:

A red file folder with only an identification number on the tab.

A young boy’s voice saying, “Cree craw toad’s foot, geese walk barefoot.”

A girl saying, “Girls mature faster than boys.”

An older boy in a plastic sphere encircled by flames yelling, “I’m burning! I‘m burning!”

Then, even faster, vision after vision…

Webster dressed a doctor

Webster in fireman’s gear

Webster in a cop’s uniform, then a SWAT outfit, then bomb squad gear, then Navy khakis, then head- to-toe camouflage, then an Army dress uniform

Webster reading someone’s palm, flying a jet, cracking a safe, driving an Indy car

Webster in a straight jacket, yelling “Where are my mom and dad?!”

Webster hanging from a ceiling, wrists bound, screaming as jumper cables make contact with his skin

Sara let go of his hand. She was trying to sort out all those visions as she watched Jake offer Webster a seat which he declined. All she knew was that Jarod Webster was definitely not an FBI agent. Sara let out a breath. “What can we do for you?”

“As I told your partner, I think your Jane Doe might be my mother.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a picture. He held it up to them and Sara could practically feel him trying to keep his hand steady. “This is a picture of her when she was younger. Is this her?”

The woman in the picture was the one Sara had seen in her vision. Jane Doe’s hair had more gray and the remaining red hair had faded several shades; Jane Doe was older, but it was definitely the woman in the picture. Webster looked back and forth between Jake and Sara seeing confirmation in their expressions.

To Sara’s surprise, it was Jake who spoke. “I’m sorry…Jarod.”

Webster’s hand fell down to his side. He whispered, “Mom.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he re-opened them, they glistened with unshed tears. He looked up at Sara then Jake. “I need to see her.”

~*~*~*~*~

Jake, Jarod and Sara were silent on their way to the morgue. Jake could tell that Sara wanted to ask Jarod some questions about his mother and her death, but it was clear from Jarod’s stiff demeanor that he wasn’t ready to talk about her, not until he had seen the body and confirmed it for himself. Jake wasn’t surprised when Sara volunteered to hunt down the ME on duty to see if they had anything new.

Jake had come earlier to get Jane Doe’s prints so he led Jarod right to her drawer, number 27. Jake opened it and pulled the drawer out. He glanced at Jarod who was now visibly shaking. Jake reached for the sheet covering the body, only to have Jarod grab his arm. “Please…I…”

Jake nodded, understanding. It was Jarod’s mother and he wanted to this alone.

~*~*~*~*~

Sara saw Jake standing outside the morgue alone. “Jake,” she drawled, trying to reign in her temper, “where’s Webster?”

He indicated the double doors behind him. “He’s in there.”

“What the hell? You left an unknown person alone with a homicide victim?”

Sara made to go around him, but Jake moved to block her.

“Relax, Pez. He’s a Fed and I’m watching from here. Give him a break. That’s his mom.”

“We don’t know that.”

Jake indicated the small window in one of the doors. “Yes, we do. No one’s that good an actor.”

Sara looked through the window and was taken aback by the sight. Webster stood next to the open drawer, shaking as he wept, his hands clenched at his sides. The Witchblade warmed on her wrist and she felt Webster’s sorrow and despair, but before the sensations could overwhelm her, her vision blurred…

The red-haired woman, in her twenties, with a head of red hair and bright blue eyes, rocking a baby in her arms while singing, “Cree craw toad’s foot, geese walk barefoot.”

The woman, older, seeing Jarod from several feet away saying “I love you, I love you” as she is dragged into a cab.

Sara blinked, as the vision faded. She saw Jarod cover the body and push the drawer back in. He closed the door, his hand resting on it for a moment. He turned, wiping his face as he headed back out to join Sara and Jake.

Sara knew he was lying about his identity, but his grief, without a doubt, was real. “I’m sorry, Jarod,” she said, “I know this is difficult, but any information you can give us…”

Jake interrupted a little angrily. “Pez, give him a minute, will you?”

Sara glared at Jake. “Maybe you need a minute, rookie.” She turned back to Jarod to find him looking at her curiously.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “We want to find who did this to her and bring them to justice.”

Jarod nodded. He opened his mouth, closed it, took a breath, then tried again. “Her name was Margaret Charles. I don’t know much more than that. I…I was taken from my family when I was four years old. My brother was taken shortly after. I’ve spent the last four years searching for my family. I only found my father two years ago.” He turned to look through the window in the door back into the morgue. “He had been looking for her, too.”

“Do you know of anyone who might want to kill her?” Sara asked.

Jarod turned back to her, a slight hesitation before shaking his head no.

The Witchblade tightened slightly on her wrist. He was lying. Sara knew it. She also knew that he was holding back about why and how his family had scattered. “What about the people who took you? Would they want to harm your mother?”

Jarod shook his head again and, again, the Witchblade tightened on her wrist. Another lie. His mother’s murder was definitely related to his abduction. She was about to press him on it, when Danny’s voice suddenly came from Jake’s general direction. “He’s not ready to tell you now.”

She glanced toward Jake to see Danny standing next to him. Danny smiled. “Patience, grasshopper.”

Jake said to Jarod, “Is there anyone you want us to contact?”

“No, thank you. I will contact my father.” Jarod looked at Jake then at Sara. “I want to know who did this. I want…I need to work the case with you.”

Sara was shaking her head. “No way. I don’t need to tell you how many rules we’d be bending and breaking if we let you tag along. We’ll keep you in the loop, but…”

“Please,” Jarod interrupted through clenched teeth. “I’ve been searching for her for so long. Let me do this.”

“Are we the only ones who know your relationship to her?” Jake asked suddenly.

Jarod blinked in surprise. “Yes. There’s no paper trail that links her to me. The people who took me made sure of that.”

Sara immediately knew what Jake was implying: officially, their victim was not related to Jarod. Before she could say anything, Jake turned his full attention to Sara. “He’s a trained agent. He won’t hinder us. We could say he’s here to observe us. We do get all the weird cases.”

Danny added, “Listen to the rookie.”

Sara almost blew up at Danny, but stopped herself. She took a few aimless steps, trying to keep calm. She couldn’t tell Jake that Jarod had lied about being an FBI agent and that he knew more about his mother’s murder than he had said. She could tell Jake it was a gut feeling or woman’s intuition rather than the Witchblade, but that sounded lame even to Sara. She pointed at Jake. “This is on you, Jake. It’s your job to make sure he doesn’t compromise the investigation and to get it squared away with Dante.” She sighed. “I know this is going to come back and bite me in the ass.”

“Thank you, both of you,” Jarod said earnestly.

Jake smiled. “You won’t regret this, Pez.”

“Oh, I already do.”

~*~*~*~*~

Jake had taken Jarod off to meet with Dante, and Sara had used the time to start her own investigation into Special Agent Jarod Webster. An online check verified that he was with the Detroit office of the FBI. Sara had called the Detroit office and had spoken with someone who had worked with Jarod. They only had good things to say about him. Sara had poked a little deeper into his background and had found nothing to substantiate her suspicions. She couldn’t reconcile Jarod’s FBI credentials with her Witchblade visions. And while she might believe that some of her visions were related to undercover work, she couldn’t accept that as an explanation for all of them. Worse, still, was that Sara was certain that he knew more about his mother’s death than he was saying and that it had something to do with him being taken as a boy. When she had tried to get some information about Margaret Charles, she had come up with nothing – no driver’s license, no ID, no federal taxes, no passport. Sara hadn’t found anything about Jarod’s abduction either. She didn’t like being shut out by Jarod, but she absolutely hated that she couldn’t call him out on it because of the Witchblade. Even worse than that, Danny had told her to back off on Jarod which really meant that the Witchblade wanted her to back off.

The phone on her desk rang. “Pezzini.”

“It’s McGrath. The car with Jane Doe’s shooter turned up.”

Sara grabbed a pen, asking for the details.

A few minutes later, as she finished jotting down the information, Jake returned with Jarod.

“Thanks, McGrath. See you in a bit.” She hung up and looked at the boys. “Uniforms found the shooter’s car.”

~*~*~*~*~

At first glance, the crime scene was controlled chaos. Jake scanned the area filing away the details: three police cruisers, two fire trucks, a paramedic rig, the ME van, a NYFD car and several media vans. The press and onlookers were behind barricades; uniforms were talking to a couple of witnesses; the firemen were packing their gear. A group of firemen moved out of the way giving Jake his clear view of the car. Most of the car was burned, and by sheer luck the gas tank had not exploded. He could see a mostly charred body in the front driver’s seat. The paperwork was going to be a nightmare, but hopefully Jarod would get some answers.

Jake, Jarod and Sara cleared a path with their badges towards the car. The car smelled worse than it looked. The odor was a mixture of burnt fabric, that nasty chemical fume smell of burnt plastic and something that smelled vaguely like fried bacon. Jake vowed at that moment never to eat bacon again. An ME in a clean suit who was leaning into the car through the passenger side window slowly stood and turned to them. It was Vicki Po. Jake smiled. He liked her – she was smart and cute. He liked her enough that he didn’t mind being the butt of jokes when she and Sara were together.

“Hey, Vicki,” he said.

Vicki smiled at him but her words were for Sara. “This might be a little too normal for you, Pez.” She cocked her head to the side turning her attention to Jarod. “And why do you always bring company when I look a mess?”

Jarod seemed like he wasn’t sure what to make of that statement, and Sara snorted a laugh. “Special Agent Jarod Webster. Vicki Po.”

“Call me Jarod.”

“Vicki.” She held up her gloved hands. “Can’t shake hands right now.”

Jarod smiled at her, and Jake felt a little stab of jealousy. It quickly faded as Jarod immediately turned his attention to the car and its occupant. He studied the car. “This was no accident. The burn pattern and intensity indicate some kind of accelerant.” He turned back toward them.

Sara’s right eyebrow went up in what Jake called the ‘doubting Pezzini’ look.

“I’ve worked arson cases before,” Jarod explained.

Vicki led them around to the driver’s side, saying, “Cause of death appears to be a broken neck – pre-roasting. The body is not completely burned, but I don’t think we’ll get usable prints.”

Sara was leaning in, her hand on her bracelet. “Is that a tattoo on his neck?”

Jarod peered closer. “It looks like…” He tilted his head. “…a cleaver.”

Sara straightened up. “Giovanni Tagliabue, aka, John the Butcher.”

Jarod turned to Sara, glanced at Jake, then asked, “Do you know him?”

“Just by reputation,” Sara replied. “Hit man. He contracts himself out to the highest bidder.”

“So he was a loose end? Whoever hired him killed him?” Jake asked.

“Looks that way.” Sara shrugged, still looking thoughtful. “Weird, though. If they could take out someone like Tagliabue, why didn’t they kill…” She glanced at Jarod and saw his jaw tighten. “…why didn’t they do the job themselves?”

“Convenience?” Jarod said. “The victim was in New York so they called in a local to do their dirty work for them. Then they came to get rid of any connections to themselves.”

Jake added, “And they would have succeeded if the fire department hadn’t gotten here so quickly. If the gas tank had blown, there wouldn’t be much evidence.”

“Jarod,” Sara said, “why don’t you talk to the firemen and the arson investigator? He’s around here somewhere. We’ll get statements from the witnesses.”

Jarod nodded and went off to talk to the firemen.

Jake noticed Vicki smiling her mischievous pixie grin, Jake’s personal favorite. She said, “That’s one special agent, Pez.”

Sara rolled her eyes. “Let’s go, Jake.”

After talking to the forensics folks, witnesses and firemen, Jake realized that they didn’t have much – only an unconfirmed id for a freelance hitman. They returned to the precinct and dug up Tagliabue’s personal and criminal records. There was nothing surprising there, but there was an address in Little Italy, which may or may not be current. Jake, Jarod and Sara agreed to check that out first thing in the morning.

~*~*~*~*~

It was only early evening when Jarod arrived back to his apartment, but he was exhausted. He wanted to rest, but there were a few things he had to do. First was doing a background check on Detectives Sara Pezzini and Jake McCartey. Jarod smiled a little. Perhaps it was destiny that put Detective Sara “Pez” Pezzini in charge of his mother’s case.

Jarod felt a little guilty for not explaining his situation to the detectives, but he really didn’t want to endanger their lives. He was fairly certain that Detective Pezzini knew he wasn’t telling them everything – she had probably done a thorough background check on him which no doubt would eventually bring The Centre here. He hoped he would have enough time before they arrived to confirm who from The Centre was behind his mother’s murder. And if the cleaners had done their job properly,the detectives would have found very little, if anything, to go on and the case would remain unsolved.

Jarod suddenly had an urge to call Sydney or Parker, but not for sympathy. He wanted to tell them what happened to his mother, to unleash his anger for The Centre at them, to blame them for what happened to her, to blame them for not warning him that she was danger... He knew, rationally, that was petty and spiteful, and he also knew, irrationally, that he really blamed himself as much as he blamed The Centre. He had been “special,” forcing his family to live on the run. Although Alex had warned him that they would never let him find her, he still looked for her and had been so, so close to reuniting with her… He forced himself to stop that train of thought. He had too much to do.

He checked his watch. His father and Emily were in Europe following a lead on the scrolls, and it was the middle of the night there. Jarod debated whether to leave them a message to either return to New York or even about what had happened to his mother, but in the end he decided against it. He wanted to talk to his father about it, and Jarod knew that Emily, who was the closest to their mother, would want to talk to him. He didn’t want to wake them – a few more hours wouldn’t make a difference. That’s what he told himself. He turned on his laptop and soon was engrossed in his research.

Sara’s past did not take long to dig up. She had entered the force as soon as she could; she was good and within a relatively short amount of time had made detective. Her mother had died when she was very young; her father was a cop who died in the line of duty when she was a teenager; her partner (and longtime friend from the academy) had been killed in the line of duty just a few months ago. That last report was a little sketchy, but the board of inquiry had accepted it. Her hot temper had gotten her into trouble now and then, but everything he could find indicated that she was a solid cop.

Jake’s past, however, was a little too neat. Jarod couldn’t quite identify what wasn’t right about it, but he knew Jake was not who he claimed to be. It took a couple more hours, but eventually he discovered that Jake was, in fact, an FBI agent investigating corruption in the NYPD. James Pezzini, Sara’s father, had tipped the FBI off about these bad cops shortly before he was killed. There was nothing to indicate that Sara knew who Jake was or why her father had been murdered.

Their record for closed cases was pretty good, considering the decidedly offbeat cases they often got. In a way, Jarod was relieved. His instincts had told him to trust the detectives, and he knew they sincerely wanted to bring his mother’s murderer to justice. On the other hand, Jarod was sure The Centre was behind her murder, and that meant the detectives were unlikely to close this case.

Jarod was surprised to notice that the sun was starting to rise. He would call his father, take a short nap, then get ready to meet the detectives.

~*~*~*~*~

Jake, Jarod and Sara entered Tagliabue’s apartment building and followed the signs to the manager’s office. Sara knocked on the door and after a few seconds, the door opened. The manager was in his sixties and spoke with a mild Italian accent. He didn’t want to let them in to Tagliabue’s apartment (at least, not without a warrant). Sara wasn’t sure whether the man was being so adamant because Tagliabue had paid him off or because he was, as her dad would have called, “insular Old World” Italian. It was then that Jarod had started talking to him in perfect, rapid-fire Italian. Sara’s Italian was limited at best, and she barely understood one word in ten that they spoke. But in the end, Jarod had convinced the man. The manager had led them up to the apartment and let them in. Jarod had done it. Again. Starting with the barista at the coffee shop first thing in the morning, then the desk sarge on duty at the precinct, and now the apartment manager, Jarod had left a trail of good will and smiles that put Santa Claus to shame. And the kicker was that he seemed so damned sincere. It wasn’t suave charm, but a guileless friendliness Sara thought was only found in children and puppies. It was really starting to get on her nerves.

Jake, Jarod and Sara spread out in the apartment, each taking a different room. Jarod stayed in the living room, Sara went to the bedroom, and Jake went to the kitchen. Sara looked through the drawers of the beat up mirror chest and found nothing unusual. Jarod called to them and Sara went back to the living room. He held up a paper. “Old cell phone bill. Can we get the numbers he called recently?”

“I know, I know,” Jake said with a small grin. “Rookie grunt work.” He took the paper, pulling out his own cell phone, and headed back to the kitchen for a little more privacy.

Jarod quirked an eyebrow at Sara. “He’s…well-trained.”

Despite herself, Sara smiled a little. “He’s getting there.”

She was tempted to ask Jarod some questions, but continued her search in the bedroom instead. She opened the nightstand drawer and searched it. Again, nothing. Sara searched through the closet and when she touched a shirt, her vision blurred, but the vision came and went before she could make it out. She tried to force the Witchblade to show her, but it remained silent. She continued looking through the closet, but only found clothes, shoes, a few clips for a 9mm and a couple boxes of ammo.

She headed back to the living room to find Jarod replacing cushions on the couch. “Bedroom’s clean.” She frowned. “Well, not clean, but you know what I mean.”

Jarod smiled. It was a nice smile, Sara thought, and found herself grinning back. She felt warmth from the Witchblade spread throughout her body. Refuge. Her cell phone rang. She didn’t need to check the caller ID to know it was Nottingham. “Pezzini.”

“There are Pretenders among us.”

Sara walked over to the window and put her free hand on her hip, restraining herself from making a “Brass in Pocket” reference she was sure Nottingham wouldn’t get. Instead, she asked, “Meaning?”

“Your new partner…he’s not who he says he is.”

She glanced over at Jarod for a moment then pushed the flimsy curtain aside, surreptitiously looking out the window for Nottingham. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“The key is right behind you.”

“The key to what?” She looked over her shoulder, making sure Jarod was still out of earshot.

“Your past.” And your future, if you so choose. She had heard Nottingham’s voice in her head – it was whispered, faint, with a hint of sadness.

Harshly, she whispered into the phone, “I know everything I need to know about my past.”

“You only have the fragments your father left you and the little the Witchblade has shown you.”

Before she could respond, Nottingham added in a gentle voice, “We all want to know where we come from, Sara. The Witchblade will guide you to the missing pieces. The real question is whether you are prepared for what you will discover.”

The faint traffic noises coming over the line were suddenly silent, and Sara knew Nottingham had hung up. As usual, he knew more than he was telling. “Son of a…” she muttered as she slapped the phone shut.

Sara turned away from the window to find Jarod looking at her curiously. She asked, “Did you find anything else?”

Jarod watched her for a moment more before answering. “No.”

At that moment, Jake walked in from the kitchen. “Kitchen was clean. No cleaver, by the way.”

“And the phone records?” Jarod asked.

“A few days before the murder, he had several calls from payphones around the city. But the most common number dialed out is Frankie Franchetti’s.”

Sara sighed. “Makes sense.”

Jake explained to Jarod, “He’s a mobster. Let’s just say that an opening came up recently and there have been power plays to see who gets it. Franchetti is the leading contender.”

Jarod said, “Let’s go talk to him. Any idea where we can find him?”

Sara’s vision blurred as the Witchblade showed her…
Francetti entering a restaurant and sitting at table. He picks up a menu for Mama Rosa’s.

“Mama Rosa’s,” Sara blurted out. Jake was looking at her doubtfully as if saying ‘how the hell do you know that?’ while Jarod’s expression fell into the curiously intrigued category. Sara could have sworn that Jarod had glanced at the Witchblade. She added, “I’ve heard he likes to eat lunch there. It’s a place to start.”

Jake started to say something, only to be interrupted by his cell phone. “Sorry.” He answered the phone with a friendly, “McCartey.” He listened then said, “What? Now?” A pause, then “Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He disconnected the call and stuffed the phone into his jacket pocket. He looked at Sara. “That was the DA’s office. They want me to come in and go over some testimony. I’ll call dispatch and have a uniform pick me up.”

Sara nodded. “Okay. We’ll head over to Mama Rosa's and try to find Franchetti.”

~*~*~*~*~

Gabriel sat at his computer, eager to check his email and hoping some of his contacts had info for him on the Scrolls. He hoped that if this business with Scrolls panned out, that he would do more business with Jarod (and his generous bank account) in the future. He scanned his email and two subject lines caught his interest: one was “Hatshepsut!” from his old friend Violet and the other was “Cryptkeeper’s Family & Scrolls” from an acquaintance in Scotland. Violet was out on a dig in Egypt, and he heard from her pretty regularly. He vaguely recalled Hatshepsut from the one course he took on ancient Egyptian civilization before he dropped out of college; he had met Violet in that class and passed it only because he had been trying to impress her. He clicked on her email first.

Gabriel!
It’s still hot. I’m still dusty. We’re still working on that tomb in the Valley of the Kings – we discovered a chamber behind a wall of rubble. Guess what was in it? An undamaged image of Hatshepsut! It’s amazing and, of course, made me think of you. Attached is a pic.
--V.

Gabe opened the email attachment. The picture was of Violet, sweaty and dusty and still adorable, standing in front of a wall with hieroglyphs and other images. She was pointing to a female figure on the wall. Gabriel zoomed in, hoping to see the cartouche, but found himself leaning forward to get a better look at the image. There, on Hatshepsut’s right wrist, was the Witchblade. “No way.”

~*~*~*~*~

Mama Rosa’s was the kind of Italian restaurant with the red-checked tablecloths and dark woods that tried too hard to be authentic. Sara and Jarod stood next to the “Please Wait to be Seated" sign waiting for the hostess. She looked around the small dining area but did not see Franchetti. Jarod tilted his chin toward the back wall and Sara noted the door labeled “Private Dining Room”.

Sara took a step forward but Jarod grabbed her arm to stop her. “Let’s find out if he’s actually there first.”

Sara noticed the hostess approaching and relented. At first, the hostess had denied that Franchetti was in the restaurant, but Jarod had again been nice and friendly. Sara seriously did not want or need to know all the details about the hostess’s struggles to pay her way through college. Jarod, however, lapped it up. Sara was amazed that he seemed to genuinely care about what the girl had to say. And there was no flirting involved – just honest conversation. If Jake had tried the same thing (and he would have, though with more flirting, Sara was sure), he would have failed miserably. In the end, they got confirmation that Franchetti was in the private dining room.

Sara and Jarod stood before the door to the private room. She looked at Jarod. “This part, we do my way.”

She grabbed the door and led the way in. She strolled up to the table with a grim smile. “Hey, Frankie! Long time no see.”

Sara instantly assessed the room around her. Franchetti was seated at a table with two cronies in the middle of lunch. Two more goons stood to the side, reaching for their guns. Franchetti waved at them to stand down.

Franchetti looked at Jarod and back at Sara. “Whatever. So why are you here, Pezzini?”

“Giovanni Tagliabue.”

Franchetti shrugged and started eating again. “He’s dead. And it wasn’t my…” he hesitated but finished with “…people.”

Sara’s right hand tightened into a fist in frustration. The Witchblade was not telling her anything, but her gut told her Franchetti knew something. “Look, you know I don’t really care about your business. We just want some information on who hired him. We can do it here or I’ll haul you in for whatever I can think of on the way.”

Jarod chimed in, “How about obstruction of justice? Although,” he leaned forward sniffing, “that pasta putanesca is a crime in and of itself.”

Franchetti threw his utensils down, his eyes narrowing on Jarod before turning back to Sara. “I got nothin’ to say to you.”

Sara stepped closer to Franchetti, her frustration bubbling to the surface, and his goons followed suit. Jarod took a step to stand next to her, showing he was ready to back her up. Sara appreciated that he didn’t step in front of her, trying to “protect” her. She wondered if he’d had a female partner before. If so, Sara thought, she had trained him well.

Franchetti gestured to his men to back to down. “Relax, boys. We wouldn’t want to end up in Detective Pezzini’s custody.”

Sara wasn’t sure what Franchetti was getting at and he must have read that on her face because he added, “We all know what happened to Tommy Gallo.”

“Tommy Gallo committed suicide awaiting trial.”

Franchetti shrugged. “Some say a dark avenging angel threw him out a window. A dark angel who’s looking out for you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sara glanced at Jarod. He seemed curious, but was letting her handle it. At least, for now. Sara hoped he wouldn’t ask about it later because she didn’t really want to have to explain Nottingham.

“Fine,” Franchetti said, picking up his utensils again. “As I said, I got nothin’ to tell you.”

“Tagliabue,” Jarod said. “Who hired him?”

“Do I look like his keeper? Look, he only told me his services would not be available for a few weeks. He’d scored a big contract from out of town. That’s all I know.” Franchetti started eating again, effectively dismissing them.

“C’mon.” Sara pulled on Jarod’s sleeve and lead him back outside.

They walked in silence for a half block when Jarod suddenly said, “PEZ?”

“What?” Sara turned to Jarod, to find him holding out a Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer PEZ dispenser.

“PEZ. Would you like some?”

“Uh, no. Thanks.”

Jarod shrugged, explaining, “It helps me think.” He tilted back Rudolph’s head and pulled out a candy with his teeth.

“What were you thinking about?”

Jarod looked at her for a moment then straight ahead. “Do you think Franchetti knows more than what he told us?”

Sara shook her head. “No. It was long shot that he knew anything. At least we now know someone did hire Tagliabue. They are the ones who killed him and who wanted your mother dead.”

Jarod nodded and he seemed lost in his own thoughts again. He stopped and looked around. “There’s got to be some good pasta putanesca around here somewhere.”

Sara tried not to smile. “C’mon. There’s a place around the corner that’s good.”

~*~*~*~*~

End of Part I: The Widening Gyre

to be continued...

PART 2 ~ SOME REVELATION IS AT HAND

Lunch with Sara had been interesting so far, Jarod thought, and the pasta putanesca was quite good, too. They were seated in a fairly isolated section of the little hole-in-the-wall place Sara had suggested. As they ate, they talked a bit about Italian food and being on the job, but had avoided the main issue of his mother’s murder. Sara leaned forward, and Jarod wasn’t sure he liked the look in her eye.

“I think you know we’ve hit a dead end with your mother’s case,” she said. “But I think you know that, too. So, are you going to be honest with me or am I gonna to have to arrest you for obstruction?”

Jarod wasn’t sure if she was guessing or if she had found something to link the case back to The Centre, but he found that he did want to be honest with her. His instincts told him to trust Sara and to tell her the truth about everything. Although Jarod often told people about how he had been taken from his family, he rarely mentioned his past with The Centre – that knowledge could get people killed. But he knew that Sara wouldn’t let this case go. That was the kind of cop she was and that could get her killed. Perhaps if he told her the truth about his past, she would understand the danger to herself and her partner. With a furtive look around, he made sure no one could hear their conversation.

“What I tell you has to be off the record and you can’t pursue it. These people will kill you if they think you know too much.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Jarod shook his head. “They will kill you and your partner and whoever else they think might know too much. And they will get away with it. They always do.”

Sara studied his face for a long moment before nodding. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“Have you ever heard of The Centre?”

Jarod watched her brow wrinkle a little in concentration. She said, “Yeah. Big corporation. Some kind of think tank, right? They sponsor stuff on PBS, I think.”

“Yes, about ninety percent of what they do is legit and for the betterment of mankind. But that other ten percent more than makes up for all the good they do. Kidnapping, murder, extortion, drugs, mind control, torture, terrorism, you name it, they’ve had a hand in it…or, at least, in planning it.” Jarod noted that she was still listening attentively, even as farfetched as the story sounded. The Centre counted on truth sounding so ludicrous, that no one would believe it could be true. “They stole me from my parents when I was four years old and kept me prisoner for thirty-three years.”

“Why you?”

“I’m what they call a Pretender.” Jarod always found this hard to explain. “My genetics are different than most people. I have an extremely high IQ, but because of that –or maybe in addition to that – I can become whoever I want to be, with the proper preparation. I can put myself in other people’s frame of mind to understand their motivations and simulate their actions. I can master any profession, if I set my mind to it.”

Sara’s right eyebrow went up. “So you are some kind of genius, but they kept you prisoner for over thirty years?”

Jarod focused on the plate of food in front of him. “You have to understand…for most of the time I was there, I had no reason to leave. I was told that my parents were killed and that I was special, that I had to stay there in order to help people, that the real world was too dangerous for me, and that the good I could do was worth my personal sacrifice. I believed for many years that my work was helping people.”

Jarod glanced up briefly and noticed Sara fiddling with her bracelet, then he focused again on his plate. She asked, “Why did you finally break out?”

Jarod looked at Sara again and replied bitterly, “I learned the truth.” Jarod took a deep breath. “I learned that my work…they used my work to hurt people. They murdered a friend right in front of my eyes to show their power over me…and…” he paused. There was just so much. “I couldn’t stay there anymore…I ran away five years ago.”

Sara continued to fiddle with her bracelet, looking lost in thought. After a moment, she said, “You escaped and now they want you back?”

Jarod nodded. He knew The Centre wanted him back for reasons other than being a Pretender, and he knew the reasons were in the Scrolls, but he didn’t dare say anything about the Scrolls to Sara…at least, not yet.

“I know it’s hard to believe…” he began, but Sara cut him off with a snort.

“After the last few months,” she said, “you’d be surprised what I’d believe.” She took a sip of her drink then said, “You’re not a Fed.”

“No,” he replied honestly.

She looked a little surprised by his honesty. “Why shouldn’t I arrest you for impersonating an officer of the law?”

“If you did, they would know and find a way to take me back.” Jarod looked at her quite seriously. “And if you do, then you might as well shoot me right now, because I’m never working for them again.”

“Why did they kill your mother?”

Jarod thought about that a minute. “I’m not sure. I was warned once that they would never let me get close to her. I think she had answers about why they took me and why they want me back so badly.”

Sara’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You mean, they don’t want you back to do more…Pretending?”

She was smart, Jarod had to give her that. What could he tell her? That The Powers That Be at The Centre believe in mystical scrolls and that Jarod was the key to some prophecy? Jarod, himself, did not really believe in that. He opted for a half-truth. “I don’t know. I just find it hard to believe that they want me back for that alone. You’d be surprised at the amount of money and manpower they’ve spent hunting me. Significantly less than what I brought in, but still…” Jarod shrugged. “I was really only looking for my mother…for answers about who I am and about my past.”

Sara seemed lost in thought and Jarod stayed quiet. Finally, she said, “So you knew who was behind your mother’s murder and you were jerking our chain all this time?”

There was a little anger in her tone, and Jarod couldn’t really blame her for that. “I knew it was The Centre. I was hoping to narrow it down to who specifically pulled the trigger or issued the order.”

“And what were you going to do with that information?”

Jarod ducked his chin, not meeting her eyes. “I’m not sure.”

“Revenge?”

“I don’t know.” Jarod sighed. “But I had to know who and maybe that would lead to why.”

Sara stared at her drink for a long time, before saying, “You’ve been out for five years – why haven’t you stopped them? There must be some evidence of their crimes…”

Jarod shook his head. “The Centre covers its tracks very well. And they are too well connected politically.” Jarod hesitated. How could he explain his relationship with Sydney and Parker and his need to protect them?

Sara seemed distracted for moment, her hand at her bracelet again, and then said, “You’re protecting someone.”

Jarod was a little surprised. She was good. He nodded, but he wasn’t about to explain. He wasn’t comfortable telling Sara about Sydney and Parker – it was too personal and Sara was still, essentially, a stranger to him.

Sara looked at him expectantly, but Jarod kept silent. The waitress came over at that moment with the bill, cleared away their plates, and after some polite conversation, left them alone again.

Sara started to rummage around her jacket, but stopped when Jarod said, “Lunch is on me. It’s the least I could do.”

Her eyebrows went up in mild surprise. “Well. Thanks.”

Jarod paid the bill and they headed out. As the cold air from outside hit them, Jarod tightened his coat around him. When they stepped outside, Sara looked around as if looking for someone, but then started walking towards their car which was less than two blocks away.

Sara said, “We can’t tell Jake about you or The Centre.”

Jarod tilted his head slightly. “You don’t trust him.”

Sara shrugged. “We haven’t been partners very long. He’s a nice enough guy, but I don’t really know him. And this case…it’s personal to him somehow. He won’t let it go.”

Jarod studied her a moment. “I’m not sure you will either.”

Sara smiled at that. “Yeah, well, at least I have some answers. I don’t like it, but I’ll live with it.” The wind picked up a little and she shivered. “Officially, we’ve hit a dead end, and Jake will eventually accept that.”

They took a few steps and then she asked, “Do you think you’ll ever find out who ordered the hit?”

Jarod shook his head. “They are very careful with Z3 files – those contain contract hit orders. There are no electronic copies and the paper copies are only seen by the person who issued it and the person who carried it out. They’re stored in a secret vault and even I don’t know where it’s located.”

She nodded, accepting his answer and they continued to walk in a comfortable silence.

Jarod liked Sara, despite her brashness. He liked her honesty, her courage, her resilience. There was a sadness about her, a vulnerability that she hid well, that Jarod wanted to understand and alleviate, but he wasn’t even sure why he wanted to do that. Sara’s bracelet was a touchstone she used to help her think, like Parker had her ring. With sudden clarity, he understood: Sara reminded him of Parker. He almost laughed at what Parker would say to that. On the surface, the jean-clad, blue collar cop was the polar opposite to his fashionista Parker. But their lives had surprising parallels – the loss of a parent, the need to live up to their father’s ideals, the loss of someone close to them, driven by their jobs, few but extremely loyal friends. He grinned. And a penchant for leather.

His cell phone rang with the ringtone “Raider’s March” from Raiders of the Lost Ark, the one he had assigned to Gabriel Bowman. He turned away from the Sara, before answering.

“Yes?”

“Hi, uh, is this Jarod?”

“Yes.”

“Hi. It’s Gabriel Bowman. I have some info for you. Is this a good time or do you want to come by later?”

“Now is fine. Just a sec.” Jarod covered the mouthpiece and said to Sara, “Go ahead, if you want. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

Sara looked at him curiously, her hand fiddling with her bracelet then started walking down the block towards the car.

To Gabriel, Jarod said, “What have you learned?” He walked away from Sara, putting a few more feet between them.

“The legend says that the scrolls have a power than no man should encounter and that the fate of whoever dares defile the scrolls will be filled with eternal damnation. A hundred years ago, a cryptkeeper on Carthis named Parker allegedly found the scrolls. He was going to leave Carthis with them and, in exchange for their power, he had to sacrifice his family. That night, he set fire to his cottage killing his entire family. The next day, he left Carthis without the scrolls and started a new life in the States. He started a secret order who were obsessed with the scrolls and the prophecy contained within them. He also started a think tank that grew to become The Centre. You ever heard of it? ”

“I’m familiar with it,” Jarod said dryly.

Gabriel was silent and Jarod wondered if Gabriel had guessed that Jarod already knew the cryptkeeper’s story.

Gabriel finally asked, “Are you a Parker?”

Jarod laughed bitterly hard at that. “No.”

“Well, I couldn’t find anything more about the prophecies, but I’m still working on it. I’m following up on a lead that the scrolls may be on their way back here to New York. I’ll call you when I know more.”

“Thank you.” Jarod closed the phone and stuffed it into his pocket. He looked ahead to see that Sara had already crossed the street to the next block and was leaning on their car waiting for him. Sara suddenly stood on alert, focusing on Jarod then to his right. She broke out into a full run, her hand going to her weapon. Jarod looked to his right and spotted her. Parker. He didn’t stop to think -- he just ran – away from both Sara and Parker.

As he turned into an alley, he looked back just long enough to see Sara tackling Parker. For a brief moment, he considered staying to see how that played out, but kept running instead. Jarod hadn’t seen Sydney or Broots, but Sam was probably nearby. As if thinking about the Sweeper had conjured him, a black Town Car screeched to a stop at the other end of the alley and Sam stepped out of the driver’s side. The sight of the Town Car and the Sweeper triggered Jarod’s memories of his mother in the morgue. Anger like Jarod had never felt made him lose all sense of reason. With a deep, guttural yell, Jarod ran even harder towards the Sweeper.

Sam didn’t know what hit him.

~*~*~*~*~

...to be continued...

As soon as Sara made contact with the woman, the Witchblade began an insistent whispering in her head. There were many voices, incoherent and dissonant, but each of them demanding to be heard. Sara tried to focus on the woman, on cuffing her and Mirandizing her, but the cacophony of the voices was becoming unbearable.

Just stop! Sara willed at the Witchblade, and it surprisingly became quiet. Sara pulled the struggling woman up off the ground, getting her first good look at her. The make-up, the designer clothes and the attitude all screamed ‘corporate security’ to Sara. She already didn’t like the woman, although, Sara hated to admit, she carried a nice piece. Her eyes were a light blue, almost grey, and somehow Sara saw right through her to the damaged soul beneath the hard corporate exterior. Sara recognized the pain in those eyes because she saw it in her own every day.

“You got some ID?” Sara asked.

The woman nodded. “Front jacket pocket. The permit and license for my gun are there, too.”

She sounded irritated to Sara, as if she had been through this before and could barely be bothered with such trivialities. Sara pulled out a small identification card case from the pocket. The ID card had a picture of the woman, and only The Centre logo and “M. Parker” printed on it. Not even an employee number. The gun permit and license (also in the name of M. Parker) were folded neatly behind the card. Both were valid. Sara placed the case in her jacket pocket and pulled Parker along to the car.

Parker said, “What I am under arrest for?”

“Aggravated assault on a federal agent, failure to obey a police officer…”

“Jarod’s not an officer of the law,” she said tightly.

“But I am and I told you to stop.”

Parker glared at Sara, but kept silent. Sara knew she couldn’t hold the woman for very long on those admittedly thin charges, but Sara hoped it would be long enough to put some time between Jarod and Them. Sara was sure that she would see Jarod again, and not just because his mother was still waiting to be claimed in the morgue. She had a new ally in Jarod; he had trusted her with his big secret and with his life. The Witchblade had shown her the truth of his story and maybe, just maybe, she could trust him with her secret. And maybe someday, Sara hoped, Jarod could help her learn more about the Witchblade and her past. Was that why it had woven this little web that had led her to Jarod and The Centre? She glanced at the Witchblade, still silent on her wrist. Damn bracelet.

~*~*~*~*~

Less than an hour later, Sara was about to sit at her desk and begin her background search on “M. Parker” when Burgess stuck his head in the door. “Hey, that corporate security chick you brought in is being let loose.”

“What?!”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Thanks, Burgess.”

Sara shot past him and headed down to holding. She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight before her. Parker was clipping her holster to her waistband at the small of her back while Ian Nottingham – a Nottingham with hair slicked back and tied up and a neatly trimmed beard – held her coat for her. She slipped into the coat as they talked. Sara was across the room and couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the conversation seemed to flow easily. They knew each other, and Sara wasn’t too surprised by that. After all, both Nottingham and Parker worked in corporate security for two large corporations. From what Jarod had said about The Centre’s business dealings, Sara was sure they had done more than one odd job for Vorschlag. Sara did note, though, that Nottingham managed to keep eye contact with Parker.

Danny appeared at her side. “Jealous, Pez?”

She glared at Danny. “Bite me.”

He laughed lightly. After a moment, he commented, “They’re awfully chummy.”

That, of course, made Sara even more suspicious of Parker. She didn’t like people like Parker who got away with stuff because of who they know and the money they could toss around. At that moment, Nottingham and Parker started to head towards the exit and therefore towards Sara. Sara noticed that Nottingham was wearing dress shoes and a black on black business suit under his coat – no doubt tailored and expensive and definitely not his usual attire of cargo pants and combat boots.

As they approached, she heard Parker and Nottingham exchange words in a sing-song language that was not English. Parker laughed gently, and Nottingham gave her a shy little smile. Sara glanced at Danny.

“Don’t look at me – my family’s Korean,” he said. “I think that was Japanese.”

The Witchblade began that whispering again, and Sara still couldn’t make out what it was trying to tell her.

As Parker walked past, she looked at Sara with a steely gaze. “Let’s do this again sometime.”

Sara clenched her fists, but held her tongue. The last thing she needed was an assault charge. Parker walked out the door and the whispering from the Witchblade abated.

Nottingham lingered long enough to say, “Always a pleasure, Sara.”

He started to walk away, but Sara called after him. “Tell me something, Nottingham.”

He turned back to her but still didn’t make eye contact with her.

“Was it you or Irons who had her released?”

“Does it matter?”

It did, but she didn’t want to admit that to him. If it was Nottingham, she could write it off as a favor to a colleague. If it was Irons, Sara knew he was plotting something.

Nottingham seemed to be waiting for a response. His eyes met hers for an instant, then he said, “Good day, Sara.”

Sara watched him walk out the door, both furious that he hadn’t answered the question and surprised that she was so upset about it. She walked over to the nearest window, observing their interaction. She watched as they crossed the street – the deliberate, confident strides; the calm demeanor; the discrete, professional way they scanned their environment; the polite conversation… Nottingham held the rear passenger door open for Parker, Sara could tell they discussed something, and then Parker shrugged, entering the car.

“You better get that.” Danny’s voice barely registered with Sara. She was about to ask Danny what he was talking about when her cell phone rang. Still watching as Nottingham took the driver’s seat, Sara didn’t bother to check the caller ID and answered, “Pezzini.”

“Sara, it’s Gabriel.”

As Nottingham’s car pulled away from the curb, she finally turned away from the window. “Hey, how are you?”

“Good. You?”

“The usual. What’s up?”

“I’ve got some info for you. When can you come over?”

Sara glanced at the precinct clock on a nearby wall. “How about now?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

~*~*~*~*~

As the car drove up towards Irons’ manse, Parker was filled with some mild trepidation. She had been here a few times – once as a child with her father and a few times when she had been head of security at The Centre – but each time she felt that same uneasiness as she approached the mansion. She knew rationally what triggered it: the stone and architecture of the mansion were more than vaguely reminiscent of The Centre’s headquarters in Delaware. Still, she could never prevent the sense of unease she felt when she came here.

“Parker?” Ian asked gently from the front seat. “Are you alright?”

She realized that she hadn’t heard a word he had said in the last few minutes. Her eyes met his in the front rearview mirror. The concern in his eyes was fleeting but genuine. With a light smile, she replied, “Yes, I’m sorry. It’s…been a long day.”

She saw him nod once in response as his eyes returned to the road, and then she focused on the darkness on the other side of the window.

Before she knew it, Ian was silently leading her through the house and she found herself remembering the first time she had met Ian. It was a few years after her mother had died and she had been banished to boarding school in Europe. Parker had come to New York to visit with her father and he had brought her here. It was a business trip. She wasn’t supposed to leave the bedroom she had been assigned, but she had. In the hall, she had run into a little boy who was no more than five or six years old. Parker could remember how serious Ian had seemed as he introduced himself. She could not remember the details of their conversation except that they had swapped secrets. Parker had told him her first name, the taboo name her father never wanted her to use. She, in turn, had deduced (and gotten confirmation) that Ian was Kenneth Irons’ son, which she promised never to tell anyone and had, so far, kept that promise. Parker couldn’t say that those secrets were a foundation for a friendship between her and Ian (because they weren’t friends, not in the true sense of the word). They had, perhaps, an unspoken trust because of those secrets from which their current camaraderie had been born in Japan many years ago.

For a long time, she had told no one of that particular skeleton in Irons’ closet because she had promised not to. Later, as an adult who worked for The Centre, she realized that tidbit of information was her ace-in-the-hole – something she could call upon in the darkest of times to get help from the mighty Kenneth Irons. She hadn’t needed to play that card yet, but these were pretty dark times at The Centre.

Ian ushered her through the Kama Sutra paneled doors to what she privately called Irons’ sanctum sanctorum. The room’s decor in warm colors had not changed much in the years since she had been here last. The most notable change was that the grand piano had been removed and that somehow made the room seem colder and more impersonal.

Ian indicated a chair but she declined, opting to warm up by the hearth. Within a moment, Irons voice came from above. “Ah, Miss Parker. It has been far too long since these halls have been graced with your beauty.”

Despite herself, she smiled at the compliment as she turned to watch him descend the stairs. It always surprised her how he didn’t seem to age. Parker would have sworn that he hadn’t changed since she had first met him. She had spent an afternoon with him in the garden just talking – no adult (not even her own father) had paid her that much attention since her mother; her father had been proud of her because Irons was pleased with her. Irons had made her feel like a princess back then, and somehow being in his presence evoked those feelings again.

“You are very kind, Mr. Irons.”

His gentle smile faded and he said, “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

Parker nodded once. “Thank you.”

Irons walked toward her, stopping briefly at Ian’s side and Parker was suddenly struck by the yin and yang of these men, both in appearance and temperament. Irons could be disarmingly charming when he chose, but his demeanor most of the time was regal and demanding. His movements were graceful but calculated. Parker always wondered what he was thinking behind those green eyes of his. She knew he could be cold and ruthless, but that was often hidden under a veneer of erudition and sophistication. Ian, on the other hand, reminded Parker of a panther – as beautiful as he was dangerous. He had a way of blending into the background, as if he never wanted to be noticed, but his eyes took in everything around him. His dark hair and eyes and his intelligence triggered in Parker something that vaguely felt like recognition. Both men were extremely bright; Irons used his intelligence to scheme and, like a chess grandmaster, stay several steps ahead of his foes. Ian, on the other hand, seemed more intuitive; he could make connections that were not obvious and, in that way, reminded Parker of Jarod. While Irons made her feel a little off-kilter (like a schoolgirl with a crush on her favorite teacher), Ian’s presence had always made her feel secure.

They spent a few moments engaged in the pleasantries of a social call. Wine was offered and served. Irons lead her to the leather sofa and he sat on her left. She glanced around the room, noting that Ian had disappeared.

“I know about the deal you had with your father,” Mr. Irons began. “I believe the terms dictated that you could leave his employ once The Pretender was returned. I am curious as to what you plan to do after you leave The Centre.”

Parker gave him a sly, knowing smile. “Are you offering me a job, Mr. Irons?”

He countered with a playful smile, and Parker felt once again like a little girl.

He said, “I am offering you The Centre…free from Triumverate control.”

~*~*~*~*~

To be continued...

Gabe opened a plain manila folder and handed it to Sara. “These women were volunteer nurses working with Florence Nightingale during the Crimean War in 1855.”

Sara looked at the printout of an old newspaper article with a picture of a group of women, all dressed in apron-covered frocks. Sara’s eye was drawn to one of the women seated in the front row; the woman wore the Witchblade. Sara braced herself for a vision, but none came. She glanced at Gabriel then looked back at the newspaper clipping.

According to the caption, the woman with the Witchblade was Florence Nightingale. Sara raised an eyebrow, returning her attention to Gabriel.

“Florence Nightingale?” She hadn’t meant to sound as doubting as it had come out.

Gabriel gave her a smug smile. “Actually, no.” He reached over to his desk and gave her another printout. “This is Florence Nightingale.”

The woman in this printout was not the one wearing the Witchblade in the newspaper article. Sara looked at the newspaper article again. Florence Nightingale was seated next to the woman with the Witchblade. Gabriel added, “They must have made a mistake when they identified the women in the picture.”

“So, who is she?”

“Mary Smith. She trained under Nightingale, and according to Nightingale, was a gifted student who helped immensely with her – and I quote – ‘almost preternatural insight’.”

Both of Sara’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Gabriel smiled and nodded.

Sara prepared herself for visions, but none came. She glanced at the Witchblade with a little surprise, then asked Gabriel, “What else do you know about her?”

“She returned to England a few years later. Got married. Had one daughter…which seemed to be the trend for a couple of generations.” Gabriel handed Sara a sheet of paper outlining everything he was telling her. “Smith’s great-granddaughter emigrated to the US, had one child, a girl coincidentally enough also named Mary. That Mary married a man named Jamison and they, too, had a daughter, Catherine Elaine. They moved to Delaware when Catherine was a baby and that’s where the trail goes cold.”

“And the Witchblade?”

“None of them were wearing it in the pictures I could find. But I’ll keep looking.”

Sara nodded and Gabriel walked over to his computer and started typing on the keyboard. He said, “I’ve got something else to show you.”

~*~*~*~*~

Parker tried to keep the surprise from her face, but from the way Irons’ smile grew wider, she was sure she had failed. “That’s…quite a generous offer.”

With a little gleam in his eye, Irons nodded once. “Contingent on Jarod’s return to and continuing to work for The Centre, of course.”

Parker tried (and failed) to keep her smile from twisting into one of mild disgust. “Of course.” She raised her glass to her lips muttering, “It always comes back to Jarod.”

She took a long taste of her wine, certain that Irons and the rest of the universe were laughing at her.

“Tell me, Miss Parker,” Mr. Irons said, “Why did your Pretender run away?”

Parker focused on his face trying to read where he was going with that question. That topic was not one for discussion outside Centre walls, but she was sure Irons knew why Jarod had left. Irons would not have asked, otherwise.

“He was betrayed by The Centre, by the only home he had known. At his core, Jarod is a do-gooder. When he learned that his good work was being corrupted, he had no reason to stay.”

“If he was offered a position as a full employee of The Centre with complete freedom to do only simulations of his choosing and to come and go as he pleases, do you think he would return?”

Parker’s gut reaction was No way! but the idea had some merit. If nothing else, Jarod could reunite his family and guarantee their safety. For that, he might do it. “Possibly, but it would be a hard sell. He doesn’t exactly trust The Centre.”

“But he trusts you.”

Jarod did trust her – he trusted her to do the right thing when it mattered, he trusted her to take care of Sydney, he trusted her in their quest for the truth, he had even trusted her with Tommy... Sometimes she felt that trust was misguided and undeserved, a phantom emotion leftover from their childhood. And sometimes…sometimes she felt that trust was the only thing that kept her from becoming a monster like the other Parkers.

She shrugged, trying not to give away too much to Irons. “That’s not enough.”

She sipped her wine then asked, “Say I were to accept your offer, but I was unable to convince Jarod to return to the fold. What would happen then?”

“Then there would be no need to restrict The Centre’s endeavors.” Irons tilted his head slightly, and his eyes turned colder. “And if you had any reservations about that type of work, then I would replace you with your brother.”

Parker decided Irons was a bastard, but at least he was being honest about it. “Have you already made a similar offer to my brother?”

For an instant, she thought she saw surprise in his eyes.

“No,” he replied, but did not elaborate.

Parker considered asking for more of an explanation but decided it was best not to. If he wanted her to know, he would have told her. Instead, she asked, “how will you take care of the Triumverate?”

“I will offer to buy them out, and they will probably refuse.”

A question flashed in Parker’s brain: Did he know about the Scrolls?

“But I’m sure something can be arranged.” A little smile danced on his lips. “I can be rather resourceful.”

And by “I” you really mean “Ian”, Parker thought dryly. She smiled. “I’m sure.”

Parker took a moment to sample the wine again then looked at him for a long moment. Kenneth Irons hadn’t become The Kenneth Irons by doing extravagant favors for pretty girls. “What do you want from me in return?”

He looked at her and his eyes, for a fleeting moment, seemed to have sparked with something Parker could not quite identify. She thought he might ask for sexual favors, and while she wasn’t necessarily averse to the idea, she would be disappointed that Kenneth Irons had turned out to be so…banal and ignoble.

He smiled that playful smile again and Parker had to wonder whether he knew what she was thinking. “I do not want anything from you…or Jarod…or The Centre.”

He paused, waiting for her reaction, but Parker only raised an eyebrow. She didn’t buy that for a minute and he knew it. He stood, setting his glass on a side table and took a few steps toward the fire before turning back to her. He looked somber, sincere and almost vulnerable in a way she was sure few had ever witnessed.

“I am in your mother’s debt. Because of my business dealings with your father, I have been unable to repay that debt until now.”

Parker didn’t even try to hide her surprise. “You…you knew my mother?”

Irons nodded, rubbing the scar on his right hand with his left. “A long time ago,” he said softly.

He straightened up, his demeanor losing that fleeting vulnerability. His eyes hardened, boring into Parker’s. When he spoke, his voice was again strong. “How I knew Catherine and the nature of my debt to her are personal. I will not share that with you. My offer to leave The Centre in your hands with Jarod in your employ is genuine. It is not exactly what Catherine wanted, but it is all I can offer you.” With a knowing look, he added, “and only you.”

So, he wasn’t going to make the same offer to Lyle? Interesting. A million thoughts began to run through Parker’s mind, but they all came down to one: If she took over at The Centre, she would have access to everything. She would finally have the answers to all the questions. Could she make this decision now? Shouldn’t she talk to Jarod about it? What if Irons changes his mind? Maybe this was one of those damned turning points Jarod was talking about.

“You do not have to give me an answer at this moment, Miss Parker.”

Parker looked up at Irons who had that playful smile again. And with that, he transformed back into his 'perfect host' persona – offering more wine and a meal, both of which she declined, but she promised to have an answer for him within a few days. She wanted to get back to her hotel room, take a long shower and consider his proposal. More importantly, she had to talk to Jarod. Sam hadn’t called her, so she knew Jarod had gotten away. Today was her birthday and Boy Wonder never failed to call to offer his best wishes.

Irons offered Ian to drive her back into the city and didn’t give Parker a chance to object. Apparently, Ian had duties there anyway. She’d check-in with Sam on the way, and once she got to her hotel room, she would wait for Jarod’s call.

~*~*~*~*~

To be continued...

Sam slowly opened his eyes and found himself in a chair with his arms handcuffed behind him and his legs duct taped to the chair. That, in itself, wasn’t unexpected – Jarod had clocked him good in that alley and Jarod wasn’t a killer. Sam wondered how long he had been out and whether Miss Parker was okay. When he glanced up, he saw a very angry Jarod pointing a gun at him. The gun had a silencer, and Sam was now rethinking whether Jarod would actually shoot him.

“I can’t say I’m happy to see you, Sam.”

It was dark out so Sam guessed he had been out at least a couple of hours. He looked around the room and saw his gun and cell phone on the bed. He recognized the suitcase next to the bed. They were in Miss P’s hotel room.

Jarod was across the room in three quick strides and his arm went up. Sam raised his chin, anticipating being hit with the gun and ready to roll his head with the hit, but Jarod stopped himself with a growl and walked back to the other end of the room. Of all the run-ins Sam had had with Jarod, Sam had never seen him so out of control.

Jarod aimed the gun at Sam again. “How did you know she was in New York?”

She? “I came with Miss Parker.”

Jarod re-sighted the gun on Sam’s left knee. “Not her. My mother. How did you know she was in New York?”

His mother? Sam wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but he had to try to calm Jarod down and buy time for Miss P to return. “We didn’t. We had a lead on you. One of Broots’ programs got a hit on someone doing a background check on Jarod Webster. Miss Parker and I left Blue Cove this morning.”

Sam knew Jarod valued honesty and was being straight with The Pretender. Sam hoped that would buy him the time he needed for Miss P’s return. And once she was here…

“Who ordered a cleaner team yesterday?”

“Who died?”

“I’m asking the questions! Now, who ordered a cleaner team yesterday?”

“I don’t know!” Sam thought frantically, trying to remember something, anything, that could buy him some time. “I overheard Willie say something to Mr. Raines about a cleaner team being sloppy. Something about the fire department getting there sooner than expected.”

Jarod cocked his head to the side. “You’re being awfully cooperative, Sam. That’s not like you.”

“You don’t know me.” Sam shrugged. “If I’m cooperative, I trust that you will set me free.”

Jarod’s eyes narrowed and the gun came back up to Sam’s chest. “Trust can also kill you.”

Sam looked at the gun and then back up to Jarod. “You gonna kill me?”

Jarod’s eyes were giving nothing away, but after a moment, he lowered the gun. Before Sam could say anything else, his cell phone began to ring. Jarod grabbed it and checked the caller ID. “It’s her. I’ll be listening.”

Sam understood the implied threat. Jarod held up the phone between their ears.

Sam said, “Sam, here.”

“How are you, Sam?”

“Just peachy, Miss Parker.” It was a code phrase – one of several Sam and Miss P had worked out years ago in case either of them was captured by Jarod. Now she knew Sam was handcuffed under Jarod’s care and at their hotel. That would make her come straightaway.

“And Jarod?” she asked

“He got away.” Sam glanced at Jarod who nodded.

“I’m headed back to the hotel now.”

“Yes, Miss Parker.” The phone beeped – she had ended the call.

Jarod closed the phone and tossed it back on the bed. He took a few deep breaths before walking over to the other side of the bed and grabbed something off the floor. As Jarod returned, Sam saw it was a roll of duct tape.

Jarod spun the roll around a finger. “If you promise to stay quiet, I won’t tape your mouth shut.”

Sam nodded and Jarod tossed the tape onto the bed. Sam watched as Jarod paced for a while then he walked over to the balcony.

~*~*~*~*~

Gabriel waved at Sara to join him by the computer. She walked over to his workstation and stood behind him. With a mouse click, a picture of an Egyptian hieroglyph filled the screen. The woman in the hieroglyph wore a bracelet that looked different than Sara’s, but from the sudden warmth on her right wrist, she was sure it was the Witchblade.

He said, “That’s Hatshepsut. Ever heard of her?”

Sara opened her mouth to speak and in that split second, a few random images flashed in her mind. They were not as strong as visions and had come and gone before she could make anything out. “Don’t think so.”

“She was a ruler in ancient Egypt. Technically, she became a regent for her husband’s young son after her husband died, but she eventually ruled as a Pharaoh. She lead a few military campaigns, but was better known for re-establishing trade and for her economic policies. During her reign, there was peace and lots of prosperity that let her initiate building projects like these…”

Gabriel clicked his mouse a bit to reveal a webpage that had pictures of several ancient Egyptian buildings. “The buildings she commissioned set a new standard for Egyptian architecture. It wouldn’t be rivaled by anyone for another thousand years.”

The Witchblade remained quiet on Sara’s wrist. That was not what she had come to expect from the Witchblade and she wondered wryly if it could be broken.

Gabriel scrolled down the page to a beautiful, colonnaded structure built into a cliff-face. “That was supposed to be her tomb. It was designed by the royal architect – a guy named Senemut. Rumor is that Senemut and Hatshepsut were involved. He came from a literate, lower class family but he was extremely bright. He ended up holding something like eighty different posts during her time from architect to general, and he did them all very well. This guy could be anything he wanted to be.”

Jarod’s voice saying, “I can become whoever I want to be.”

Sara looked at Gabriel for a moment, processing what she had just learned about the two Wielders. Were they a part of her past? Was she a Jamison? Both had used the Witchblade for peaceful purposes. Both had somehow managed to control its bloodlust.

Dominque Boucher’s voice, contemptuous, “Your bloodline never could control Digitabulum.”

Or were they a different bloodline altogether?

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Gabriel rolled his chair across the room and pulled out a very old looking book from a shelf. “I was researching something for another client…

Jarod shaking Gabriel’s hand, “I’m Jarod.”

Sara willed the vision away, trying to concentrate on what Gabriel was saying.

“…so anyway, I know it’s something like five times removed from the original source, and the original source was supposed to have been delirious with fever, but I still thought you should know.” He rolled back over to his desk, narrowly missing banging into Sara.

“This guy supposedly was a Knight Templar. He was injured in battle, and in his fever-induced delirium claimed that he and his brother were part of an ancient warrior bloodline whose destiny was to serve a great warrior goddess with a magical gauntlet. Sounds like the Witchblade to me.”

Gabriel handed her the book, Tales of Templar Rule and Punishment. Sara turned the book in her hands, afraid to open the delicate volume.

Two knights, both wearing a white mantle with a red cross, both with long dark hair and warm dark eyes…

“For that,” Gabriel was saying, “he was tried for violating the Templar Rule of Order. He was forgiven for his crime of heresy, but he left the order after that. And remember that Alençon guy who fought with Joan of Arc? Him and the knight and Senemut…I just thought…you know...” He shrugged. “Maybe you aren’t alone in this.”

Sara scoffed. “Are you saying I’ve got a knight in shining armor out there somewhere?”

Gabriel only shrugged again, not meeting her eyes and possibly a little uncomfortable with the topic.

As much as her pride found the idea ridiculous, another part of her – the part of her that felt she had no connection to anyone – wondered if it was true. She was tempted by the idea that someone out there could just…understand. Was this why the Witchblade had introduced Jarod into her life?

She leaned a little closer to Gabriel and in a teasing voice said, “Maybe it’s you.”

He gave her a cheeky grin. “Nah. I’m a squire, at best.”

Sara laughed, placing the book on his desk. “Thanks for the info.”

~*~*~*~*~

Sam knew the view was spectacular – the Empire State Building could clearly be seen as the centerpiece of the view – but he was surprised to see that it was snowing again. Jarod stood there, looking out the glass doors for what seemed to Sam to be hours, but was probably less than one. Sam closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain in his jaw and ribs which seemed to be getting worse.

Sam heard a phone ring. He opened his eyes as Jarod answered the room’s phone. “Yes?” He listened, glanced at his watch then said, “Thank you, Trish.” Jarod smiled briefly. “Yes, she is.”

He turned to Sam. “I’m sure my wife will love her surprise. Thank you for your help.”

Jarod hung up the phone. “Do you know Trish? Patricia? She’s working the front desk. Nice lady. She’s been married for almost forty years.” With each word Jarod spoke, he got closer to Sam and his voice turned darker. “She just became a grandmother. It must be nice to watch your kids grow and have them have children of their own.”

Jarod loomed menacingly over Sam, the anger and despair plain on Jarod’s face. For the first time in his life, Sam was truly afraid of Jarod.

“That’s something,” Jarod snarled, “that my mother will never know. Because of you people.”

Jarod glanced at his watch, then went over near the door.

~*~*~*~*~

Parker knew Jarod was on the other side of her hotel room door. She knew Jarod wanted to talk to her face-to-face and doubted it had anything to do with her birthday. What she did not understand was why he had Sam in the room. It would have been easy enough for Jarod to corner her sans Sam. It was just as well. She wanted to talk to Jarod, too.

She debated whether to go in with her weapon drawn. Sam would be expecting her to, and if she didn’t, Sam might report that back to the Powers That Be. She unlocked her hotel room door with her left hand while getting her gun from her holster with her right. She used her foot to push the door open. She took a few steps into the room, letting her Smith & Wesson lead the way. She could see Sam farther in, but no Jarod. As she thought that, someone grabbed her right arm, twisting it up painfully behind her. She felt them take her gun, then push her over to where Sam was.

She turned to find Jarod standing near the bed, aiming a gun at her and Sam. She held up her hands in surrender. She was sure Jarod would never kill her, but he did have a gun aimed at her chest and accidents did happen. “Jarod…”

“Did you know?!” he demanded.

Parker took a good look at him. He was furious, but he was hurting – she could see it in his eyes. What the Hell…

“Did you know?!” he repeated, the gun shaking in his hand. “Did you know they sent someone to kill my mother?!”

“What?”

“She’s dead, Parker.” With that, Jarod collapsed onto the bed, tossing the gun aside and then held his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Parker said softly. He looked up at her, and she was startled at the raw emotion on his face. She had seen pain in his eyes before, but never anything like that. And in that instant, she knew the source of all his pain. He would never know his mother, never know what it was like to be hugged by a mother that loves you…his quest to put his family back together was one that would forever be left unfinished. His one dream, the one that fueled him the last five years, was now shattered. She thought of all the things he had endured throughout his life and wondered if this was just too much.

She also knew, guiltily, that a small part of him was angry that he had failed Parker; he had tried so hard to find answers for both of them, but now all they were left with were the questions. He looked down, wiping the tears from his eyes.

She knew there was nothing she could say – she knew his pain. She, at least, had memories of her mother and Parker wondered if that had made her grief easier or harder. But she knew there was something she could do. Something she should have done all those years ago when she had first seen his hurt. She approached him carefully, trying to be non-threatening and unsure of how he would react. She sat next to him, pulling him close and tucking his head under her chin.

“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. I won’t let them hurt you anymore. She felt a strange sense of déjà vu at the silent promise – the same promise she had made to Gemini in Donoterase. He began to shake in her embrace, and Parker shut her eyes against her own tears.

~*~*~*~*~

To be continued...

Twenty minutes. Jake glanced at his watch again. He had spent the last twenty minutes on the phone with Sara discussing the Charles case. According to Sara, Frankie Franchetti was a dead end, and unless forensics came up with anything, she implied that the case would get cold fast. He didn’t like it and said as much, preparing to argue his case with Sara.

“We can’t solve them all, Jake,” she had said in a surprisingly sympathetic tone. “Sometimes we just have to let go, even if we don’t want to.”

Jake knew that, but he wasn’t ready to let go just yet. He knew he should let it go and concentrate on his real purpose. But he hadn’t done all he could, and so now he was back in the neighborhood where Margaret Charles was shot, going door-to-door on his own time, hoping to find her last residence. The uniforms had already canvassed the area, mainly asking supers and apartment managers about her, but had found nothing. For Jake, that didn’t mean much; if she was on the run, she would have found a way to hide from such cursory questioning. He had called Jarod and left a message on his voicemail. Jake wasn’t optimistic that forensics would give them a new lead or that finding Margaret Charles’ last residence would be easy, but he had to try. Only then could he let the case go.

~*~*~*~*~

Sam watched as Miss P consoled Jarod. If Jarod’s mother was dead, that changed everything, and Sam’s instructions were clear. He waited quietly until Jarod pulled away from Miss P.

Jarod looked at her for a long moment with gratitude and tenderness. “Thank you.”

She gave him a little smile. “I wish I had brought that tea with me.”

He grinned briefly in return. “I could use it.”

Over the years, Sam had watched the two of them exchange barbs and taunts, but he had never witnessed their friendship and was not prepared for the apparent depth of it. Sam suddenly felt like an interloper, and it was obvious whose side Miss P was on. Sam knew that didn’t make his job any easier.

Sam cleared his throat. Quietly, he said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Jarod. Margaret was a nice lady.”

Jarod and Miss P’s heads turned sharply towards him. They didn’t have to say anything – Miss P’s questioning eyebrow said it all. Sam continued, “Actually, I knew both your mothers. I was one of the children that Catherine Parker rescued.”

~*~*~*~*~

Ian settled in to watch Sara from his usual perch on her fire escape. Earlier that afternoon, he had felt that prickling sensation at the back of his neck which told him Sara was seeing visions. As if in answer, Ian himself had then experienced a series of brief visions…

Ian as a Roman Centurion, fighting alongside his lover who had the same green eyes as her great grandmother, Cathain.

Ian in armor, in the midst of the assault on Jargeau, hearing Jeanne’s imploring words, “Go back from this place, or that canon in the city will kill you!”

Ian removing his white mantle with the red cross then handing it and his brother’s over to the Commander…

…then turning to his brother who with the long hair and beard was barely recognizable as Jarod in this lifetime and was saying, “Come, we will return home to Aragón and my Mirabella…”

But now, the Witchblade was quiet for which Ian was somewhat grateful. He could concentrate on trying to figure out what to do next. The Witchblade had drawn Jarod and Parker into Sara’s life and despite Ian’s outward calm, that had thrown Ian into a momentary tailspin. Ian wasn’t sure what the Witchblade planned or what his father might have set into motion, but he was worried that either would lead to the one thing he didn’t want – Sara out of his life. Had the Witchblade decided he was somehow not worthy of serving the Wielder? Or, worse, had it decided to reject Sara?

Ian immediately rejected those thoughts. He knew Sara was a true Wielder…but so was Parker. He was as sure of that as he was that the Sun would rise in the East. So did that mean that he had failed? Or was this a test?

He watched as Sara stood and walked out of his field of view. She returned shortly after with another beer and sat again at her sofa. He was sure that she was unaware of his presence. He knew that if he concentrated on the Witchblade, it would make his presence known to her, but he did not want to upset her. Instead, Ian found himself placing a gloved hand on the window, wishing for her to return the gesture on the other side of the glass...for her to acknowledge him...

Ian wasn't sure exactly what Sara had learned from Gabriel, but he did know that she now knew something of their bond or at least suspected it. Ian had not told Sara of his bond to the Witchblade and to her. He told himself that he had not done so for her sake - to let her learn on her own, to allow her time to adjust to being the Wielder as his father had suggested, but in truth, he had been afraid of her rejection. And she would reject him, if nothing else, because of her distrust of his father. Ian knew of his father's tumultuous history with the Blade, and Sara was correct to distrust him.

Sara had another choice before her, though neither she nor Jarod knew of it. Jarod and Ian's bloodlines were intertwined, so much so that if Ian was honest with himself, he would admit that he had hinted about Jarod's connection to the Witchblade so that Sara would pursue it and discover Ian's own connection to her. In fact, it was this same bond that had compelled him to trust Parker when they were children, to train with her in Japan years later and just today to arrange for Parker's release from custody despite knowing it would upset Sara. He wasn't surprised to see that same bond assert itself between Jarod and Sara as they learned to trust each other.

Ian focused his attention back on Sara for a moment. After two sips of her beer, she looked up towards the window, but her expression remained thoughtful. Ian closed his eyes and concentrated. He could faintly feel her sadness, her loneliness, and he was once again overwhelmed by the compassion he felt for her.

Ian opened his eyes, coming to a decision. He wasn't giving her up without a fight. Before Sara could accept Ian, she had to trust him, and Ian had to give her something on which to build that trust. He knew his father would disapprove - he would see it for what it was: an act of rebellion against his authority, a rejection of his love, the choice of Sara over him, and, what would gall him the most, a machination of the Witchblade which allowed the Wielder to again choose someone other than him. Ian felt a comforting warmth as he remembered the twinkle in Sara's eyes when she smiled, and for the first time in his life, his father's disapproval didn't matter.

~*~*~*~*~

To be continued...

It had taken some convincing (and Jarod re-acquiring a gun), but Sam was grateful that they had removed the handcuffs and let him remove the duct tape around his legs. He had stood and stretched a little before sitting back down. Jarod remained sitting on the bed and Miss P stood off to one side.

"Start talking, Sam." She ordered.

"I was born John Atlee. My parents had gone to NuGenesis to get pregnant. I had the Pretender gene and I was identified as a potential Pretender." Sam looked at Jarod. "When I was around ten, I was taken to The Centre. I had been there a few months when Mrs. Parker came to see me in my room. She said she and some friends were going to take me home."

Sam glanced up at Miss P. The expression in her face showed interest in his story, but her posture was one Sam knew all too well. She was furious. Sam decided it was safer to focus on Jarod. "She took me to your parents - they were staying with Harriet Tashman at her farm in upstate New York. I stayed with Margaret and the major until my parents could be contacted. The major arranged for our new identities and helped my father fake a car accident."

Jarod interrupted, "I remember now - according to The Centre's files, John Atlee and his parents died in 1965."

Sam nodded. "Mrs. Parker said that was the only way to be sure that The Centre wouldn't look for us. It was a lot easier to do that kind of thing back then."

"And then?"

"And then my parents and I took up our new lives. We saw your father a few times after that. I think he was checking up on us. Before my father died, he made me promise that I would help the people who had helped us. I was only seventeen, so at the time, I wasn't sure how I could help, but I promised I would."

"How did you end up becoming a sweeper?" Jarod asked.

Sam grinned. "Actually, your father gave me the idea. I had just finished college and I wasn't sure what to do with my life. Your father happened to come by for a visit. We got to talking and he mentioned that they were hiring more security. I thought I had a great plan - have a man on the inside, one that no one would think twice about, one who could be free to move about. Your dad was furious."

Sam shook his head, remembering how angry the major had been. "He didn't want me near that place ever again. But I signed up anyway. I was determined to be the perfect Centre sweeper - one that they could trust with their most precious of commodities, their Pretenders. And then I'd figure out a way to get you out. That was the plan, anyway."

Jarod nodded. "When I first escaped, I looked at your personnel file. You were the perfect Centre sweeper. I didn't think I could convince you to switch sides. I should have known something wasn't right about that."

Now Sam smiled, pleased he had fooled the great Pretender. "Apparently, I was too good. Mr. Parker took me out of the field before I could be assigned to you and had me train new sweepers." Sam tilted his head toward Miss P. "Including that one. When Miss Parker was tasked to retrieve you, she asked for me. It was sheer luck."

Whatever Sam was going to say next was forgotten as Miss P's fist made contact with his jaw.

"You son of a bitch! I trusted you!" She grabbed Sam by the shirt, her right arm going back for another punch.

"Parker!" Jarod reached for her arm and pulled her back.

She struggled a bit before settling down. "I'm just sick of being lied to."

"I know," Jarod said gently.

She sighed. "Let me go. I'm not going to hit him again."

Jarod released her and she slumped down on the bed.

Sam rubbed his jaw, giving them all some time to regroup. He focused on her. "Miss Parker, when we were on the job, you know I had your back. I owed your mother that much. But I couldn't tell you who I was. Hell, until a few minutes ago, I didn't know what side you were on."

"I get it, Sam."

"And I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you got shot."

Her eyes shot back up to him.

Sam continued, "I had to pick between you and Jarod, and I didn't think Lyle would kill you. I couldn't say the same for Jarod. I knew Lyle would believe that I wanted revenge for all of Jarod's pranks and had to take advantage of it." He turned to Jarod. "I had to stay close, to make sure that lunatic didn't kill you."

Jarod grinned. "You could have pulled your punches."

Sam grinned back. "I did." He looked down at his hands, his grin fading as quickly as it had appeared. "I'm sorry about…well, everything I did." He looked back up to Jarod. "I had to gain Lyle's trust so that I could be assigned to transport you to Africa. I was gonna tell you who I was on the plane, but then Mr. White showed up at the last minute and that plan went to Hell."

Jarod nodded, but Sam wasn't sure he was forgiven.

"After we, uh, 'landed'," Sam continued, "I wasn't sure how conscious the pilot was and thought it best to stay on the inside."

Sam glanced at Miss P then back at Jarod. Both looked thoughtful, so Sam waited to see if they had any questions.

It was Miss P who finally broke the silence. "Did you ever hear my mother say anything about her plan? Did Margaret?"

"Yes," Sam replied. "Margaret told my folks that if anything should ever happen to her, that we could contact James Pezzini of the NYPD. That he knew the plan and could help us."

"James Pezzini is dead," Jarod said, then smiled at Miss P. "But you met his daughter today."

Miss P looked at Jarod with a look that was somehow both incredulous and murderous. "You've got to be kidding me."

Jarod laughed, leaving Sam to wonder what was so funny.

~*~*~*~*~

to be continued...

For the second time in three nights, Sara sat on her sofa staring at the box of items her father had left her. This time, the staring was accompanied by beer - two, in fact. The box sat unopened on the coffee table before her. She loved her father, and he loved her. That had been enough for her for so many years. But now she had the Witchblade and needed to know more about it which meant investigating her past. The information Gabriel dug up was coming but slowly. Irons was a Witchblade expert, but there was no way in hell she'd ask him. Nottingham probably knew as much Irons, but Sara doubted that Nottingham would go against his master's orders. She didn't know what the objects in the box meant, but she was beginning to realize that she had to find out who she was. Did her birth parents know about the Witchblade? Was that why they put her up for adoption? Was she a Bronte or a Jamison? Both? Neither?

Sara set the beer bottle down on the coffee table next to the other empty one. She sat back and closed her eyes, thinking about what Gabriel had said. "Maybe you aren't alone in this."  And right now she could really use someone to talk to about this.  Where the hell are you, Danny? The Witchblade tingled on her wrist, and a comforting warmth spread through her. Refuge. Nottingham.

"I might enjoy your visits more if you actually knocked."

"If I knocked," Nottingham replied easily from her left, "would you actually let me visit?"

Sara almost smiled at that and blamed the beer. She opened her eyes and spotted Nottingham standing by the edge of the couch. He was dressed again in what she thought of as his uniform - coat, combat boots, cargo pants and watchcap - and she couldn't help herself from asking, "Slumming?" Damn beer.

His brow furrowed slightly in confusion, and Sara saved herself from explaining by asking, "Why are you here?"

"You have questions."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "And you have answers for me?"

His eyes met hers, and he nodded once. He seemed to hesitate, then nodded again with more certainty.

"Okaaay," she drawled. "You. Jarod. Warrior bloodlines. Tell me about it."

"Throughout the history of the Witchblade, there have been those whose destiny is tied to the Witchblade and the Wielder. They are chosen by the Wielder. The Chosen is…an associate…a sibling of sorts. He or she serves as a partner, friend…" He seemed to be struggling to find the right word. "…an ally… a champion…a companion…a consort…"

"A lover?"

"Sometimes," he said softly, then lowered his head slightly. "Sometimes an enemy."

Sara frowned, not quite understanding why the Wielder would 'choose' an enemy.

Nottingham added, "Their duty is to help the Wielder reach her full potential. To push her to use the Witchblade, to teach the Wielder, to help her understand it. To challenge her."

Sara suddenly remembered Irons' words when she had first acquired the Witchblade. "We are linked, you and I. Does this disturb you?"

"So Irons is from one of these bloodlines?"

"Yes."

"And you, too?"

Nottingham nodded and Sara's vision blurred for an instant…

Irons sitting on a piano bench, turning to a little boy with dark hair and troubled brown eyes who was saying, "Father, I had the dream again…"

Sara had known that the two men had a relationship that was more than employer/employee, but she would not have guessed that it was a familial one. It did, however, go a long way to explain some of Nottingham's behavior. She tilted her head slightly, feeling a strange mixture of tenderness and confusion towards Nottingham. "Like father, like son."

Ian shrugged. "In this lifetime."

Sara sat back, crossing her arms across her chest. "I rejected him, so now I'm stuck with you?"

Sara saw the flash of hurt in his eyes before he focused on the floor. He said, "Only if you wish it."

"And if I don't?"

"There are others."

Without warning, Sara's vision blurred again…

A Wielder dressed in the Japanese armor of a samurai, smiling, being hugged from behind by a man who had his face in her neck…the man lifting his head…the brown eyes, the long black hair…except for the moustache, the man looked just like Danny…He turned the Wielder towards him and cupped her face with his hands, saying, "We will go across the sea. As long as we are together, we will be safe. I promise you, Itagaki…"

Sara blinked as the vision faded, then bolted off the sofa. When she looked at Nottingham, she saw that Danny now stood a few feet from the wall at Nottingham's left. Danny had a sad smile on his face, while Nottingham looked tense and ready to attack as he scanned the general area where Danny stood.

Sara pursed her lips, trying to hold in her anger. She looked at Nottingham accusingly. "Like Danny? He was from one of these bloodlines too, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"Is that why you didn't help me that day at the Rialto? Is that why you let Danny die that day? So I would choose you or your master instead?"

"Sara," Danny started in a warning tone, but Sara interrupted him angrily.

"Stay out of it, Danny!"

Nottingham looked from Sara to the spot she had addressed then let out a breath, visibly relaxing. He turned back to her and when he spoke, his voice was gentle. "Do you really believe either of us had a choice that day?"

Sara opened her mouth ready to argue with him then shut it just as quickly as she realized that he was right. The Witchblade had orchestrated that fiasco to test her. It had manipulated all of them. She glanced at Danny, who now stood leaning against a wall with his hands in his pockets. He appeared to be watching her conversation with Nottingham with little more than casual interest.

Sara waited a moment, forcing her anger to subside. "Why did you knock Jake out?"

"If I had not, he would also be dead."

"Didn't think you cared."

"I don't," Nottingham replied honestly, "but he, like Gabriel, is not a part of this." With his right hand he made a small back-and-forth motion, indicating the Witchblade, Sara and himself.

And that answered what would have been Sara's next question.

"Jarod is from one of the Chosen bloodlines?" She made it sound like a question, but she already knew the answer.

"Yes."

"Is he your brother?"

Nottingham smiled somewhat sadly. "Not in this lifetime. Unfortunately."

"And Parker is from a different Wielder line?"

"Yes."

"Does Irons want her to take the Witchblade from me?"

Nottingham's eyes widened ever so slightly, and Sara was sure she had surprised him with the question.

"I do not know...but I do not think so."

Sara raised a questioning eyebrow. Irons wanted to control the Wielder, that much Sara knew for certain, and if he couldn't control Sara, she was sure he would find an alternate. Parker seemed like a good candidate.

Nottingham added, "I am certain Parker does not know about the Witchblade… at least, not yet. Neither does Jarod."

If she did, would she want it? Sara wondered. And what would she do with it? Sara glanced at Danny. He looked pointedly at the box on her coffee table then tilted his head at Nottingham.

Sara opened her mouth to ask Nottingham about her family and closed it just as quickly. It really bothered her that he could know more about her life than she did. It made her believe that she didn't know who she was at all. She had always felt a certain security as Sara Pezzini, cop and daughter of a cop, but now the Witchblade seemed to be going out of its way to take that security away from her. Was it trying to unbalance her? To gain more control over her? Or was it just blindly leading her to the truth?

Danny said, "Just ask him, Pez."

She glared at Danny who just smirked at her then she focused on Nottingham again. "Do you know who my birth parents are? Does Irons?"

Nottingham looked at her with an expression so full of sympathy that she almost believed it. "Mr. Irons might, but I do not. I am sorry, Sara."

Sara plopped herself back on the sofa, staring at the box. She stopped herself from asking the other questions that kept swirling in her head. Did her birth parents know about the Witchblade? Is that why I was adopted by…the Pezzinis? Is Elizabeth Bronte my grandmother? Why were Jarod and Parker brought into my life now? Did they or The Centre know anything about her birth parents?

She wasn't sure how long she sat there lost in her thoughts, but she barely registered Nottingham's voice as he said, "Perhaps, I should go."

She looked up to find him halfway to the front door. "One more question, Ian."

He turned back to her, his expression expectant and open.

She stood again, walking around the sofa, wanting to be face to face with him when she asked the question on her mind. "Why? Why go against Irons now?"

He took a few steps closer to her. "Because the only thing I can give you, the only thing you would accept from me right now, is the truth."

Nottingham sounded sincere, but Sara still wasn't sure she could trust him.

Danny said, "He's trying, Sara. Despite what it might cost him."

Sara looked over her shoulder at Danny. "What do you mean?"

Danny looked at her as if she was a complete idiot. "Figure it out."

Between Nottingham's familial ties to Irons and his Black Dragon training, it was no small thing for Nottingham to be disloyal to Irons. She heard the click of her front door and snapped her head back around. Nottingham was gone.

~*~*~*~*~

to be continued...