If she finished the reports by 6:00, managed to whip through traffic on her motorcycle, and get home by 6:30, then she could shower and dress and she just might be ready by 7:00, which was when Kenneth Irons was supposed to pick her up.  Her heart skipped a beat in an unexpected surge of anticipation at that thought.  Irons was both fascinating and oddly repelling, and every meeting with him was fraught with tension.  The man knew too much about what was going on in the criminal world not to be a part of it, no matter his protests that he was just a well-informed entrepreneur and philanthropist. 

Sara was certain in her bones that Irons was not what he appeared to be, that his 'interest' in the odd bracelet that had completely changed her life – and not necessarily for the better – was not entirely benign.  She was also certain that Ian Nottingham – dark, intense, mysterious, amazing and utterly confounding – was far from just a simple bodyguard.  He had been trailing around after her ever since she had acquired the Witchblade, and whether he was observing, protecting or just interfering to make sure Irons’ agenda – whatever that was – was advanced, Sara didn’t know. 

But Irons was the best source of information about the damned Witchblade, as he had told her more than once.  And Sara was certain she could take care of herself, no matter what secret and perhaps nefarious plans the great Kenneth Irons might have.  One advantage of the Witchblade:  She didn't even really need a gun anymore, although it was a necessary and reassuring prop when she was on duty.

Otherwise, what was she going to say when she needed to make an arrest?  Stop or I'll hit you with my bracelet?  Or how about:  Oh, yeah, Cap, the perp gave up when I waved this magic sword in his face.  Yeah, right.  Sara snickered at her own thoughts, and her fresh-faced new partner, Jake McCartey, looked up from his desk a few feet away.

"Didn't realize typing arrest reports was so amusing," he observed.  "For somebody who practically lives here, you seem pretty anxious to get finished.  Got a hot date tonight?"

"As a matter of fact," Sara replied, punching in the last few keystrokes with a flourish and hitting 'enter,'  "I'm going to a fancy party tonight and I have to get home and make myself gorgeous."  She pulled up another blank report form on the screen with a sigh, thumbing through her notes for the information to fill in all the blanks. 

"Don't tell me," Jake frowned.  "Irons, right?  God, Sara, that guy is a first class sleaze.  And that bodyguard who keeps showing up?  Gives me the creeps, especially the way he looks at you."

"And this is different from the way half the guys in the squad look at me – including you, McCartey – exactly how?  Now shut up and let me concentrate so I can get this damned report done."

"Okay, okay, geez," Jake groused, ducking back behind his computer monitor to finish his own paperwork.  But Sara could feel his eyes on her, knew there was a question he wanted to ask from the stillness of his body.  She ignored him, putting all her concentration into putting names and dates and charges into the computer, trying not to let anything distract her.

Her arm tingled, the bracelet circling her right wrist warming and feeling alive on her skin. 

She ignored it.  The damned Witchblade was like that sometimes, like it just wanted to remind her it was there.  It had been restless all day, as though it, too, was anxious to get going, to let whatever was going to happen tonight play itself out in anticipation of something… interesting occurring.  No sense of threat, though, at least not yet.  That was a relief.  Visions and psychic warnings could ruin your whole day, especially when they happened in the middle of a crowded squad room.

There, done!  She threw her notebook into her drawer, slammed it shut and locked it, then stood almost in the same motion.  She reached for her leather jacket and helmet and turned towards the door, only to find Jake standing in her way. 

"Sara," he said softly, looking furtively around the squad room to make sure they weren't overheard.  "I know what you've been through these last few months, and you sure deserve to go out and have a good time, but going out with Irons is mixing work and pleasure, and you gotta know that's bad news."

"None of your business, Jake," Sara growled at him.  The nerve of this rookie surfer-boy trying to tell her how to do her job or how to run her life! She started to push past him, but he grabbed her arm.

"Just tell me where you'll be, Pez.  Just in case."

Sara looked down at the hand circling her bicep, and let Jake see just how little she liked being manhandled.  Jake let go, blushing slightly, but he refused to back off.

"Just in case," her partner insisted.  "Irons has been at the edges of several investigations. He’s dangerous man, Sara.  Nottingham is a dangerous man, and if anything should happen I can always tell the Cap that you kept me in the loop.  Come on, Pez."

Sara let out a sigh of frustration.  She would have told her former partner without a second thought, but she didn't know Jake like she had known Danny Woo.  She'd shared everything with Danny.  He was the brother she had never had.  Until he had taken a bullet and died in her arms, put in the line of fire because of Sara's own bullheadedness.  She wouldn't put another partner at risk like that again – but neither could she keep pushing Jake away, her own grief and guilt eating away at the sense of trust partners needed to have in order to survive.

"Give me a break, Jake.  It's nothing important.  The Metropolitan Museum is opening a big exhibit tonight.  Irons invited me to go with him to the reception for the big donors.  A little wine, a little music, a little culture," she smiled.  "And maybe, if I’m lucky, a little information and insight about the mysterious Mr. Irons.  What?  You think some crime lord is going to shoot his way into the Met to steal an old tapestry for his bed? Now get out of my way.  I'm already going to be late."  Sara tugged her helmet on and brushed past her partner.  She didn’t want to meet his intense blue eyes anymore, knowing she was only telling him half the story. 

Partying was not an activity she did very often, and Sara sighed at the wretched state of her wardrobe.  Amid the dress uniform, the multitude of slacks, jackets, jeans and tops were exactly three dresses, one of them a suit to wear when she had to testify in court or go to funerals.  That outfit had seen a little too much use lately.  She had a skimpy red leather number she wore when she occasionally had to blend into the street life crowd – probably a little too tacky for tonight’s soirée.  The only other choice was her standard black all-purpose going-out dress.  No adornment, sleeveless, falling to the floor in unremarkable plainness, except for the rather risqué slit up one side all the way to her thigh.  Well, it would have to do.  She took it out and hung it in the bathroom while she took a shower, hoping that the ambient steam would help erase the telltale hanging-too-long-in-a-closet wrinkles.

By the time she finished applying some make-up, bemoaning her unfashionably dark, heavy eyebrows, and gathering her hair up on top of her head, there was a knock on her door.  She still didn't have her shoes on, and…shit, where were her high heels?  She couldn't even remember the last time she’d worn them.  She yanked the dress over her head while the insistent knocking continued, and barely managed to pull it into place by the time she got the door open.

"I'm sorry, I'm running…" It wasn't Kenneth Irons, but Ian Nottingham who hovered in the doorway, looking at her like he always did, as though she were some curious and fascinating bug under a microscope.  "Oh," was all Sara could think of to say to the strange, intense man.  "Well, I'll be just a minute.  I have to find my shoes."  She turned away, rummaging again in her closet, finally finding the pair and putting them on.

She turned, to find that Nottingham had wandered silently into the middle of the room, and was looking at the drum set she kept in the corner.   "It’s a good way to release tension,” she said in answer to his unspoken question.  “And not as hard on the knuckles as the heavy bag." 

"No doubt," he said softly, turning to look at her appraisingly.  "You look very beautiful, Sara."

Sara shrugged, uncomfortable with his close scrutiny.  "It's not exactly haute couture.  My Versaci ballgown was at the cleaners."

"Here," Nottingham reached into his pocket, and Sara saw he was wearing a tuxedo underneath the large overcoat.  His hair was pulled back into a neat bun, giving him a severe but elegant look, much in contrast to the nondescript dark outfits and concealing knit caps he usually wore.  Then her eye was drawn to the stunning jewelry sparkling in his hand.  "Mr. Irons asked if you would mind wearing these tonight."  He held up a choker of pearls, from which hung a large, teardrop shaped, iridescent dark ruby.  In his other hand were matching earrings.

"Oh."  Were they a gift?  If so, she certainly couldn’t take them.  A loan?  A family heirloom?  She hesitated, not knowing quite what to say.

Nottingham smiled.  It was an expression that didn't seem to fit his face very well.  "They are a loan for the evening, and a match to the studs in Mr. Irons' tuxedo.  He is particular about such things."

"I see."  She stepped forward and felt hands brush her shoulders and neck as he worked the clasp of the necklace.  They were cool and gentle, but still the touch made her shiver.  She covered her unease by turning and taking the earrings from him with a stiff smile and retreated to the bathroom to put them on.  She studied herself in the mirror, blinking in surprise. 

Suddenly the all-purpose plain black dress was an elegant setting for the warm pearls and fiery red stone that nested perfectly at the base of her throat.  A few wispy tendrils had escaped from her upswept hair and she had given up on taming them, letting them dangle free where the red highlights in her dark brown hair now accented the fire of the jewels in her earlobes.  The deep red from the center stone in the Witchblade on her wrist seemed to glow and shift, subtly changing color to match the dark sparkle of the rubies at her throat and ears. 

“Amazing what a difference a few thousand dollars worth of jewelry can make,” she murmured to herself before grabbing up a shawl and small purse.  But something caught the corner of her eye and she turned. 

There, reflected in the mirror, was Danny Woo, watching her.  Seeing his ghost had almost become routine, but it still chilled and saddened her that this insubstantial reflection, whether of her own mind or a conjuring of the Witchblade, was all she had left of someone to whom she had bared her soul.  It was cold comfort, and sometimes, no comfort at all.

“Well?” she prompted.  Danny’s appearances always seemed to foreshadow some looming turmoil in her life. 

Danny smiled.  “You look lovely, Sara.  You should dress up more often.”

And then, sometimes, there seemed to be no obvious purpose to his visits at all.  “That’s it?” Sara snapped.  “I’d stay and flirt, but I’ve got someone waiting.”  She turned to leave.

“Be careful tonight,” Danny called, and Sara stopped with her hand on the doorknob.

“I’m always careful,” she replied.  “You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

But as usual, Danny just smiled that annoyingly inscrutable smile.  “Just remember that the Witchblade has its own agenda, Sara.  It is capable of revealing a great deal, but it can also conceal and manipulate.  You have to rely on your own skills and instincts, and you were always a good cop, Pezzini.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Sara demanded, but Danny was gone.

Nottingham took her elbow as they mounted the marble stairs into the main exhibit area, where Sara could hear strains of violins drifting over the murmurs of conversation and tinkling of glasses.  They entered the large exhibit hall and Sara paused, suddenly feeling out of place in these elegant surroundings.  The lighting was subtle and indirect, emphasizing displays that sparkled and glowed, seeming to draw the light into themselves.  But the people were as much on display as the items of the exhibit – men in shiny tuxedos, their black bowties outlined starkly against the exaggerated white of their shirts, women in sparkling, floor length gowns, each one a work of art unto itself.  Sara touched the warmth of the ruby at her throat.  Were it not for the jewelry Irons had provided, she would have felt grossly underdressed.

"Ah, Sara," a familiar voice softly called.  Kenneth Irons separated from a nearby cluster of people and glided over to her with a sinuous grace, and not for the first time, Sara puzzled over the nature of this strange man's charisma.  His white-blonde hair was smoothed back from a lean, ageless face and intense blue-gray eyes.  Sara noticed that the studs on his tuxedo were, indeed, small rubies gleaming like tiny drops of blood down the pristine white of his shirtfront. 

Irons took her hand and bowed over it, barely brushing his lips across her knuckles, but his gaze lingered on the bracelet entwined around her wrist before it traveled to the necklace he had provided.  "You look stunning, and I am honored you were able to wear the jewelry I provided.  I was certain it would go nicely with your…other adornments."  Kenneth squeezed her hand slightly before Sara pulled it away.

"It was a very thoughtful gesture," Sara murmured as a shiver walked across her shoulders at Irons’ touch.  Nottingham took a glass of white wine from a nearby waiter and handed it to her, taking none for himself as he followed Sara and Irons at a slight distance.

"Do you know anything about tonight's event?" Irons asked, leading her to the nearest display case.

Sara shook her head as she sipped the chilled wine.  It slid smoothly down her throat, and she forced herself to relax a little.  She was okay.  She was dressed acceptably, and was on the arm of one of the most elegant, powerful men in the city.  She could do this.  "Keeping up with the whirl of high society doesn't occupy a lot of my time," Sara answered wryly.  "The company I usually keep is more likely to have found their last meal in a trash can than off a caterer's tray," she added as a waiter offered them a tray of something that looked more decorative than edible.

"Well this exhibit should be of particular interest to you," Kenneth continued.  "These are all ancient weapons and battle tapestries, ranging from the 5th Century B.C. to 18th Century A.D.  Many pieces from my own collection are here, as well as objects gathered from museums and private collections from around the world."

Sara let her eyes linger over the intricately engraved scimitar displayed against black velvet.  A large emerald was embedded in the hilt, which was encrusted with smaller stones of every conceivable color.  Beautiful and deadly.

"But the piece I really wanted you to see is over here," Kenneth guided her towards an alcove in a far corner of the hall, but they were intercepted by the exhibit’s curator, introduced as Dr. Verner Milstein, who sloppily kissed Sara’s hand and effused over Kenneth’s contributions.  She wiped the back of her hand off on her dress as they made their way through the rest of the hall, constantly interrupted by Irons' social acquaintances greeting him and making small talk. 

Some of the names and faces of the city’s social and financial elite were familiar, and Sara just smiled and nodded during the many introductions.  Socializing had never been a particular talent of hers.  Inevitably, she blurted something out that was just not the type of inconsequential chitchat that dominated these kinds of occasions, embarrassing herself and everyone else.  But Kenneth introduced her smoothly and proudly and it felt rather nice to be admired by the men and clearly envied by the women.  She listened and watched as Irons moved through the crowd with the suave sophistication of a man who had done this too many times to count.

At last they approached a display case, behind which was a gleaming suit of armor, remarkable chiefly for its size.  The person for whom it was made had to have been no taller than about 5'5", and the breastplate was formed to actually protect…breasts.

"Joan of Arc," Sara read the name in the midst of the paragraph of historical information provided on the label.  She looked a little closer, and noted that the armor included a mesh and plate gauntlet for the left hand, but none for the right.  She felt the Witchblade's warmth surge along her arm, as though it wanted to manifest itself as gleaming, deadly metal extending from the tips of her fingers to her elbow, matching the armor behind the glass.

"They never found the sword Joan of Arc used in battle," Kenneth read softly from the placard into Sara's ear, then added, "They never found it because it was no longer a sword, but a simple bracelet.  The priests took it from her, and for a long time it lay in the vaults at the Vatican."

Sara nodded, her skin suddenly tight with chills.  Joan of Arc, who was eventually burned at the stake.  A horrible death for someone who had probably only done the Witchblade's bidding.  She glanced at the red stone of the bracelet entwined around her arm and, to her inner eye, it roiled and gleamed, active, watching, waiting, expecting.  Sara clenched her fist.  No, she was not the Witchblade's blind instrument.  She would master it, not the other way around.

She turned from the exhibit, drawing Irons deliberately to another part of the hall and away from such tangible evidence of the Witchblade’s influence.  Then she heard a swift, hissing intake of breath, and Ian Nottingham, who had been silently observing the crowd behind them, abruptly swirled away towards the entrance.  Her eyes followed his swift retreat, then went to Irons for an explanation.  Kenneth smiled, looking pleased with himself.  "Don't worry, my dear.  I've arranged for a little gift for Ian tonight, and I expect it may have just arrived."  Sara cocked her head in curiosity, but didn't pursue the matter.  The relationship between Irons and his… bodyguard was peculiar, to say the least, and she knew Kenneth would evade any questions, anyway.

"You didn't have to come," Mac said for at least the third time that evening.  He handed his invitation to the guard and went through the security scanner.  The stringent security requirements now so common everywhere were making it more and more difficult to carry a sword.  Mac's katana was safely tucked in his coat and Methos' usual plethora of hidden weapons had also been reluctantly relinquished to the museum's coat check personnel.  "I had a choice.  I could stay in England and face whoever has been following me around," Mac continued, "or get out of the country and come to a reception that I promised I would attend anyway, over six months ago.  I would have thought you'd be happy that I avoided a challenger."

"You could have chosen another place to visit, you know," Methos responded.  They'd had this conversation several times already, and it was beginning to sound like a script from a sitcom.  But Methos at least knew his lines, and knew that Mac found this kind of grousing amusing, despite his look of annoyance.  "Fiji.  The Seychelles.  But no, you choose New York City, home of terrorists, bad air, bad traffic, incompetent cabbies, and Kenneth Irons.  Of course I had to come," Methos announced behind him, smiling blandly while Mac put his arms out and turned around so the guard could wave a wand over his body, discovering only heavy silver cufflinks and the stark setting of the onyx broach that served as a neck adornment in lieu of a bowtie.  "Who would keep you out of trouble, otherwise?  But can we at least go out afterwards to a pub, drink a beer, listen to some real music, meet some real people?"

Mac reliably rose to the bait.  "Good grief, Methos.  I've gotten us tickets to see "The Producers", put us up at The Sherry Netherlands hotel in a suite, paid for first class seats from London, and you're still complaining."

"And now you know why we shouldn't be here at all," Methos said in a low voice, leaning close.  "Look."  Methos pointed to the banner mounted at the entrance to the exhibit hall, which read:  ‘Art and Armor:  Finding Beauty in a Violent Past.’  But they both knew the nature of the exhibit.  What Methos was indicating was the display of the corporate logos of the exhibit's sponsors, the most prominent of which was Vorschlag Industries.

Mac frowned.  "The arrangement for the exhibit and my donation to it was made through the Met's curator long before Kenneth Irons ever heard of Adam Pierson or Duncan MacLeod and before they ever found sponsors for the exhibit.  Are you saying the Witchblade was responsible for all that?"

Methos shrugged.  "I only know that events seem to warp themselves around to fit whatever pattern the Witchblade has woven.  Just be careful, MacLeod.  If you see Irons, it might be best to keep your distance."

"Yes, oh wise one," Mac replied with a grimace.  “You know, somehow, against all odds, I've managed to deal with life for a few centuries before you came along to give me all this great advice,” he murmured.  They paused in the entrance archway, looking over the well-dressed crowd.  Mac glanced over at Methos with an appraising smile.  "Well, as a date, at least you clean up nicely."

Methos bowed his head a little and smiled.  Although he found sweaters and jeans more comfortable – and more anonymous – attire, he could be just as suave and sophisticated as his startlingly handsome friend. 

The two men acquired a glass of wine each and had just begun to look around when Mac was cornered by the curator.  After a few minutes of listening to the two old friends discuss the intricacies of the history of tapestries, Methos wandered away, ending up in front of the display of Joan of Arc's armor.  Fortunately, he had been in another part of the world during that little upheaval, although from the stories that had been told, he had been certain the Witchblade had surfaced once again.  The visions, the mysteriously acquired fighting skills, the unlikely fact that it was a peasant girl who suddenly emerged as a leader of the French armies – the signs were all too clear.  He noted the missing gauntlet from the right hand with a wry smile.  And Mac thought all this was mere coincidence?

"Dr. Pierson?" a low voice said at his elbow, and he turned in surprise.  He was rarely caught unaware by those around him.  Ian Nottingham bowed slightly, his lips curving in a small, pleased smile.  "Ah, it is you.  I am surprised to see you here.  Is Mr. MacLeod with you, by chance?"

"Mr. Nottingham," Methos acknowledged carefully.  Nottingham looked quite different in this setting, elegantly dressed in a well-cut tuxedo that set off his broad shoulders and long, lean frame.  "Quite an exhibit," he responded, deliberately avoiding the question.  "When I saw that Vorschlag was a corporate sponsor, I wondered if you or Mr. Irons would be here."  He moved along to the next exhibit, away from where he had left MacLeod.

Nottingham nodded, moving with him.  "I coordinated the event with the Met on Mr. Irons’ behalf and arranged for several items from his personal collection to be included.  There is a wonderful example of a 14th Century scimitar on display, completely intact with its original jeweled hilt." Nottingham nodded towards the entrance, where Methos had earlier noted the beautiful weapon.

"Ah, so you are more than Mr. Irons' bodyguard, then," Methos smiled, wondering if Nottingham realized that the donor of that particular item, Noel, Inc., was one of MacLeod’s shell corporations.

The implication of Methos’ wry comment didn't seem to bother Nottingham, who shrugged.  "I have worked for Kenneth Irons virtually all my life, Dr. Pierson.  I am a Vice-President of Vorschlag Industries and have many interesting and challenging responsibilities.  I am what I believe is sometimes called a general factotum, a jack-of-all-trades.  But Mr. Irons' personal safety is, of course, my highest priority.  Did you say whether Mr. MacLeod was with you?" Nottingham added.

"Fascinating,” Methos responded, not surprised that the intelligence behind those dark eyes had been put to good use.  Kenneth Irons was no fool, and Nottingham was an invaluable tool – but to what dark ends?  It was definitely time to leave.  “It's been lovely to see you again, Mr. Nottingham. Give Mr. Irons my regards," Methos smiled blandly and turned to slip away, but found a hard hand holding his arm and he went very still.  Dr. Adam Pierson was hardly the type to rip out someone’s throat just for holding his arm, as much as Methos the Immortal might have been tempted to.

Nottingham smiled, but this time it was not a particularly friendly expression.  "I'm sure Mr. Irons will insist that you see him for at least a moment, Dr. Pierson.  I don't think you ever finished that discussion about the tomb rubbing he was interested in."  Nottingham steered Methos inexorably towards a cluster of people, who gave way easily to Nottingham’s dark presence. 

"Mr. Irons?" Nottingham spoke, catching everyone's attention, but Irons had already spotted their arrival.

"Dr. Pierson," Irons acknowledged his presence without surprise, reaching out to shake his hand.  "Dr. Pierson is a renowned expert in archeology and ancient languages," he announced to the small crowd.  “He came all the way from England to see the exhibit, did you not, Doctor?"  Irons looked insufferably pleased with himself.

Methos inclined his head slightly.  "Wouldn't miss it for the world," he smiled, and snagged a fresh wine glass from a nearby waiter, which gave him an opportunity to quickly glance around the room, hoping that Mac was nowhere in view.  As he did, Nottingham slipped away, no doubt off to search for his ‘Sensei’ – Damn.  Methos returned his attention to Irons, who stepped back a little to reveal the woman at his side.

"I would like to introduce you to Miss Sara Pezzini, one of New York's finest," Irons said.

She was stunning.  Elegant, dark upswept hair, dressed in a severe black gown that emphasized broad, strong shoulders and the smooth fitness of a well-toned body.  Oddly, she reminded him of MacLeod.  Maybe it was the defiant, but sad look in the wide, almost colorless eyes.  And there it was.  The Witchblade, entwined around her right wrist, looking both sinister and beautiful.

She stared at him, looking slightly puzzled as she reached out a large hand.  "Dr. Pierson.  Nice to meet you," she said in a low, husky voice.

Methos tipped his glass as he, too reached out, spilling wine on his own sleeve before their hands touched.  "Oh, dear," he effused.  "I seem to have made a mess.  Delighted to meet you Miss Pezzini, but if you will excuse me, I need to find something to clean this up."

He backed away quickly, almost knocking down some poor woman in very high heels in the process, then abandoned his wine glass and went on a hunt for MacLeod.  This was far worse than he had expected.  The wielder was actually here and they needed to get out of there.  Now.

Sara could feel the sweat gathering on her forehead and under her arms.  The Witchblade had gone icy cold on her arm, and a powerful chill made her shudder, the combination of sudden heat and sudden cold making the room swim.

“Excuse me,” she managed to murmur.  “Does anyone know where the ladies room is?” 

“Are you all right?” Kenneth asked, stroking her shoulder in an uncomfortably proprietary gesture.

“Of course,” she snapped, walking quickly away, then realized she had headed in exactly the wrong direction.  She doubled back, skirting around the sycophants clustered around Irons, and found her way towards the administrative offices, where someone had indicated the nearest restroom was located.  Her mind was working furiously.  The guy had seemed harmlessly attractive, at first.  His rather distinctive hawk-nosed profile had caught her eye as Nottingham had escorted him across the room.  Nice smile, twinkling eyes, looked sharp in a tuxedo, certainly.  But then as she reached out to shake his hand, the shocking image of a death's head mask, followed by an image of shriveled, decapitated heads mounted on wooden stakes had flashed before her eyes, as real as the hard, cold glass she was leaning against while she fought the nausea that had stopped her cold.

She found herself breathlessly propped against a frosted-glass door labeled "Curator's Office" in old fashioned black-and-gilt lettering and she forced herself to move, seeking refuge in the ladies’ room down the hall.

She stood in front of the mirror for a minute, breathing deeply, staring at herself, seeing that ugly skull-like face the Witchblade had forced on her like the after-image from a camera’s flashing light.  She looked quickly into the stalls to make sure she was alone, then whispered, “Danny!”

Shit.  Where was a ghost when you needed one?

“Danny, damn it, what the hell is going on?”  But her personal poltergeist was stubbornly absent.

She glared at the bracelet, wrapped so prettily around her wrist.  "Just let me have one evening, won't you?” she whispered.  “One night without any dire threats or disasters?"  The red stone at the center of the Witchblade seemed to roil and shift and Sara felt suddenly warm, her skin flushing, her nipples hardening.  It was not an unpleasant sensation at all, like a sudden rush of intense sexual desire.  Well, that was more like it, she decided, looking in the mirror.  Her cheeks were high with color, her lips a little swollen, and she smiled.  Maybe she could control the Witchblade after all.  She patted her hair into place, took a deep breath, and pushed her way out of the ladies' room.

But the door to the curator's office opened just as she stepped by.  She caught herself just in time, but her ankle turned in those damnably high heels and as she felt herself fall, all she could think was how utterly humiliated she would be if she managed to damage Irons' beautiful jewelry.

Then her descent was halted inches from the marble, almost like gravity had ceased to function, and she was lifted and planted back on her feet as though she were no more than a child in the protective arms of its parent.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't see you!" insisted a gentle voice with a slight non-American accent.  "Are you all right?"

Sara caught her breath, and found she was hanging onto the thick bicep of a perfectly lovely, lovely man with dark, soulful eyes fixed on her with nothing but kind concern.  The surge of sexual energy she had felt in the ladies’ room expanded and blossomed and she had the strangest urge to reach up, grab him around the neck and suck on those soft looking lips until….

"Uh, I'm fine," Sara managed to say, pushing away from a broad chest, then she snatched her hands back.  This was ridiculous.  But her nipples were still tingling, and her body was sending her the most disturbing signals.

"Beth?!" the remarkably handsome man asked, and his eyes grew large, looking at her in stunned surprise.  "But how …"

Oh, shit.  But this thirty-something guy was far too young to have met the look-alike ancestor she had never known except in visions sent by the Witchblade.  Coincidence, Sara assured herself, even as the warning she had received echoed in her mind.  There are no coincidences.

"No, the name is Sara," she said, pulling herself together and sticking out her hand.  "Sara Pezzini.  Thanks for catching that foul ball, there," she added.  "You’re very quick on your feet."

The man shook himself, and blinked a few times.  "Of course.  Delighted to meet you Miss Pezzini.  My name is Duncan.  Duncan MacLeod."  He took her hand in both of his and for all that Sara had large, strong hands, hers were lost between his two big palms.  Then he saw the bracelet…and blinked.

He knows, Sara thought, with absolute certainty.  Whether it was intuition provided by the blade, or his sudden careful neutrality, Sara was certain that he recognized the bracelet.  And if he knew, why wasn’t the blade giving her more specific information about him?  The only thing she was getting at the moment was remarkably horny, and that was hardly useful in the current circumstance.

"Are you sure you are all right?" a new voice asked in a distinctively German accent, and Sara turned to find the curator standing inside the doorway.  The heavyset man gestured into a large office decorated with beautiful artifacts and paintings.  "Mr. MacLeod and I were hiding out for a moment, discussing arcane bits about ancient weaponry, and I should really go back and join the reception, but you may feel free to lie down on my couch until you feel better."

"I feel just fine," Sara snapped, but recognized she was being rude.  "Thank you, but really I'm fine," she sighed.  "I just slipped, and Joe DiMaggio here caught the ball before it hit the ground."

“Well, then I’ll leave you in Duncan’s obviously capable hands,” Dr. Milstein smiled conspiratorially at them both before heading back to the main exhibit hall. 

There was an awkward moment of silence as MacLeod eyed her with disturbing intensity, and she was tempted to stare back, taking in unnaturally broad shoulders, thick dark hair and a sense of…Sara couldn’t quite define it, but the Witchblade felt like it was twisting and turning on her arm and she had to consciously force herself not to openly flirt with the man, which would have been absurd under the circumstances.  She covered her confusion by turning back towards the main exhibit hall.

He followed, seeming slightly reluctant, and then his mouth curled up at some private joke.  “Let me guess,” he observed.  “You’re here with Kenneth Irons?”

She was contemplating her response to that unexpected observation when Ian Nottingham purposefully bore down on them.  She was just about to remonstrate the man for not letting her have a moment’s privacy, when he stopped and bowed his head, not at her, but at Duncan MacLeod.

“Sensei,” Nottingham said, his eyes boring into the man.  “I was hoping I would see you after I ran into Dr. Pierson.  Do you have a moment?  I think you might know what I'd like to discuss.”

“Ian, please.  If this is about becoming a student, now is not a good time for that discussion.” MacLeod frowned and shifted his weight, looking decidedly more uncomfortable by the moment. 

Sara eyed her new acquaintance even more curiously.  She had seen Nottingham in action, and the thought of him seeking out a teacher boggled the imagination. 

"But Sensei…"

"I am not anyone's sensei," MacLeod answered stiffly.  “Now, if you will both excuse me, I believe I have someone waiting for me.  Miss Pezzini, it was a pleasure.”  MacLeod said, with a slight bow, and he backed away from them, then turned and slipped away into the crowd.

There was so much more going on than was immediately apparent, so many currents of power, of relationship, of the Witchblade’s own machinations.  She felt caught in a sticky web of too many influences to decipher any form of truth, about Ian Nottingham, Kenneth Irons, Duncan MacLeod – whoever he was – or even herself.  And, of course, she couldn’t forget the Death Masque Man from earlier in the evening.  The mysterious Dr. Pierson, was it?  And why wasn’t the Witchblade giving her more information, she wondered.  If anything, it usually gave her more images and impressions than she could begin to understand, but tonight, except for the chilling images of skulls, there had been almost nothing.

Mac could feel the sweat trickling down his spine as he wound through the noisy, slightly inebriated crowd.  While he respected Methos’ warnings, and had half-expected he might run into Irons during the course of the evening, to end up practically knocking the Witchblade’s wielder unconscious, then discover she was virtually a twin to Elizabeth Bronte…his heart lurched.  He had been half in love with Beth during their brief, but intense time together.  Their lives had been full of danger, of excitement, of passion and possibility, but Elizabeth had been entirely focused on getting the Enigma codes out of Germany.

He shook himself and headed for the entrance, looking around for Methos, who he could feel nearby.

“Make any new friends?” The familiar voice made him turn, and Methos sauntered up from where he had been leaning against the wall, hands tucked into his pants pockets, looking insufferably smug.

Mac shrugged, and twisted his mouth, nodding towards the exit.  “Don’t say it, Methos.  You were right.  The Witchblade wielder is here, Irons is here, Nottingham is here.  Hell, maybe even Horton, Jack Shapiro and Ahriman are here for all I know.”

Methos chuckled as they retrieved their coats, each of them surreptitiously checking to make sure all their weapons were accounted for.  “When will you learn that I’m usually right, MacLeod?”

“Oh, yeah?  I thought you were ‘just a guy’.”

“I am.  A very smart, very experienced guy.”

“Did you meet her?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that when I saw she was wearing the Witchblade, I found a reason to make a quick exit stage left before we shook hands.”

“Is there something special about shaking her hand?”

Methos glanced at him sideways as they went down the long tiers of stairs outside the museum’s entrance.  “Did she touch you?  The Witchblade is entirely capable of giving her all kinds of information just from a touch.”

Mac thought back to that moment when he caught the lovely Sara Pezzini.  She had grabbed his bicep in a strong grip, and didn’t waver when he pulled her to her feet.  She had reached out then, almost touching his neck in an intimate gesture, then snatched her arm back.  “I don’t think she touched bare skin when I caught her, if that’s what you mean.  But I did shake her hand and nothing dire happened that I could tell.”

Methos stopped, forcing Mac to stop as well. Mac turned back, catching Methos’ sardonic look.  “Good grief, Methos, I barely spent five minutes with the woman.  I accidentally opened a door right into her path, then caught her as she fell.”

Methos shook his head with a sigh.  “The Witchblade is really gunning for you, Mac.  I wonder what it wants.”

“Maybe it’s my magnetic personality?” Mac offered. 

“Somehow, I don’t think so,” Methos replied with a derisive snort, and they continued on down the sidewalk, heading no place in particular, weaving in and out of the heavy traffic of evening pedestrians.

“Maybe it’s after you, and not me,” Mac offered.  “After all, you are the oldest Immortal, you know things, have powers maybe that it is interested in having?”

“No,” Methos shook his head “If it had wanted me, it would have come after me a long time ago.  No, there is something about you that draws it.”  He stuck his hands in his coat pockets and studied the sidewalk with a thoughtful look.  Mac smiled to himself at the sight of Methos in a tuxedo, looking elegant and sophisticated, strolling along a New York City street, relaxed and talkative.  Friendships had become so precious in the last few years, the people he cared for so vital to his sanity.  He took the time to savor the moment. 

He had tried an almost monk-like retreat from life, cleansing himself, his spirit, his mind, his body, with rigid discipline.  After he defeated the millennium demon Ahriman, he had tried to push all the people he loved away, thinking he was protecting them from the chaos of his life.  But the death of his brother and teacher, Connor MacLeod, had taught him there needed to be a balance in all things.  Whatever evils were in this world, no one man could successfully face them alone. 

Joe Dawson had seen him through the battle with Ahriman.  Connor had seen him through the battle with Jacob Kell.  Methos had seen him through his battle with his own internal demons, and he would be forever grateful for that, and for just…being.  Existing.  Surviving.  It gave him hope that he could learn to survive, too, and maybe even be happy.

“Mac?”

He pulled himself out of his moment of reverie. Methos had stopped at the corner, and was looking mischievously down a side street where a neon sign flickered, advertising 'Horton’s Bar and Grill.' 

“I dare you,” Methos grinned at him.

“Oh, you are a sick bastard,” Mac replied, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“True, but I’m a sick, thirsty bastard, and you promised to buy me a beer.”

“I did not!”

“Sure you did.  I distinctly remember you saying that if I would just go with you on this really boring trip to New York, that you would take me to the famous 'Horton’s Bar and Grill' for a glass of cold beer.”  Methos wrapped a long arm around Mac’s shoulders and steered him down the street, and once again Mac let his friend have his way.  Even the lame joke about the nemesis who had wreaked such havoc on his life was oddly reassuring, putting that grief in the past where it belonged.  It was a price of friendship he was more than happy to pay.

Sara dropped her shawl and purse on the couch with a sigh, and sagged into its lumpy cushions, then kicked off her shoes.  What a night.  After MacLeod had left so abruptly, Nottingham had been fiercely rude, almost dragging her back to Irons’ side, at which point Sara decided she had had enough for one evening.  When her request to be taken home was smoothly shunted aside, she just slipped away when Nottingham and Irons had their attention turned elsewhere.

She had taken some satisfaction in watching Nottingham chase after the taxi she had caught in front of the museum, but that small moment of triumph was spoiled when she spotted Jake McCartey tailing the cab.  He must have been sitting outside the entrance all evening, waiting for her to get into some kind of trouble. 

She dragged an aching foot into her lap and rubbed it with one hand, while with the other she started pulling pins from her hair to shake it loose.  There, that was more like it.  But her fingers touched the pearl and ruby earrings dangling from her lobes, and she froze.  Damn.  Now she would have to make a special trip to return them, since she couldn’t exactly trust the mail, or even a messenger to handle something so valuable.

But of course, Irons would know that, wouldn’t he?  She took the earrings off, then unclasped the necklace, examining it as it lay in her hand, the gleaming pearls still warm from her skin.  He had planned it all along, so that she would have to come to him.  Once again a supplicant.  Once again owing him a favor.  Her hand closed over the jewelry, remembering how he had refused the ransom that might have saved Conchobar.  As it turned out, he had been right.  The money had not saved him.  Nothing had saved him.

She was a fool.  A stupid, naïve fool to try to play Irons’ games on his own turf.  The whole evening had been orchestrated for her benefit.  The armor of Joan of Arc, the jewels, the meeting with that Dr. Pierson, whoever he was. 

And Duncan MacLeod? 

Her face warmed as she remembered how effortlessly he had swooped her up off the ground, how his eyes had been focused totally on her.  No guile, no deceit, no hidden agenda, just simple concern.

A knock on her door interrupted her reverie.

“Go away!  I’m not home!” she shouted, guessing who it probably was.

“It’s me, Pez.  Let me in,” Jake’s muffled voice demanded.

“Oh, for…” She pushed herself to her feet, limped to the door and yanked it open.  “You’ve got some nerve, McCartey.  First you follow me around like some psycho stalker, now you pound on my door at…” she looked at her watch and realized it was only 9:30 pm.  The evening had seemed much longer than that.

Jake just smiled the annoying smile of a man who knew he was attractive and expected to get away with a lot just because of that.

Sara frowned and limped back to the couch.  “My mother used to wait at home after my dates, expecting a full report.  She didn’t get them, and neither will you.”

Jake followed her in, evidently unrepentant.  “You ran out of the museum like you were being chased, then Nottingham comes running after you, and you expect me to ignore that?”

“I expect you not to follow me around after working hours!”

“And I expect my partner to let me in on what the hell she is doing prancing around at fancy social functions with a guy who’s suspected of being a major crime boss!”

“Oh, gee, and here I thought cops were supposed to uphold that silly old concept about innocent until proven guilty,” Sara snapped, falling back on sarcasm to cover the fact that Jake was absolutely right.  But she couldn’t exactly tell him about the bizarre weapon that had attached itself to her, giving her the power to do all the things she had always dreamed of – to enforce the law, to protect the innocent – but at what price?

Jake shook his head and turned away, his hands stuck in his back jeans pockets.  “I just don’t want to see you hurt, Sara,” he said softly.  “We’re partners.  I’m supposed to watch your back, but I can’t do that if you don’t let me.”

Sara leaned back, closing her eyes and resting her head, which was beginning to ache.  “Okay,” she sighed.  Maybe Jake could actually be of some help in this mess.  “I met a guy who seemed to have some special connection to Nottingham.  You seem to have a good source for all kinds of information.  See what you can find out about a Duncan MacLeod.  Early to mid thirties, maybe English, although it was hard to tell.  Had some connection with the exhibit, and is probably a martial arts expert.

Jake had taken out a small notebook and was writing down the information.  “Was he why you ran out tonight?”

Sara shook her head.  “No.  I’m just lousy at making nice to rich people, and got bored early.”

Jake smiled at her.  “You look terrific anyway.  I bet you were the belle of the ball.”  He sat on the couch pulled her feet into his lap and took one in his hand, rubbing it gently.

Sara wanted to laugh even as she sighed with pleasure.  Her hair was tumbled around her head, her shoes were off and she was draped over the couch in a very unladylike sprawl – some belle of the ball.  “Thanks, I think,” she managed to say over her chuckles, also thankful to realize her headache was gone.  She closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift as Jake soothed away the deep aches in feet unused to standing around in high heels.

She was barely aware as he lifted her legs and then spread a blanket over her, but she did hear the door click open.

“Oh, Jake?” she murmured, half asleep.

“Yeah?”

“There was another guy there.  Pierson was his name, I think.  May know MacLeod.  Probably nothing important, but if you run across his name, see if there’s anything interesting to know about him.”

“Sure, Pez.  Goodnight.”

“’Night.”  Sara had a momentary twinge of conscience when she realized if she slept in her one and only party dress, it would look like…someone had slept in it.  With a groan, she dragged herself off the couch, managed to squirm out of the dress and get it onto a hangar, but that exhausted her energy, so she crawled into her bed, folding an extra pillow into her arms and clutching it to her body.  Her brief affair with the Celtic poet/singer Conchobar had been intense, joyful, sexy and stupidly tragic, but ever since her bed had seemed far too large, and far too empty. 

The manservant slipped Kenneth’s coat and jacket off and took them away, and he moved to the bar to pour himself a brandy.  Ian stood just inside the door, waiting for them to be left alone, and Irons prepared himself for Ian’s inevitable questions.

“You knew he would be there tonight!”

He hadn’t expected anger, though.  “Of course,” Ken answered softly, and turned, but he could hardly see Ian in the deep shadows near the door.  “And you let him distract you from your primary duties, Ian.  I was not at all happy you allowed Sara to leave before the evening was over."

"Sara is not easily controlled.  I could hardly force her to stay if she wished to leave," Ian replied coldly.

Irons felt his jaw tighten at the unusual protest.  "Not everything is about force, Ian,” he said.  “Come here.”

Ian stepped a few paces forward.  He still had his coat on, and his hands were clasped tightly behind his back.

“No.  Come here, to me,” Irons instructed, and sat in the deep wingback chair near the fireplace.  When Ian stiffly moved to stand in front of him, Irons, reached out for his hand, and tugged him a little further forward, then down, until Ian was kneeling in front of him.  Kenneth stroked the smooth hair, then reached back and pulled it loose from the tight bun he had worn that evening.  The dark curls practically sprang loose in his hand, falling forward into Ian’s face.  “There is a connection between you and Sara, and I expect you to use that however necessary to keep her under your control.  As for MacLeod, I had all the exhibit donations traced back through any corporate identities to the individuals, and I was not surprised to see his name.  I’ve done some considerable research on your Mr. MacLeod, as no doubt you have, as well.”  Kenneth stroked Ian’s face, drawing up the bearded chin so he could better see his face.

Ian looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time.  “He is not who he purports to be, but neither is he anyone else,” Ian said softly.  “His early childhood history is non-existent, and his name has been linked to some of the most notorious international criminals and assassins in the last decade.  Xavier St. Cloud, Martin Hyde, Ingrid Henning – all of whom mysteriously disappeared.  But there was no evidence that MacLeod was involved, only the coincidence that he happened to know them all.”

Irons nodded, smiling at his creation’s intelligence and perception.  “So, is your Mr. MacLeod on the side of good or evil, do you think?”

“MacLeod eliminated them,” Ian said with absolute certainty.  “He saw they were evil, and took them out.  He may work for some secret organization or government agency, but he is unlike any agent I have ever known.  There is a…” Ian couldn’t seem to find the words he sought.

“A what?” Kenneth prompted, and a strange coldness settled over him when Ian looked up into his eyes. 

“A goodness about him, a gentleness in great contrast to his skills as a warrior, as though he cares deeply about everyone he meets.”  Ian’s eyes glittered with something very much like…pride…or even love.  “He isn’t a killer, he is a protector, like me, Kenneth.  Like me.”

Irons sat back in the chair and took a long swallow of his brandy.  A cold knot was forming in his chest, and he waited a moment for the feeling to be explored and identified.  It wasn't a sensation he had ever expected to associate with Ian Nottingham.  He sat forward and took the thick, curly mass of Ian’s hair in his fist and held it tight, leaned down and kissed Ian hard, forcing his tongue into Ian’s mouth until both their lips were wet with saliva.  Then he drew back just a little so their eyes were only inches apart.

“Not like you, Ian,” Irons growled.  “There is no one like you.  I created you, I taught you, and you are whatever I say you are.  Never forget that.  You would not exist but for me.” 

Ian swallowed and licked his swollen lips.  “Yes, Master,” he whispered, lowering his eyes.

Kenneth put down his brandy and stood, offering his hand to help Ian to his feet.  “Come,” he ordered, and turned towards the door, pulling the tie loose from his tuxedo shirt.  By the time he reached his random choice for a bedroom from the eleven always kept ready for his use, he had discarded his tie and shirt, but Ian was still fully dressed.  Kenneth sat on the bed, his legs spread wide.

“Please me.”

Ian met his eyes once again, holding them, something unfathomable behind his dark pupils.  There was a challenge there Irons wasn’t used to seeing, and it excited him and annoyed him at the same time.  Nottingham let his coat slip to the floor, and gently pulled his bowtie loose.  Small silver studs from the tuxedo shirt were removed, one by one, falling like tiny stars to the rug.  He toed off one shoe, then another, then pulled his cummerbund free, dropping it to the floor, as well.

Kenneth was getting very hard, and moved his hand over his groin, touching himself while he watched. 

Ian pulled his shirt down off his shoulders.  They were smooth and muscular, his arms long and sinewy.  Irons could see the outline of each rib as the shirt drifted to the floor, could see the coarse hair on Ian’s chest arrow down to the dark indentation of his navel on a low slung waist.  The pants were unzipped and shushed to the floor. 

Ian wore dark silk briefs, now outlining a long, hard cock, and Kenneth had to take a deep breath, and hold his own dick hard to keep from getting too aroused too soon, but Ian moved closer, and dropped gracefully to his knees.

“Do I please you, Kenneth?” he whispered, looking deeply into his eyes. 

Ian almost never used Irons’ given name, and he had used it twice now in one evening.  Irons' mouth went dry and he had to lick his lips, but didn’t answer.

Ian’s strong fingers found the zipper of Irons’ trousers and the small vibration of undoing it made Irons hiss and his ass clench.  Then Ian’s hands were on him, touching him, his lips closed over Irons' cock and he let his head fall back and his eyes drift shut, feeling, listening, thrusting.  His teeth closed over his own lip and that pain only added to the overwhelming pleasure as Ian licked and sucked his cock and even probed his anus with a long, hard finger until Irons came with a shout. 

He sagged back onto the bed, limp and sated, absently nursing the bite he had made in his own lip.  After a moment, Ian removed Irons’ shoes and socks, and pulled his pants the rest of the way off, gathering their discarded clothing and draping it over a chair.

Irons sat up to watch, enjoying the pure beauty of Ian’s spare form, his erection still straining the tight cloth of his briefs.  Ian turned to go, but Kenneth softly called him back, taking Ian’s hand when he came close enough.  He threw the bedcovers back and pulled Ian down so they were lying side by side, and he smoothed the dark hair away from a flushed face.

“Yes,” Irons answered at last.  “You please me.”  He reached down, slipping his hand over those silken briefs, leaving that thin barrier between them.  He felt Ian’s cock, squeezing it slightly, watching Ian’s face as he did.  The dark eyes lost focus and hips thrust, pushing into his hand.  Irons smiled a little.  Ian’s breath quickened and he thrust harder and in a moment he came with a jerk, arching his back, holding his breath as he spent himself.

Kenneth removed his hand, wiping away the moisture that had leaked through on the soft fabric of the briefs.  He gently kissed Ian on the forehead.  “Mine,” he whispered before he turned over and pulled the covers up and fell asleep, knowing Ian would watch over him.

Sara pulled in a deep breath as a warm mouth closed over her breast, gently sucking until her nipples tingled and tightened.  Her fingers threaded through thick, dark hair and her lover looked up with smile, his dark eyes glittering as he crawled up her body, his straining erection slipping between her open thighs.  Her hands played over broad, golden shoulders and he thrust into her.  She arched her back, wanting more, harder, deeper.  He sat up, pulling her into his lap and further onto his cock, his head lowering to nip at her breasts until they were sharp points of pain and desire, and she gasped, right on the verge of orgasm…

And opened her eyes.  She was drenched in sweat, the covers a disordered knot around her knees, but even awake her nipples burned and her thighs were wet.  She moved, and gasped aloud when she felt the tendrils of the Witchblade writhe around her torso, where they had circled her breasts and were tormenting her nipples.  There was even a silvery thread reaching down between her legs and she yanked her arm uselessly against the strength of the blade.

"No!" she shouted, but the blade only seemed to squeeze tighter over her flesh.  "NO!" she said again through clenched teeth.  "I swear to God if you don't stop, I'll take you off and throw you into the East River!"  And she meant it, too.  This was violation.  This was practically rape, and crossed way over the line.

Whether the blade actually understood and believed the threat or simply decided that its little fantasy was over, Sara didn't know, but the tendrils loosened, thinned and retreated and in a few seconds, the bracelet was just a bracelet again.  Sara snatched it off and threw it into the nightstand drawer.  Her arm felt naked without it and she rubbed her wrist, as she sat up and grabbed an overlarge teeshirt from the dresser, pulling it down over her sweaty body.

She padded into the kitchen and pulled a container of orange juice out of the refrigerator, swallowing large gulps straight from the bottle as she stared out into the night.  She still tingled with unfulfilled desire, and the image of Duncan MacLeod's dark eyes staring into her own, the feel of his big, hard body against her, even though it had only been a dream, felt like a betrayal of Conchobar's memory.

She wouldn't get any more sleep tonight.