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Date Posted: 16:28:53 01/09/05 Sun
Author: Slally
Subject: "Blood Seduction" - Chapter 63 (**** NC-17 ****)
In reply to: Slally 's message, ""Blood Seduction" - Chapter 61 (**** NC-17 ****)" on 21:35:30 10/29/04 Fri

Hi Guys, Sorry for the delay...again. Thanks for hanging in there with me. We're back to the main storyline again for a while. Enjoy...and please let me know what you think...

***********************************************************

Like most furry darlings catered to by an indulgent human, Hannibal had a routine. Every morning between 6:00 and 6:30 A.M., Daddy would give the Rottie his breakfast and take him for his first walk of the day. With eerie precision, almost as if he was able to tell time, the big dog would make his way upstairs to look for Ian as soon as the clock in the kitchen shifted to six. Although he wasn’t fond of the stairs, the first true obstacle that he encountered was the door to the master bedroom. It was a crap shoot. Sometimes it was ajar and he could wedge one huge paw into the crack to nudge it open. Sometimes it was shut tight. Considering the activities of the previous evening, this morning the door was solidly barred to his questing appendage. With a muted woof of frustration, the dog collapsed bonelessly across the threshold and rested his huge head on his paws to consider his options. This was not, after all, always an open and shut situation. On more than one occasion, a helpful human had passed through the hall and helpfully granted Hannibal access to his Mecca. Most often, however, he was forced to simply settle patiently down in front of the obstacle and wait. On one terrible occasion when Ian had had a late night and Hannibal was driven to distraction by the call of nature, he had actually been forced to bark.

This morning, he was spared that indignity when Gabriel stumbled into the hall and began weaving a shambling path toward the communal bathroom. Suddenly alert, Hannibal lifted his enormous head and tilted it in endearing doggy greeting. He was going for adorable. Since he was drooling copiously, the effect was slightly off; making him appear more rabid than sweet. In any case, either effect was totally lost on Gabe who was definitely not a morning person. Through his sleepily-slitted eyes, the young man’s full attention was focused on navigating to the spot where he could relieve himself so that he could quickly return to a prone position in bed. Being a night owl, this hour of the morning was the shank of his slumber period. When Gabriel went past the big dog as if he were invisible, the hopeful expression on Hannibal’s furry face turned to a comical mask of surprise. A moment later, the bathroom door shut and the canine was again alone in the hallway. Uttering a soft, resigned grunt, the mammoth head dropped back to the crossed paws and the wait resumed. When he heard the flush that he had been waiting for, Hannibal’s ears twitched and his head reared back up again. A moment later, the bathroom door opened and hope was restored.
Even though Gabe’s eyes had finally risen to half-mast, he almost stepped on the recumbent Rottweiler before he noticed the shaggy rug in his path.

Gabe came to a stop, weaving slightly, and whispered, “Whoa.” He forced heavy eyes open wider and asked, “Is Ian sleeping in, boy? Is he late for your walk?” Finally faced with a human who understood his predicament, Hannibal’s stubby tail wagged furiously and his tongue lolled from his mouth making him look like a cheerful maniac. Peering at the antsy dog, the young man managed a tight, commiserating smile. The great majority of the time, Gabriel Bowman was a very laid-back, easy-going kind of guy, not at all the vindictive sort; but lately tensions among the troupe in the safe house had been running high. Gabe was still smarting from Dev’s attack the night before. He was also pissed at Sara for behaving like some kind of apocryphal diva until it had worn his normally placid nerves very thin. Coupled with all that was the fact that the lascivious noises emanating from this room had kept him painfully awake and aroused well into the night before. Of course, it didn’t help that he was the only one in the house who wasn’t getting any; except for Immo, that is. Gabriel winced delicately. Even the thought of juxtaposing the old doctor with the bacchanal that had played out behind that closed door was jarring. Losing patience with Gabe’s prolonged reflection, Hannibal whined softly.

Gabriel grinned evilly. Alertness spawned by malicious intent made his dark eyes suddenly sparkle. Sensing strange currents in the air, Hannibal cocked his massive head and whined again, this time fretfully. In response, the young man emitted a sound that landed somewhere between a cackle and a chuckle. Round doggie eyes got rounder. Before he pushed the sensitive animal into defensive mode, Gabriel soothed the big Rottie. “It’s okay, boy,” he cooed softly, “Just a harmless little prank. After all, I’m sure that it must already be a bright, new day somewhere. Folks should be up and about; even those that whiled the night away doing this and that. After all, you have places to go and people to see. Right?” Unsure where this conversation was headed, Hannibal just watched the strange human and held his peace. Leaning carefully over the large dog, Gabe grasped the knob of the master bedroom door and gave it a small twist. The door swung open about a foot with a soft squeak. With a subdued flourish, Gabriel waved his hand toward the space, granting the dog access. “Have at ‘em, Hannibal,” he murmured, “Go scale those Pyrenees. Trample freely across those Alps.” With a low, grateful woof, Hannibal rose and pushed his big body through the narrow space in the doorway. When the dog had disappeared, Gabriel bent forward and pulled the door gently shut again. Then, he turned and hurried back to his bedroom. He was still laughing softly as he snuggled back into his own peaceful bed.

It was still very early on a cloudy, winter day. The room was dark. In the center of the king-size bed, an indiscriminate mound of crumpled covers and tangled human limbs made it difficult to tell where one body left off and another began. Hannibal, fortunately, had an excellent sense of smell to compensate for this visual confusion. He padded halfway across the room and stopped, sitting back on his haunches. Lifting his huge head high, he delicately sniffed the fragrant air in the silent room. He smelled Mommy. For a while now, her temperament had been erratic, her moods unreliable; when he approached her, Hannibal no longer knew whether to expect a gentle scratch behind the ears; a harsh, barking command; or even a mild swat. Given a choice, he avoided her and went to one of his Daddies instead. They were the other smell and much harder to differentiate. There was his true Daddy and there was the nice man who looked and sounded and smelled like his true Daddy. In most instances, either Daddy was good for a cuddle, a treat, or some spirited tugging with a chewie. When it came to the first walk of the day, however, the faux Daddy was useless. Hannibal knew that he would never be able to rouse Dev. He wanted Ian. For another moment, his olfactory membranes sifted and sorted the two almost identical smells, and then Hannibal had the prize in his sights.

Now focused, the big dog trotted to the left side of the bed. Amid the rumpled heap of blankets and body parts, a small patch of bare skin was visible. Leaning in, Hannibal pressed his freezing, wet nose dead center in the small of Ian’s back. With a startled cry, the deadly assassin utilized his catlike reflexes to tumble ass over teacup. Ian landed with a muffled thump in an uncoordinated heap on the floor beside the bed. Simultaneously, his clone employed similar feline agility to roll into a tight crouch at the head of the bed. Coiled there, Devian wildly scoped out his surroundings with huge, albeit disoriented, golden eyes and hands that he had stiffened into lethal weapons. When nothing immediately happened, the Nottinghams looked blankly at each other; then, their eyes shifted slowly to the large dog that had now slunk back from the bed and was attempting to appear very small; finally, their regard returned to each other. Dev looked at Ian, naked and sprawled awkwardly on the floor. Ian looked at Dev, curled into a bare-assed killing ball at the top of the bed. Between them, Sara continued to sleep beneath the mound of covers, oblivious and undisturbed.

Given his nature, Devian fought the absurdity of the image that his brother presented for about half a minute before his lips started to twitch. Ian frowned, his high cheekbones tinged with scarlet. “Do you want to live?” he asked the clone menacingly. With a strangled sound, Dev struggled to contain the laughter that was aching to erupt. He held up a placating hand as Ian got slowly to his feet. When the clone was able to speak, his voice still held barely contained mirth. “You’re lucky that I don’t have a camera,” he whispered over the sleeping Wielder, “I’d make copies and give one to everyone for Christmas.” His back now to the bed, Ian grunted as he pulled underwear and sweats from the bureau. He began slowly putting them on so that he could take Hannibal for his walk. Ian was not in the best mood this morning and he was definitely not amused. His back still to his brother, he hissed, “I would have thought that you would have had enough of cameras for a while, like the rest of us.” And that dig pushed one of Devian’s buttons. So, sourly glaring at his brother’s broad back, the clone hissed in response, “Unlike you, Ian, cameras have become a staple of my sex life. We aren’t all lucky enough to be the Wielder’s chosen mate.” Ian leaned back to grab a pair of socks from the drawer and, not favoring Dev with even a glance, stalked back to the bed. Turning his back again, he sat to pull on his socks and running shoes. “Oh, give it a rest,” he grumbled, “That chip that you wear on your shoulder like a medal is getting really old.”

Taken aback by the crankiness of his usually even-tempered brother, the clone just blinked and wisely kept his mouth shut. After a moment, Devian slipped back under a stray blanket and asked in a milder tone, “Are you going to take Hannibal out for his walk?” Dev was trying to be conciliatory but his brother was having none of it. In all truth, Ian felt like he had been trampled by a herd of rhinoceros at some point during the night. He was sore everywhere and his energy level hovered at zero. Physical weakness of any kind inevitably put Ian out of sorts, which meant that he was exceptionally grumpy this morning. In response to Dev’s statement of the obvious, Ian turned his head to fix his brother with baleful golden eyes. “No,” he replied sarcastically, “I thought I’d zip off to Kyoto for the Cherry Blossom Festival. Want to come?” The clone’s tawny eyes narrowed. He tamped down the spike of temper that had threatened to erupt and returned mildly, “It’s the wrong time of year for that. You need to work on your insults.” When Ian just continued to glare at him, he added, “Jeez. Somebody obviously fell out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.” The color suddenly flared darker in Ian’s cheeks and Dev wondered later what might have happened if Hannibal hadn’t chosen that moment to start whining and dancing in tight circles near the door. Even more compelling, the big dog’s aerobics display was coupled with “the face.”

Throwing his brother a final heated glance, Ian stood abruptly and walked to the door like he had a rod rammed up his butt. As he went, he tossed back over his shoulder, “Why don’t you go back to sleep for a while, Sparky? Maybe you’ll be in a better mood when you wake up again.” Not waiting for a reply, he shut behind him. Ian and Hannibal were gone. Devian listened to the Rottie’s nails clicking rapidly against the hard wood of the stairs as he hurtled down them. Still smarting from the altercation with his brother, the clone glared at the blank face of the closed door for another moment; then, he gave it the finger. “My mood is fine,” he told the offending surrogate, tawny eyes narrowed to slits, “You’re the one that needs an attitude adjustment, bro.” As the adrenaline began to drain out of him, Devian too realized that he felt as if a championship soccer team had been scoring goals with his body all the previous night. He gingerly stretched stiff limbs, catching his breath sharply as little jolts of pain assaulted worn muscles all over his long body. Listlessly, he doubted that he had enough energy to even get out of bed; in fact, maybe he would just ease back under the covers and curl up against Sara. If he did that, maybe when she woke, she would…His train of thought was interrupted by the prolonged, testy-sounding groan that emerged from deep beneath the pile of bedclothes beside him.

Very carefully, Devian eased himself back down under the blanket that he had snagged from the pile. Stifling a moan of pain, he slowly rolled on to his side and shut his eyes, pretending to be asleep. The clone was taking these precautions because he had suddenly wondered what the prickly Wielder was going to be like when she awoke if even the mild-tempered Ian was in such a foul humor after their shared experience. It did him no good. From the lumpy bedding, a raspy voice croaked, “I know you’re awake, Sparky. You better stop faking it because it’s only pissing me off.” Devian opened one wary, golden eye and tried to unobtrusively ease himself out of striking distance. “Okay,” he murmured, voice as neutral as Switzerland. This was, after all, the woman that carried a couple of pounds of shapeshifting metal on her right arm. Still completely obscured by the covers, Sara mumbled, “Where’s Ian?” Dev cleared his throat and replied, “Walking the dog.” There was a long pause before she spoke again. “Is that a euphemism?” she asked, “Or is he really walking Hannibal.” That drew a sharp snort of laughter from the clone. “No,” he assured her, “He’s really walking Hannibal.” One slender, long-fingered hand emerged from the tangle of blankets; it was the one with the distinctive bracelet around the wrist. As always, Devian’s eyes were drawn to the ruby red stone at its center. Last night, when they had been thrown into the vision, the argent light from that stone had swirled and pulsed with hot-blooded life. Today, it was opaque and dull. It looked as tired and worn as the rest of them.

Her head came up next. Sara’s chestnut hair was tousled and her arresting face was pale. There were deep, dark circles beneath her tired, green eyes. Typically, Dev caught his breath at the mere sight of her. Heart now hammering almost painfully, he thought that she looked wild and pagan and completely beautiful. His admiration must have shown in those big, golden cheaters of his because, again typically, she immediately corrected him. “I look like shit,” she stated, husky voice now almost hoarse. Her tone brooked no contradiction. Treading very carefully, he lifted one broad, bare shoulder a tiny fraction and glanced longingly at the closed door. “Whatever you say,” he agreed, surreptitiously sliding his bottom another inch backward across a mattress still damp with spilled bodily fluids. Her lips curved in a predatory smile and his uneasiness kicked up another notch. “You’re being very accommodating this morning,” she observed, “Are you trying to humor me?” Devian blinked, reaching one hand behind him to try to gauge how close he was to the edge of the bed in case he had to make a run for it. “Maybe,” he countered, voice soft and rich as crushed velvet, “Is that what you want me to do?” It was an excellent attempt at misdirection. She had to admire his technique, not to mention his balls. Her smile grew a bit less feral and became a bit more sensual.

Under the covers, her other hand snaked out to come to rest high on his naked thigh. Beneath her fingers and below lightly furred, silken skin, a long muscle jumped. Dev licked his suddenly dry lips and her smile grew wider. As her pregnancy had advanced, Sara found that she was unaccountably horny first thing in the morning; those pesky hormones could justify a multitude of sins, she mused. Aloud, she countered in a low purr, “Maybe. C’mere, Sparky.” He blinked and again nervously licked his lips. Her hand had now taken up a measured stroking motion on his thigh. Each long sweep brought her fingertips closer to his groin. The clone found that it was growing harder to concentrate on what she was saying because of what she was doing. He cleared his throat and asked a touch desperately, “Aren’t you jonesing for some coffee? I could make you some.” His transparent ploy made her smile widen into a rakish grin. Devian had been watching her expressions carefully, trying to find the safe path in the minefield that was Sara; seeing that grin, he swallowed hard. Her words confirmed his worst fears. “Later,” she responded, “Don’t make me come get you. Okay?” As she said the last word, her warm fingers completed their journey and closed around him. The clone released the breath that he had been holding in a soft shocked gasp as a steamy blast of raw desire rocketed through him. His eyes closed and the lush, black lashes dropped like lacy fans across his pale cheeks.

Eyes shut tight, Devian managed to whisper, “You…want me…to come…over there.” Caged within her busy fingers, Sara felt him start to shake. She increased the pressure a little. “Yeah,” she agreed, all sultry fecundity, “Is that a problem?” He was marshalling the strength to answer that question when the door opened and Ian entered on a waft of crisp, cool air. In the split second that it took to react to her lover’s presence, Sara’s hand was back at her side, as if it had never traveled astray. Still reigning in her raging libido, she focused her attention on Ian with a bright smile. “Morning, baby,” she greeted him. He smiled back at her, good humor, if not energy, restored by a walk in the brisk air with his dog, “Morning,” he replied, “I made coffee. There’s a fresh pot in the kitchen.” Shutting the door behind him, Ian glided over to the bed and sat on the mattress beside Sara. “You look tired,” he observed, “How do you feel?” She smiled a bit wanly as she leaned against his warm, familiar body and rested her head on his shoulder. “Tired,” she responded, “I don’t remember falling asleep last night. We were together, the vision swallowed me up, and then there’s just this black hole – nothing.” Ian turned his head to look directly into her eyes. This morning, his normally clear, golden eyes were dark, murky amber, almost opaque. “You too?” she asked. He nodded.

A soft sound at her back reminded Sara that they weren’t alone in the room. She lifted her head off of Ian’s shoulder and turned to glance at the clone. She immediately registered that his face was very flushed and that his wide, tawny eyes were angry. A second later, she discounted it; worse, she made no attempt to even hide it. When Devian saw that indifferent cast that he knew so well cover her green eyes like a shade, he snarled, “Don’t mind me. I’m just the guy that you were feeling up before we were interrupted.” Sara sighed theatrically and shook her head. In one swift, fluid motion, the clone pushed back the covers and was off the bed. He stalked to the bathroom – furious, buck naked, and gorgeous. She was startled and a touch embarrassed to notice that he was still almost fully erect. Dev disappeared into the master bath, slamming the door shut behind him. A moment later, they heard the shower go on full blast. Sara idly mused that the water was probably cold. She turned back to Ian who was watching her with a guarded expression on his beautiful face. She found that she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. As her fingers plucked restlessly at the covers, she murmured, “He’s such a drama queen.”

Ian shrugged and replied quietly, “You use him, Sara. It hurts him. He loves you.” Predictably, she went on the defensive. Her head came back up, thick hair tumbling in dark waves and green eyes flashing. “Since when did you become his champion?” she asked belligerently. Ian shrugged again. A tiny smile touched his molded lips. He could see the irony in the situation. “I understand him,” he murmured, “I don’t always like him; occasionally, I’m jealous of him; but I do understand him.” She shut her eyes and sighed, suddenly exhausted by the complexity of the whole situation. Sara had been living on emotional overload for way too long. “Well, good for you,” she barked softly, “You’re miles ahead of me then because I don’t understand him at all.” He reached out to brush one long finger slowly down the back of the hand that held the Witchblade. “I think you would if you gave yourself – and him – half a chance,” Ian responded, adding, “It’s almost as if you’re afraid to acknowledge him, to accept that he’s real, that he’s just like me.” Sara opened her eyes wide and turned again to look at him. “He’s not just like you, Ian,” she replied sharply, “He doesn’t have a history. He doesn’t have any memories; unless they’ve been borrowed somehow from you. He doesn’t have the experiences that you used to learn the code of ethics that you live by, to develop some kind of morality. How do we know what he believes in? How can you assume that he’s even capable of love? He is not “real”; what he is, is Immo’s construct. What the hell are we doing with him anyway? How did all of this happen?”

Neither one of them noticed that the shower had stopped running and that no sounds were now coming from behind the closed bathroom door. Ian reached out to brush back a long lock of hair that had tumbled across her forehead during her tirade. Sara had run out of steam; if she had been tired before, she was exhausted now. “I didn’t realize that you felt that way about him,” Ian murmured. He rubbed her shoulder soothingly, trying to comfort her. Now, it was Sara’s turn to shrug. “I actually have no idea what he really is and I’m carrying his child,” she blurted. Her head lifted and he met her troubled eyes before she added, “I’m scared, Ian.” He pulled her gently into his arms, molding her tight to his body. He stroked calming circles on her back as he whispered, “I know you are, baby. I know you are.” But, a moment later, he had pushed her back from him, holding her now at arm’s length. Confused, Sara looked up into his face. Ian’s bright, golden eyes were wide with shock as he gazed downward. Following his glance, her own eyes dropped to look at her baby-distended belly. Sara screamed. The bathroom door flew open and Dev paused there, a white towel draped loosely around his narrow hips. “What…?” he began, until he too slowly realized what they had seen. When he did, his dark brows knit in disbelief and his question changed to, “What the hell…?”

This morning, Sara Pezzini was a lot more pregnant than she had been yesterday. In one night, it appeared that her pregnancy had advanced at least a month. She collapsed back into Ian’s embrace, crying and moaning a litany of, “Oh god, Oh god, Oh god…” Holding her tight, Ian looked up at Devian and ordered tensely, “Get Immo.” The clone immediately headed for the door. “Dev…,” Ian barked. The clone halted sharply and turned his head. The expression on his face was unreadable. “What?” he barked right back. “Put on my robe,” Ian directed, adding, “It’s hanging on the back of the bathroom door.” Devian glanced down at himself and, in spite of the situation, his sensuous lips twitched. Without uttering another word, he got the robe, put it on, and hurried out of the room, closing the door again behind him. Less than five minutes later, the clone returned with a somnolent Dr. Immo in tow. By then, Sara had stopped crying and was modestly covered in Ian’s old, terry robe. Her newly protuberant stomach made a prominent lump at the center of the stark, white material. She sat cross-legged in the center of the big bed, head down, wildly disarrayed hair covering her face. Ian paced back and forth beside the bed like a caged panther, his worried eyes never leaving her.

The old doctor stopped barely inside the room to study the faces around him. The tension in the air was palpable. After a moment, limping slightly, he advanced to the bottom of the bed and put his battered, black bag down on the mattress. “Boys,” he said, opening the voluminous satchel and beginning to rummage inside it. Both Ian and Dev swung their heads in his direction. “Could you please give me a few minutes alone with the Wielder?” he asked, still not looking up. Devian frowned, but Ian immediately turned back to his lover to ask, “Sara?” Her head lifted slowly until haunted green eyes met his concerned golden gaze. “It’s okay, Ian,” she assured him softly, “I’m okay. Go ahead.” Fists bunching loosely at his sides, Devian stepped forward. “Sara…,” he began. Her dazed eyes shifted to the clone and for a few seconds, she seemed to look right through him. Then, her eyes refocused and her expression turned accusatory. Startled and upset anew by what he perceived, the clone shut up and reflexively stepped back. Watching the silent exchange, Ian frowned. He was aware that there was a major problem brewing here; however, this was certainly not the time to try to resolve it. He crossed the room, and, catching the clone’s elbow, hustled him through the door. Over his shoulder, Ian called to Sara, “We’ll be right outside. Yell if you need us.” He shut the door softly behind them.

A very long half hour later, the door opened and Dr. Immo emerged. He too shut the door firmly behind him before looking at the Nottinghams, who were leaning stiffly against the wall across the narrow hallway. When he had come out of the room, they had been talking softly and intensely, their identical dark heads close together. Ian immediately pushed away from the wall and prepared to pass the doctor. Immo held up a restraining hand to block the bigger man’s passage. Ian stopped, lifting a single dark brow questioningly. “We need to talk,” Immo said, “Shall we repair to the kitchen? The Wielder mentioned something about fresh coffee.” Ian didn’t move, continuing to stare unwavering at the old man. From behind him, Devian began, “Sara…,” Interrupting the clone, Dr. Immo finished his sentence by adding, “…will join us shortly. Shall we go?” Coming to a decision, Ian abruptly acquiesced and waved a hand to indicate that Immo should precede him. The doctor nodded and turned, heading toward the stairs. Ian looked at his brother, whose long body was still tensely hunched against the wall as if it were holding him upright. After a moment, Dev had to fill the heavy silence between them. “Should we leave her alone right now?” he murmured, eyes lowered, “I know that she doesn’t want me but shouldn’t you stay with her?” Shaking his head, Ian replied, “She probably needs a few minutes to herself. Let’s wait for her downstairs like we agreed.” Again waving his hand, Ian directed, “You first.”

The three men were on their second cup of coffee and a fresh pot was perking when Sara finally made her appearance. She had changed to a pair of dark blue sweats and she looked even more wrung out than she had before. The old doctor smiled, amused, as both Nottinghams shot to their feet and, in perfect synchronicity, attempted to pull out a chair for her. Because Dev was a bit off-kilter from what he had recently seen and heard, Ian was faster. The clone hung there awkwardly for another moment while Ian handed Sara into the chair; then, he turned, mumbling, “I’ll get you some coffee.” Not looking at him, she nodded. When they were all seated again with fresh coffee in front of them, Ian turned to Immo and asked, “Well?” Making a calming gesture with his hand, the old doctor replied, “Yes. I will tell you now that she is here. The Wielder is perfectly healthy for a woman who is six months pregnant with twins.” A slightly crazed chuckle escaped from the clone and they all looked at him. Dev strove to meet Sara’s eyes but she still would not look at him. “I didn’t even exist six months ago,” he explained. Her lips thinned with something like distaste. “What’s going on?” Ian asked the doctor. The old man shook his head. “I don’t know,” Immo admitted, “The Witchblade is controlling this process. It is obvious that what is happening is, of course, unnatural; however, I do not believe that it is the Blade’s intention to harm either the Wielder or her babies.”

After the lengthy, tense silence that followed, Sara quietly observed, “It’s all tied together, you know; the sex, the visions, the pregnancy. It’s teaching them, preparing them to become Wielders.” Shifting her attention to Ian, she asked, “Did you see the vision too? Did you feel it?” He nodded and replied, “Yes, I did. There were even long stretches of time where I was inside Eion.” Sara turned her head and finally fixed her gaze on Dev again. “You too?” she asked. He smiled gently and simply nodded. “Interesting,” she murmured, “You experienced the vision from Eion’s perspective while I saw it through Banrighinn’s eyes.” She brought her attention back to Ian, who looked thoughtful. “What do you think it meant, Ian?” she wondered, “Both men and women were Wielders. Do you think the Witchblade is rebuilding Its army and our children are the first conscripts?” He shook his head, dark brows knitted and forehead furrowed. “I don’t know, love,” he responded softly, “I simply assumed that, like me, my son would be a Protector; but after what I saw last night, I’m no longer sure of that. You could be right. They could both be Wielders.” Sara looked dismayed. “Without a Protector?” she asked. Devian cleared his throat and they all looked at him. “Perhaps we’re meant to be their Protectors,” he suggested, adding, “All of us.” Several seconds of weighty silence passed while they absorbed that concept.

Sara again broke the silence to ask, “Did your vision end with Myrene’s initiation?” Ian and Dev nodded in unison. “Was she considered the first independent, female Wielder in the line?” she queried Ian. He waved an apologetic hand. “I believe so,” he confirmed, immediately qualifying his statement with, “But the earliest records are minimal and obscure at best, and it’s been a long time since I delved into them. Perhaps Gabriel might do some research for us…?” He left the suggestion hanging. Sara nodded before she continued, “My point is that last night was likely only the first in a series of visions that are yet to come. Don’t you think?” Ian too nodded carefully before he admitted, “That would make sense I suppose.” Her head swung around and she gave Immo a piercing look. “And my pregnancy will advance exponentially with each new vision?” she asked the doctor. His shoulder lifted. “Based on what you have just experienced, I imagine that we can make that assumption,” he agreed, “Though keep in mind that we are dealing with the unknown here.” She frowned, placing both palms flat on the increased mound of her tummy. “And them,” she whispered, looking down at the spot where her hands were placed, “They’re the unknown too, aren’t they? What will they be?”

Surprisingly, it was Dr. Immo who answered her. The old man reached across the table to put one of his gnarled, liver-spotted hands over hers. “They will be your children,” he replied, “And they will be beautiful and healthy; exceptionally gifted, almost certainly, but surely not monsters. That was your fear. Yes?” Her eyes flicked briefly to Devian, immediately skittering away from him again when she saw comprehension and pain suddenly flash in his tawny eyes. The clone visibly flinched from her gaze and dropped his head. The long, loose waves of his hair hid whatever expression was now on his face. Sara’s only response to the doctor’s question was a slight dip of the head in acknowledgement. Immo patted her hand before retracting his own. “No,” he assured her, “Ease your mind in this regard, Wielder. They are fine. And there are, after all, other things to worry about, are there not?” For the first time in the last couple of hours, Sara managed a tiny smile, albeit a rueful one. “Yeah,” she agreed, “In this household, that’s for sure; there are always other things to worry about.” By the time that Ian spoke up again, they were all lost back in their own thoughts. “I think that it’s time we had a Council meeting,” he said. That even brought the clone’s head back up. His wounded eyes locked on his brother, he asked, “What the hell are you talking about, Ian? What Council?”

Even as he was thinking that his brother was beginning to emotionally self-destruct and that he had to find some way to help the damaged clone, Ian smiled and replied, “The Council of the Witchblade. There are things that we must discuss; decisions that must be made. In only two days, we will implement our plan to dethrone Kendall Irons. When that happens, we will lose Dr. Immo’s insight and expertise. Before then, we must learn all that we can from him.” Ian shifted his piercing gaze to the old doctor, lifting a single, dark brow. Immo smiled and nodded, acknowledging that he would be willing to share whatever wisdom he could before he disappeared forever into the hidden organization of the shadow government. Ian reached across the kitchen table to encase Sara’s cold hands within the warmth of his own. “Then, there’s Sara,” he went on, “She obviously can’t give birth in a hospital. The unusual nature of the pregnancy would be easily detected. She’ll have to have the babies at home and we’ll have to prepare for that.” Seeing the stunned expression on the Wielder’s face, Ian added, “Don’t worry, love. It will be fine. I promise.” Immo nodded and chimed in, “Dr. Po will deliver the children. There is nothing to fret about. It will be – what is the phrase? – a piece of cake?” Her confusion and doubt still apparent, Sara murmured, “Vicki? Yeah, right.”

Ian waved his hand like a conductor bringing all the pieces of a symphony together for the stirring conclusion. “And, finally,” he said, “There’s the resumption of our lives. Once Kendall is incarcerated and we are exonerated, the Woos can go back to their home. Your partners can go back to the Precinct. But where those of us who now form this Council go, what we do – both now and in the future – has yet to be determined. As I said, we have much to discuss, much to decide. I propose that we hold our first Council meeting after dinner tonight. What do you say?” In the face of so much impending change and so many life-altering decisions, they all looked rather cowed by the enormity of what lay ahead of them. Ian’s enthusiastic rallying cry went unanswered in the long silence that followed. Everyone looked startled when it was the clone who finally responded. Devian stood carefully as if he was afraid he might break. “That sounds good to me,” he said softly, “I’ll go tell Gabe. I have fences to mend with him anyway.” Ian realized that Dev was referring to the near altercation that he had had with Gabriel the night before over how the clone let Sara treat him.

There it was again, Ian thought. This thing between Devian and Sara was poisoning the lives of them all. There had to be some sort of resolution to it; an ending to it, once and for all. But, not right now. Right now, his brother was moving toward the doorway looking vaguely lost and defeated. The clone kept his eyes down as he left the room; he did not look at anyone and whatever deeper thoughts he had, he kept to himself. When he was gone, Dr. Immo slowly stood and cleared his throat. “I will go now too and speak to Dr. Po about the Wielder’s condition,” he stated, “I have some ideas about her pregnancy and I want to share them with the doctor before the excitement starts.” He paused, smiling, then added, “I would, of course, have liked to have been the presiding physician myself. There would have been a kind of fitting closure in it. Life, however, rarely gives us what we want simply because we want it. Ah well…” There was another long pause while they all thought about where they had all been and where they might now be headed. Looking his age, the doctor now also made his slow way to the door. Just before he left, he turned back to say to Ian, “I will tell Dr. Po and her Dragon about your Council, my boy. You have become the leader that you were always destined to be. From wherever Kenneth is watching, he would be very proud, I think.”

When Immo was gone, Sara made a soft sound and Ian turned to her with questioning eyes. “I find the thought that Irons is still watching us…unpleasant,” she murmured. Ian smiled sadly. She studied her lover’s face before she asked, “What a strange relationship they had – Immo and Irons. Do you think the doctor ever really understood him or his motives?” Ian shrugged. “Most of the time,” he replied, “We see in others what we want to see or what we expect to see, not what is actually there.” She studied his chiseled profile while she mused: Immo was right, Ian was changing. He was growing, maturing, right before their eyes. She took a deep breath before she smiled to herself, wondering cynically whether she might just be seeing in him what she wanted to see. When he looked at her again, he realized that her eyes had that faraway look that came into them often of late. “What are you thinking?” he asked. She blinked and refocused, suddenly there again, fully present. “I was thinking that there’s something else that we haven’t explored at all,” she answered, “And, it’s the most important thing really.” She had caught Ian’s attention; he cocked his head, curious. “What is that?” he asked. She nodded and said, “Why is the Witchblade doing this? What godawful thing is coming that It needs to rebuild an army of Wielders that has not been required for hundreds of years?”

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