Disclaimer: This story is a crossover between Witchblade, owned by
Top Cow and Warner Brothers and Highlander who is owned by Rysher and
Panzer/Davis. I would like to thank Gregory Widen for introducing us
to the Highlander universe, which enabled Panzer/Davis to invent such
characters as Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson and Cassandra. Ralph
Hemecker was the main writer for the television's version of
Witchblade, and I have borrowed some great dialogue from the show.
None of the characters belongs to me and no money has been or will
ever be earned by me from this endeavor. 

I have taken some facts from the Watcher CD and have presented them
here as canon. The first is that Adam Pierson's identity was unveiled
as Methos during the Horseman incident and Amy Zoll was assigned as
the Methos researcher and Timothy Wyatt as his field Watcher. I have
introduced the name Harold Wyatt (Timothy's father) as Jake McCarty's
mentor. Melanie Hinds is listed as Cassandra's Watcher.

This story begins at the great rewind in Witchblade, which is the
end of season one and the beginning of season two. This story is my
vision of how season two should have proceeded given the intervention
by the Highlander characters. Kenneth Irons is alive and well. He did
not attempt to take the Witchblade back from Sara, so their fight and
his subsequent death did not happen. I have made Jake McCarty a
Watcher and Bruno Dante his Immortal assignment. 

Circles is but the first story that I am planning in an ongoing
saga. Already its sequel is buzzing (pardon the pun) around in my
brain anxious to be written.

I would like to thank my numerous betas for helping me make this
very long story into something coherent, readable and hopefully
enjoyable. Shomeret read it as both a work in progress and a first
draft and offered many insightful suggestions. Merrie Gail, my Joan
of Arc guru, helped me throughout the writing process with both ideas
and subtleties of diction. Tirnanog, who (lucky for me) is an expert
in fencing, helped me orchestrate the sword fights and medieval
battles. Cindy and Shallan have both read through drafts and came up
with some excellent suggestions. Janeen Grohsmeyer is my grammar and
canon expert. She pointed out various mistakes that had slipped
through the net, especially my misusage of comas. Through her
tireless rereads and suggestions I was able to sculpt a story from an
obsessive idea that wouldn't leave me alone.

Circles 

By Lori Wright 

Part 1

Feb 10, 2001

Cassandra sat on the beach gazing blankly out at the rolling waves.
Her fingers were buried in the sand, drawing circles through the
sifting grains. Around and around, the path the same, so the
indentations went deeper and deeper. Her mind was caught in a trance,
seeing nothing, hearing nothing--feeling nothing. Yet her hands kept
moving. Clouds swirled above her head. The sun's path went from west
to east, moving faster and faster. Still the circles went deeper and
deeper into the sand.

Nov 12, 2000

I

Consciousness came slowly. The first thing Cassandra noticed was the
cool air swirling around her body. Her nose registered the mustiness
as her brain struggled to connect the soft feel of the carpet as
opposed to the sand that should have been under her fingers. Her eyes
opened to mere slits and then more fully as she recognized her flat
in London. Glancing down to the rug, she saw deep indentations of
circles in the pile along with blood, dotting the path. Raising her
hand, she looked closely at fingers and found them also stained with
blood, but without any abrasions. Her Immortal healing must have
already taken care of the self-inflicted injury.

Still disoriented, she stretched her legs, preparing to stand, but
the action caused pain to shoot up her calves. How long had she been
sitting, meditating? Conflicting images assaulted her mind. This was
her home, in London, and she was working with--the thought vanished,
to be replaced with one of a beach. Rhythmic waves upon the shore,
circles in the sand… Cassandra blinked. Her mind was recalling two
realities.

Surprise made her spring to her feet. Her legs buckled under her as
sharp prickles of pain shot up from her toes. Bending and massaging
her muscles, trying to get her blood moving again, she reviewed what
she knew to be true. This was her flat in London. However, she was
supposed to be on a remote Greek island enjoying a well-deserved
vacation. How did she get back here?

With the circulation restored to her legs, she walked over to the
kitchen table where the day's newspaper was scattered. The date at
the top stated that the day was November the twelfth, and the year
was two thousand. It just didn't feel right. Her hands flew to her
temples as a sharp pain sliced through her head. It wasn't the
presence of an Immortal subjugating her to pain, but something else
entirely, something foreign, intangible--magical. 

Her body slumped onto a chair. She was in London to adjunct-teach a
class on Druids and Celtic mysticism, for the Department of Religion
at the university. She remembered teaching the class, giving both
midterm and final as she had for the past two years, and then denying
their request to stay for the next term. After the cold and wet of
England, she longed for the sun and heat of the Mediterranean. It
*had* happened, but not anymore. Again the excruciating pain, but
this time a vision accompanied it. A metal gauntlet, with a red stone
set in the middle, appeared in her consciousness. Next to the red
stone ball of metal opened and an eye looked out at her. The
Witchblade! Time reversal!

Cassandra glanced at her blood-stained fingertips and the red
impressions in her carpet. Interlocking circles--infinity in a
second, alternate time lines--intersecting, exchanging, then
continuing on. She was aware of the ending and the beginning anew.

There was a new wielder, and she had found herself in so much
trouble she had to turn the clocks backward. Usually when the wielder
faced her direst moments, the gauntlet separated itself and then
waited for a new host. This time, it had allowed her a second chance.
Cassandra rose from the table. It was her job to see that this time
the wielder did not fail in her quest, whatever that may be. Packing
the essentials, she never questioned her direction. The Witchblade
told her where it was located--New York City. Once connected to the
ancient relic, the bond of servitude lasted a lifetime. 

II

Methos found himself pacing the small confines of the Highlander's
barge. He couldn't pinpoint the cause for his restlessness, but the
hairs were standing on the back of his head. Something was in the
wind that made him aware of danger or of something that just wasn't
right in the world. "MacLeod, are you ready yet?" the oldest Immortal
complained loudly to his friend who was getting dressed in the
bathroom.

MacLeod stuck his head out the door, steam drifting out through the
opening. "*You* are fifteen minutes early. I told you I'd be ready by
six, and it's not six." The head disappeared.

Methos took another turn around the sofa then into the kitchen where
he opened the refrigerator and then closed it in disgust. No beer. He
then ambled back past the sofa, past the large bed, and gazed out the
porthole. Nothing had changed outside. Cars crossed the bridge,
pedestrians walked along the river, and a large airplane flew
overhead. Normal. Everything looked normal. Nothing felt normal.

The bathroom door opened and Duncan MacLeod stepped out. His hair
was still wet around the edges, but he was immaculately dressed in a
pair of coal black pinstripe trousers and a maroon and gray button-
down shirt.

Methos looked down at his comfortable jeans and sweater. "We're only
going to Le Blues Club, not the damned opera," he said under his
breath.

MacLeod looked down at his clothes and then up at Methos. "I'm not
dressed up," he retorted. "This is just--"

"Doesn't matter, let's go," Methos interrupted and strode to the
front door, knowing that MacLeod followed him.

As soon as they got into Methos' car, MacLeod began the cross-
examination. "What's going on with you? When we worked out this
morning, everything was fine. Now, not only do you show up early--
which you never do--you're irritable, impatient and getting on my
nerves. I swear you paced a trail in my carpet."

"Don't exaggerate," Methos rebutted, as he started the car. The
drive to the club was done in silence. Neither man spoke, although
Methos was aware of MacLeod casting him glances every now and then. 

As soon as Methos parked, he jumped out of the car and strode toward
the bar. As he came even with the front door, he heard the bang of a
loose gutter under the eve of Le Blues Club. Because of a lost bet
with Joe, he had fixed the gutter months ago. Once was plenty; he
wouldn't do it a second time.

MacLeod came abreast, still looking at him oddly. Methos refused to
respond since he didn't even know why he was so uneasy. The two
Immortals walked into the club. It was still quiet, too early for the
regular customers. Joe wanted them to listen to a sax player who had
come through last week looking for a job. The Watcher thought the
musician had tremendous talent and wanted to share the find with
them. 

As Methos sat down, a feeling of déjà vu crept over him. MacLeod sat
next to him and a waiter brought over two tankards of ale. Methos
counted to ten and, as if on cue, a man came out a door onto the
stage and began playing. The bet. What had the bet been about? Methos
tried to remember, but the subject eluded him. All thoughts vanished
as a wave of Immortal presence swept through him. His body stiffened,
but only MacLeod turned to the door.

"Amanda!" MacLeod called out as he rose from his chair.

Methos felt his body relax and turned to greet their friend. Damn,
following behind Amanda like a grateful puppy, came Nick Wolfe. The
new Immortal's eyes were wary, but his stride never hesitated.

Joe seemed to materialize at Methos' elbow. "He's going to ask you
to be his teacher," the Watcher whispered.

"No. He isn't that stupid. Amanda would be sure to inform him of my
evil personality."

"I think it's Amanda's idea."

Methos turned disbelieving eyes on him.

"Want to place a wager?" Joe asked, innocently.

Methos felt the hairs rise on his neck again. "What are we betting
on?"

"If Nick asks you, I win and you have to fix my gutter."

"But, I already--" he cut himself off. Had he fixed the damned thing
or not? It was definitely loose again. "If he doesn't ask?"

Joe smiled. "What do you want?"

"A free hour surfing the Watcher database."

Joe grimaced, swallowed thickly, then stuck out his hand. "Deal."

Methos felt like the night was moving in slow motion. Every action
seemed familiar, except it hadn't happened yet. More drinks were
served and Methos found Wolfe seated directly next to him. The oldest
Immortal made it a point to become as unapproachable as possible, but
no one could call Wolfe a coward. Twice he initiated a conversation,
only to be rebuffed by Methos clipped answers.

MacLeod drank the last of the beer and tried to catch the waitress's
attention for another. When no one seemed to notice, he stood to get
the pitcher himself. Methos, feeling an increase of tension in his
body, abruptly rose, yanked the pitcher off the table. "I'll get it,"
he announced. A puzzled Highlander slowly sunk back into his chair.

Methos stalked to the bar, but he was still able to hear the
whispers at the table as MacLeod acknowledged to the rest that "Adam
wasn't acting himself." Methos ordered the beer, but couldn't stand
still as the bartender filled the pitcher. First he paced to the bowl
of peanuts at the other end of the bar, grabbed a handful and then
returned to where he had started. He took the newly filled pitcher
back to the table, but couldn't seem to make himself sit down.
Without an explanation, he went into the men's room.

He stood in the empty bathroom staring at himself in the mirror.
Turning on the cold water tap, he reached down to grab a handful of
water to splash on his face. His hands were shaking so bad, the water
jumped out. He felt claustrophobic, yet he had been in tighter
situations than this. With an abrupt pivot, he returned to the open
club. It didn't help. Walking swiftly, he returned to the table.

"I have to go," he told them all.

"This is unfair," Joe commented, causing Methos to give the Watcher
a quick look, and then Methos remembered the bet.

Methos started to respond, but the need to escape became too strong.
He practically ran from the table, only to be stopped by the pretty
brunette by the door.

"Excuse me, Mr. Pierson. I overheard you say that you were leaving.
You have an eleven hundred euro bar tab and I'd like to see Joe get
his money before you disappear."

Methos glanced at her wrist, noticing her tattoo, and sighed with
resignation. He pulled out his wallet, but the only thing in his
billfold was a blank check. So much for his quick get-a-way. She
handed him a pen with a triumphant smile. He scribbled in the date,
amount, and his signature, when he felt Joe come up alongside him.

"What the hell?" Joe asked. "It isn't 2001 yet. You getting senile?"

Methos glanced down and saw that he had written February 10, 2001.
The hairs stood up on his neck for the third time that day. "What
*is* the date?" He couldn't keep the slight tremor out of his voice.

"November the twelfth," Joe responded. "The year is *two thousand*."

He corrected the date on the check, added his initials, and scrammed
out the door. Breathing heavily, he opened his car door and slid
inside. As he pulled out his keys, an idea began to form in his mind--
a possible answer to the craziness that was happening around him. The
feelings of déjà vu and the inadvertent writing of a future date on
the check could indicate that time had been messed with. He really
didn't know of anything that could change time--except the
Witchblade. It was the only artifact that he knew of with the power
necessary to achieve a feat of such magnitude.

Driving swiftly to his apartment, he poured himself a drink of
something a lot stronger than beer, sat down on his sofa, and started
thinking. The last he knew of the Witchblade, the Catholic Church had
absconded with it and kept it out of harm's way in the Vatican
vaults. They certainly didn't want another Joan of Arc loose that
might usurp their authority.

But, that had been many centuries ago, he reasoned to himself. A lot
could have happened in the intervening years. The Witchblade may have
even found a new wielder--one who needed to reverse time. Methos
drained his glass and went to pour another.

November 13, 2000

I

Methos hung up the phone, his mind contemplating what he had just
learned. Deep within the Vatican hierarchy, Methos had an
acquaintance that worked in the archives' section. The priest was not
a Watcher, nor an Immortal, but a man Methos had met some fifty years
ago through Darius. Father Tetrault was an historian by nature and
Darius loved to talk about the past. Methos added his opinion rarely,
but then again, it was rarely asked for. They had kept in touch
sporadically and lately mostly by email or telephone.

Tetrault had confirmed Methos' suspicions that the Witchblade no
longer resided within the Vatican walls. During World War II the
Nazis had taken it. No one knew where it had ended up.

Someone pounded on his door. "You in there?"

Methos recognized Joe Dawson's voice. "Coming, Joe."

As soon as the door opened, Joe pushed his way in. "What in the hell
happened with you last night?"

Methos buried his uneasy feelings about the Witchblade and answered
the Watcher with as much honesty as he dared. "I didn't like the idea
of Wolfe stalking me, appraising me as a prospective teacher. I don't
care who suggested it; I'm not interested."

"Then why did you agree to the bet?"

"You caught me off guard. I didn't have time--"

Joe snorted. "As if anyone could catch *you* off guard."

"You were trying to box me into something I didn't want to do. Bet
or not, I will not be coerced." Methos began pacing.

Joe watched, a calculating expression on his face. "Something else
is going on. Mac said that you were just like this before you ever
showed up at the club."

Methos exerted his self-control and stopped his feet from moving. He
gave Joe a blatantly bored look, but didn't trust himself to speak.
Joe saw too much.

"You're spooked." Joe walked over to where Methos was standing, and
grasped his arm. "Can I help?" he entreated.

Methos considered the offer. He didn't want the Watchers to know
anything about the Witchblade. But this was Joe. "Are you serious
about your offer?" An idea began to form in his mind. The Witchblade
was in New York City. His instincts screamed this fact to him. What
he needed was a contact there.

Joe's eyes narrowed. "Yes," he agreed hesitantly.

"I want to use the data--"

"No. Every time some Immortal comes hunting you I won't be used--"

"I'm not looking for an Immortal, but rather a Watcher."

"Who?" Joe asked suspiciously.

"If I knew who, I wouldn't need you."

"Who does he or she Watch?"

"I don't know and I don't care. I just need a name and address."
Methos could see Joe weakening. "It's not for some nefarious reason,
in fact, I might be saving the world."

"Five minutes, Methos. That's all."

Methos smiled in triumph.

 

II

Cassandra opened the door to her new apartment at 50 Chambers Street
and walked inside. It was already furnished, and she had paid the
landlady to buy a few groceries to get her through a couple of days.
The place didn't look like much, certainly not as fine as her London
flat, but she had been in a hurry. In fact, she was lucky to get this
place at all. Then again, maybe luck had nothing to do with it. The
Witchblade wanted her here and had finagled circumstances to fit its
needs.

The Witchblade always created its own destiny. Sometimes it needed
to travel from one location to another to find its next wielder. More
times than Cassandra could count, she had been the courier. The last
time she had served the Witchblade was over five hundred years ago.
She'd had to travel to Japan where she retrieved the bracelet and
brought it to France. Only after she had stepped onto French soil had
the gods told her to go to Lorraine, to the village of Domremy and
give it to the young girl, Jeannette d'Arc.

Domremy-1425

Cassandra and two companions rode in the small donkey cart through
the countryside, distraught at the annihilation the different
factions had caused. The dauphin sat in Chinon with his skeleton
court, too apathetic and overwhelmed to fight for his country. Whole
villages had been burned to the ground. Frenchmen, loyal to the Duke
of Burgundy and their English allies ravaged the land, taking
whatever plunder they could find. The rest of France had no heart to
save themselves. All this Cassandra learned as she traveled to her
ultimate destination. The maid of Lorraine had almost reached the
correct age.

The sun was beginning to set as they reached the little village of
Domremy. Their destination was the church of St. Remy, the center of
Christian fellowship in the village. Cassandra, known as Sister Marie
Catherine, and her companion Sister Marie Marguerite, decided to
travel with the priest for they were both friends with several of the
nuns residing in Domremy. Father Hugh had a message from Rome for
Messire Guillaume Front, and he acted as if it came from the Pope
himself.

The two sisters went immediately to the church when they arrived.
There was a nun praying before the altar, who seemed not to hear
their arrival. Father Front was entering a confessional. As Cassandra
entered the holy place she felt the Witchblade become warm against
her skin. Swirls of red swam within the red stone. The new wielder
must be near.

Cassandra anointed herself with holy water, knelt briefly and sat on
a chair in the front row. Her companion did the same. Both began to
pray to the Christian God, but Cassandra also paid homage to other
gods and goddesses that she had known in her very long life. Even
deep in meditation, Cassandra was aware of the local nun leaving,
soon followed by Mary Marguerite. The priest came out of the
confessional, followed closely by a young girl of perhaps thirteen
years. Cassandra kept to her seat and waited for the priest to also
leave. She knew he would, for the Witchblade wanted her to meet the
new wielder in secret.

The girl knelt and began her penance of Hail Marys. With stealth,
Cassandra moved from chair to chair closer to the praying girl.

Her eyes popped open. "Are you an angel?"

"No. Just one of God's servants," Cassandra replied. "Why do you ask?"

"There's an aura of white that surrounds you. Your hair is
shimmering, and decorated with flowers."

Cassandra had on a typical nun's habit of gray frieze and her head
was covered. Glancing down swiftly, she could see the Witchblade
blaring in triumph. "I am not an angel, but I do have a message for
you from God. He has blessed you, dear girl, by weaving you a great
destiny."

"What must I do to prepare for my great destiny?"

How innocent youth is, Cassandra mused. Not once did Jeannette
question this destiny, but accepted it already as hers. "For now,
nothing. Remember your prayers and be a good girl. God will make his
plans clear to you when the time comes."

"He will talk to me?"

"Yes, through one of his favored saints who will visit you. Listen
well, learn your part, and you will save France."

Her eyes shone with zeal. "How will I do this?"

"I don't know. Only you will hear the voices. However, there are
some things you must do or you'll lose His favor. Piety is most
important. Never forsake your duties to the church. Give aid to the
less fortunate, for we are all God's creatures. Obey your father and
keep busy with your appointed tasks. And lastly, remain a maid. Only
as a virgin, will God be able to work through you. Men can be used.
Some can be loyal, but only if you are virtuous."

"I understand. For God, I will remain pure."

"As a token of His love, wear this bracelet. It has little value,
but has been fashioned by God for you and only you. Never take it off
and never show it to anyone." Cassandra removed the Witchblade from
her wrist and gently clasped it around the girl, Jeannette d'Arc.
"Now pray for guidance and God will answer."

The young girl bent her head and her lips began to move. Cassandra
gazed at her with love and apprehension. Would she prove strong
enough for the trials ahead? Cassandra the witch began talking in a
rhythmic voice. "You will remember nothing. You have been in this
church alone, praying to God. Remember what I have told you, but
place it in the back of your mind to be called forth when needed. If
we meet again, you will not recognize me."

Silently, the Immortal left the church to find darkness outside.
Hugging her secret close to her heart, she found her traveling
companions. Their stop here in Domremy would be short, only a night
or two, and then they would travel further north. Cassandra's only
duty now was to wait for the time when she could start the rumors
that the Maid of Lorraine had come to deliver France, as predicted by
Merlin the great magician.

November 13, 2000

Why did the Witchblade cause so much heartache in its wielders? It
jealously hoarded every emotion, removing violently anyone who the
wielder cared for too deeply. Cassandra shook her head, trying to rid
herself of the memories. Maybe some fresh air would help. Opening a
window, she carefully walked out onto the fire escape and noticed a
young woman sitting a floor above her. "Hello," Cassandra called up.

The other woman looked down at her. "Hello," she returned. 

The shadows hid her upstairs neighbor's features from Cassandra's
view. "I just moved in today. I'm Cassandra."

"Sara," came the no-nonsense voice. "Welcome to the building." She
stood up and, though Cassandra was sure the other woman was going to
come down and talk with her, instead, Sara climbed back through her
own window and disappeared.

Disappointed, the Immortal went back inside and picked up a book.
Feeling restless, she picked up her sword and began an exercise to
loosen her muscles, but it acted like a balm to her troubled mind.

Outside Cassandra's window, on a building across the street, a man
dressed in black watched the woman Sara as she pounded a punching bag
inside her room. He also observed the woman in the apartment the
floor beneath flash her sword in a dance of death. The man in black
had no doubt that despite the woman's beauty and grace, she could
kill as easily as smile. It was in the way she moved. Intrigued, he
called his master to inform him of the latest development. There were
no coincidences when it came to the Witchblade.

III

After a quick series of punches, Sara Pezzini let her arms fall to
her side as her lungs dragged in enough oxygen to cover for the
outburst. Although her body was tired, her emotions were still barely
under control. Things were so normal, just three days ago; now
nothing was as it seemed. She laughed when she realized that it was a
direct quote from--from whom? She remembered someone telling her
that. 

Now everything was falling apart around her. She saw phantoms
dressed in armor from medieval times. A freak in black followed her.
Then there was the rich business tycoon that told her the Witchblade
belonged to her--that it had *chosen* her. She didn't want it, had
even tried to give it back. It wouldn't leave. To compound all the
weirdness going on around her, now she was having strange dreams of
things that hadn't happened yet. Her feelings of déjà vu were
happening more and more frequently, so that most of the time she
thought she was going mad. She didn't even trust her instincts
anymore.

After several more jabs to the punching bag, she jumped in the
shower and began her bedtime routine. Tomorrow was another day; Gallo
wouldn't elude her again.

Across the street, high on the rooftop, Ian Nottingham sat and
watched his lady Sara leave the bathroom wearing only her underwear
and a nightshirt. She had turned off the lights, but with his
enhanced eyesight, he saw every move she made. He directed his vision
to all points around her building, but found no threats to her
person. Satisfied with her safety, he began the trek back home. His
master might have further need for him that night; if not, then he
too would sleep and maybe dream of the future.

IV

Detective Jake McCarty slid in behind the dumpster. He adjusted his
wig; something in the garbage had knocked it askew. It was hell
tailing someone without backup, without a partner of any kind, but
that was what Watchers did--all of them--all the time. Jake was under
cover as a homicide detective in the NYPD. His cover was hiding the
fact that his Watcher cover was as an FBI agent. He didn't really
belong to the FBI, but his mentor, Harold Wyatt, was deputy director.
This worked well for both. Harold was able to put McCarty out on
special details, become backup if necessary, but no one would be able
to find a link between Jake and the FBI.

His assignment, Bruno Dante, was waiting outside a back door in the
alleyway. He paced a bit, obviously anxious for the door to open.
Suddenly, Jake heard footsteps behind him. He ducked down further and
peeked out from beneath his Indiana Jones hat. The long back tresses
from his wig hid his light colored hair, and hopefully anyone walking
by would confuse him for a regular homeless person.

The intruder came closer and Jake was able to ID the man as
Orlanski, another detective from their precinct. He walked passed
Jake's hiding place without noticing him. Dante greeted Orlanski and
they conversed quietly for a minute. Jake allowed himself a few quiet
breaths. His heart was pounding and it was a major miracle that
neither of the two detectives heard him. Then a man in shadow opened
a door into the building Jake was propped against. Dante murmured
something unintelligible to the man holding the door as both he and
Orlanski walked in.

Jake stayed quiet for a few more minutes and then stood, stretching
his legs. No lights came on in the upper stories and the fire escape
was too high up for him to climb. Damn Dante and his illegal schemes.
Not only was he a prominent member of the White Bulls, but he was
responsible for taking drugs and money that had never made it to the
evidence locker. Jake was stationed in NY for two reasons. The FBI
wanted the White Bulls shut down and the Watchers wanted Bruno Dante
watched. Jake was in hell. He had lost all respect for the man after
only a day on the force. Now his feelings were disintegrating to
downright hate.

Jake left the alley and tried to go around the other side of the
building. There was a main door, but no lights were visible from
where he stood. Going back to the dumpster, he made himself a little
bed with some stray rags and boxes, then proceeded to wait it out.

His mind automatically went back to the last time he had tailed
Dante just few weeks ago. Jake had been doing recon outside Dante's
house when a frantic call came in from Judge D'Angelo. Jake had wired
Dante's phone when he first came to New York, since the man was a
prime candidate for heading the White Bulls. The FBI thought Dante
was the leader and at first, so did Jake.

The judge needed some help. He sounded stoned out of his mind and
almost incoherent. Dante made a phone call to Tommy Gallo, asking for
a hit and then took off to an address uptown. Jake waited and Watched
as Dante went into a high-rise apartment building and came out
leading the wobbly judge. Orlanski and another detective went inside
and then returned about fifteen minutes later and were greeted by
Gallo. Jake left then, following Dante. It wasn't until the next
morning when he heard the news about Sara's friend being murdered at
the same address. He felt sick to his stomach. That had been his
first clue that Judge D'Angelo did not respect the law as his office
demanded, but rather perverted it according to his whims.

Jake was brought back to the present when six men left the building
he was watching, one of whom was Gallo. They were all joking and
hitting each other on the back.

"We have a deal, right?" Gallo asked Dante, his voice carrying
easily through the night air.

"I don't care how you do it, as long as she's dead."

"It will be my pleasure. Sara Pezzini has been a thorn in my side
for years. It's downright ironic that I first offed her father and
now take care of the last Pezzini. Sure there aren't any others in
the wings?"

"Positive. Things will run a lot smoother without her sticking her
nose into everything. We lost the drug money from our last bust
because she got there first and almost hand-delivered it to the
locker."

"Think she knows something?" Gallo asked slyly.

"Siri wouldn't dare talk, and if her father had told her anything
she would have used it by now."

"It's a pleasure doing business with you, Captain." Gallo tipped his
hat and his three thugs went toward a car parked on Avenue D.

Jake contained his rage as Orlansky and Dante headed back on foot.
Jake followed them several blocks, keeping a large distance between
them. Eventually the two men got into a cab. Jake was too far behind
to hear the address, but there wasn't anything more he could do that
night. His emotions were coiled tighter than a snake about to strike.
He was useless as a silent tracker now.

Ripping off his wig, he stuffed it in his pocket and walked another
two blocks and waited for a bus. The city transit took him a few
blocks from home and there he went in, showered and collapsed on his
couch to think. The bastard was taking a hit out on Jake's partner.
Well, she was really partnered with Danny. He was just the rookie tag-
along. That was fine considering his cover, but he still considered
them both his partners. 

Now he just had a third detail dropped on his shoulders: protecting
Sara from his assignment. God, he wished some other Immortal would
take Dante out. The man was crafty. Jake had been in NY for six
months and he still hadn't seen Dante with another Immortal, either
as a friend or as a foe. 

 

November 15, 2000

I

Methos had formulated his game plan. The database had listed several
Watchers in New York City, but only one was a police officer, Jake
McCarty. It took Methos several minutes before he remembered why the
name sounded familiar. He recollected the circumstance and then
laughed at the irony. McCarty would do everything in his power to
keep Methos' presence in New York a secret from Wyatt. He couldn't
wait to meet his quarry and befriend him. 

Methos sat back in his seat on the Air France jet. All he had to do
now was find a way into McCarty's confidence. It had to be good and
mustn't take a lot of time to implement. The Witchblade was prodding
him forward on this quest. Just last night his dreams had been full
of dark images.

A woman had been in a huge room battling first an evil knight and
then an old man scarcely able to stand. She had won, but after
looking at the carnage, she'd fallen apart. Lazar had been there;
Methos had recognized him immediately. Another wielder had also been
present and she and Lazar had gently led the woman to use the Blade
to turn back time. The previous wielder had explained, "Time is
elastic. Fluid. Flexible. Reversible. Use it." The new wielder had
complied. 

His eyes closed and his mind went back to the last wielder he had
served. She hadn't been beautiful, but she had been charismatic. Her
whole being radiated with it. The Witchblade augmented it; focusing
her power to be used at will--the Witchblade's will.

January 1429-Lorraine

Methos decided to join the duke's court hoping to get a look at this
peasant girl from Domremy. Knights and nobles could talk of nothing
else. She had demanded that Sir Robert Baudricourt send her to Chinon
to see the dauphin. Her arrogance and self-assuredness impressed even
the ancient Immortal. Now she was in Lorraine. The party's goal was
to get a safe-conduct through to Chinon, but the duke's goal was to
get her to treat his diseased body.

"Rumors say that she's the Maid of Lorraine." A squire had come up
behind Methos. "What do you think lord de Morency, could she be?"

"The duke must believe it or else he wouldn't agree to see her,"
Methos responded.

"Or else he just hopes. His body is failing him, and his mortality
is making him afraid."

Methos nodded in agreement. More intrigued than ever, he awaited his
first sight of the woman who could be either a gift from God or Satan.

It didn't come until later that evening. The women joined the men in
an affair of raucous entertainment: jesters and jugglers, a few
minstrels and a bard. Methos sat back, a tankard of ale in his hand
and his eye on the women. Jeannette was at the center. She looked
uncomfortable there and several times whispered to her companion who
then shook her head no. 

A flickering at her wrist captured his attention. Trying to be
inconspicuous, he left the table and meandered over to women's table.
As he came close to the girl, she looked up at him, her gaze direct,
questioning. His eyes left her face and glanced down at her wrist. A
bracelet with a red stone winked at him. Methos started, shocked at
seeing the Witchblade upon her delicate wrist. She quickly lowered
her sleeve, hiding the bracelet. Their eyes met once more before he
hurried off, disappearing into the crowd of men.

Methos now had a better understanding of what was going on. The
Witchblade had commanded that Jeannette go to Chinon to see the
dauphin and she was powerless to act in any other way. Using his
position as a younger son of an obscure baron and his inborn guile,
Methos began working on de Metz to let him become a member of the
party. Jean de Metz refused. His was a sacred mission and de Morency
had a reputation for being anything but serious. Methos decided to
bide his time.

The new wielder's party finally left and headed back to Vaucouleurs.
Methos followed, but stayed out of sight. He was able to enter the
village where he found preparations for the trip to Chinon under way.
Positioning himself near the well, he awaited Jeannette's arrival. He
wanted to talk to her, to gain her measure.

"France needs a champion, someone to give the soldiers hope." After
Methos got Jeanette's undivided attention he added, "The dauphin
needs a miracle. Are you that miracle?"

"You think to mock me, sir?" Then her eyes narrowed. "I recognize
you from Lorraine."

"That you do, for I was there. Now I am here."

"You followed me?"

"I expect many more will follow you before you are finished and
Charles sits upon the throne of France."

"You believe I will succeed?"

"The Woman's Glove will ensure that you do." He pointed to her
bracelet.

"You know about this?" Her eyes were both wary and curious.

"I know exactly what it is and how to use it. It is a source of
information and protection."

"Can you show me how to use it?" she asked guilelessly.

"I will, if you will trust me."

Unconsciously she rubbed the bracelet, turning it around and around
her wrist. "I think I can." Her face brightened with the realization.

"My name is Etienne de Morency," Methos introduced himself. "I am a
younger son without title or fortune and free to do with my life as I
will. If you agree, I will accompany you to Chinon."

"I agree, sir. I wish you--"

"But de Metz does not. He will prove a problem."

"Then you will go as my squire."

Methos silently laughed at the absurdity of her statement. "Does
that make you a knight?"

She nodded. "I am to lead an army against Burgundy and England. That
makes me more than a simple knight." The Witchblade brightened,
blaring out its presence, then dimmed. 

November 15, 2000

"Sir? Excuse me, sir?" Methos blinked as a flight attendant brought
his attention back to the present. "Coffee, sir?"

"No, thank you." He smiled at her.

"We'll be at Kennedy in a little more than an hour."

He thanked her for the update. New York City was where the
Witchblade resided. At least he had an idea of what the woman looked
like. Most wielders of the correct bloodline all had the same
features.

 

II

Cassandra walked across the street, following only her instincts.
She had set out that morning with no destination in mind. There was
something or someone out there she was supposed to meet, but the
identity of the object or person eluded her. After meditating last
night, this was the course of action she had decided on. Her
connection with the Witchblade was silent, so she let her unconscious
mind guide her steps.

Hunger pains drove her to a little deli where she ordered a bagel
with cream cheese. Sitting outside the store at a table, eating her
breakfast and drinking her coffee, she had time to relax and watch
the scenery. A couple of older men were sitting at a table next to
her, arguing about a football game. They quoted enough stats to make
an accountant proud. A young woman pushing a baby stroller went into
the deli and came out a few minutes later with a bag of groceries.

Wiping her mouth after her last bite, Cassandra was preparing to
rise when she heard the voice of a young man. It wasn't familiar in
the normal sense, but it made her sit back and listen. He was
bouncing, waving his arms around, talking to another young man
walking beside him. They too, went into the deli and came out with
donuts and cans of soda. They sat down and conversed enthusiastically
as they ate.

"I'm telling you, Irons had the Longinus Lance stolen," the boy with
the dark curly hair whispered to his friend. "I told him that I
couldn't get it for him, so he took matters into his own hands."

"I thought you could get anything for anybody?" The friend had
straight, stringy hair that looked like it hadn't been washed in a
week.

"Not if it's locked up in a museum."

"Why'd he want it? He gonna go out and spear someone with it?"

"I don't know, but there's supposed to be magic in that weapon--"

"Magic as in the Witchblade?"

"Shhh! Don't say that too loud. You don't know who might be
listening." He looked around covertly.

The other boy gave a disbelieving snort. "Give me a break, dude. You
don't really believe in all that stuff? I know Talismaniac brings in
all kinds of weirdoes who *do* believe, but don't tell me you fall
for your own crap."

The curly-haired young man gave a secretive smile. "Why take
chances? Even if you disregard the magic, the lance is still damn
old."

"Why is it special?"

"It supposedly was the weapon that killed Jesus when he was on the
cross and preserved his status as the messiah."

"Heavy!"

Cassandra stayed in her seat as the two young men finished eating
and then left. Calmly she also rose and began walking inconspicuously
behind them.

After several blocks they came to an old building. Inside was a
large wooden door that had the inscription "Talismaniac.com".
Underneath it were the words, "IDOLS, ICONS, TALISMANS". She knocked
and the curly-haired boy answered the door. 

"Have you come to buy or sell?" he asked.

"To buy." She crafted a seductive smile on her face, assured of his
typical male response. 

He opened the door wider and let her in. "What kinds of things are
you interested in? If I don't have it, I can get it."

She perused the objects in the room. "Can I take a look?"

"Be my guest. I'm Gabriel Bowman," the young man said, introducing
himself.

Cassandra nodded and began to circle the room. She looked on the
many shelves, nodding at some authentic artifacts and smiling at some
that were too outlandish to be real. "Who would buy this?" she asked,
coming upon a broken guitar sitting on the ground. The neck had been
severed from the rest of the instrument and the symbolism made her
shiver in distaste.

"That guitar is priceless. It belonged to Peter Townsend, and it was
the first guitar he smashed on stage when The Who hit the States."

The explanation didn't matter; Cassandra couldn't see anyone wanting
a broken guitar. She continued on, past a fourteenth century bust of
Caligula and found a large black caldron. She looked inquiringly at
her host.

"That pot was used by Shakespeare in his play Macbeth. You remember
the three witches, boil, boil, toil and trouble."

"Yes, of course. I do know most of the references to witches."
Cassandra walked around the pot and saw a computer tucked in the
corner with the other young man peering into the screen. "Hello," she
said, bringing him out of his little world.

He glanced up and quickly cleared the screen. "Yeah?"

"Nothing," she replied and then moved on. A few other shelving units
were stacked with paperwork and computer printouts. But just adjacent
to them was a tiny alcove, and set up within was an altar. Despite
herself, Cassandra found her interest piqued. "What's this?"

Gabriel came and stood behind her. "This belonged to Patricia
Kennealy. She was a practicing witch. It's said that she married Jim
Morrison in front of this very altar."

"You do have a fondness for things related to witch craft."

"No, not craft, just the witches themselves."

Cassandra let a smile fill her face. "I'm a witch. And I believe
that every witch should have an altar. I think I'll buy this."

Gabriel's jaw dropped. "A real witch?"

"Yep, with magic powers and everything."

Cassandra heard a snort from the other young man, who then said,
"Dude, she's conning you."

"Honest, I've been called a witch for many centuries." Cassandra
purposely went overboard in persuasion. "Christian fanatics tried to
burn me at the stake, but I used my powerful voice and eluded that
fate." Cassandra was enjoying herself, and the best part was that
everything she said was true.

"Centuries?" Gabriel asked, skepticism creeping into his voice.

"And a millennia ago, before the Spanish Inquisition, before
paganism had been eradicated, I was worshipped as a Druid priestess."

"You're telling us you were alive a thousand years ago? I don't
think so." Gabriel sounded so sure of himself.

"Even if you don't believe me, I think I'll buy the altar. It would
be a good conversation piece at the very least." She walked over to
the table and pulled out her checkbook. "How much do I owe you?"

Gabriel printed up a sales receipt and then asked what address she'd
like it shipped to. For some reason he stiffened as she told him.
"You been there long?" he asked.

"I just moved in. I was teaching in London and decided I needed a
change of scenery."

The two young men still looked skeptical, but with the five-thousand-
dollar sale they had just made, neither looked willing to call her a
liar.

She left the little dot-com store and went back to her new
apartment. She didn't really want the altar, but she thought the
right person, or rather the wielder, might find out about her
purchase.

III

Sara parked her Buell and headed into Precinct 11. Danny was already
at his desk. "Morning, Pez," he muttered between gulps of coffee and
studying his computer screen.

"Anything new?" she asked, hanging up her leather coat and helmet.

"There's a meeting in thirty minutes; the whole department is
required to attend."

"Know what it's about?"

"Rumor has it that Joe Siri is announcing his retirement and who the
replacement captain is going to be."

"Please, anyone but Bruno Dante," Sara pleaded to the ceiling just
before pulling out her chair and plopping down. "He hates me and
would make my life a living hell."

"Naw," Danny contradicted. "Just purgatory."

Sara began going through the lone file that sat in the middle of her
desk. Inside were police reports and pictures taken on the murder of
her friend Maria. Every morning Sara perused each photo and reread
each word, hoping something might jump out at her. The only
information she had discovered was from the damned bracelet. A
technicolor vision of Maria stoned out of her mind, fumbling around
her apartment; it wasn't enough to find the killer. Frustration made
Sara want to punch something, not like she hadn't done enough of that
last night.

"Morning, Pez, Danny," Jake called cheerfully as he walked in.

Sara took a good look at his pretty-boy face and suddenly desired to
put her fist right smack in the middle of his smile.

"We got a departmental meeting in ten minutes," Danny informed Jake.

"A new case?"

Sara shrugged her shoulders, but Jake was still looking at Danny.
Her bad mood hadn't communicated itself to Jake yet.

"Don't think so." Danny got up to refresh his cup of coffee. "I
suggest you guys get your fix now; I have a feeling we're all going
to need it.

Finally Jake looked over at Sara, but she was too pissed to
acknowledge his questioning glance. With a puzzled frown, Jake picked
up his mug and followed Danny out to the mega-pot and the line of
detectives waiting to fill their own cups.

After everyone had found a place to sit, Joe Siri stood in front of
the group and addressed them. Sara sat wedged in between Danny and
Orlansky, another detective with whom she never saw eye-to-eye.

"…effective immediately. I've been in this department for thirty-
five years, I'm going to miss it." Joe took a deep breath and exhaled
slowly. "After talking it over with the Commissioner, I am naming
Bruno Dante as my successor."

There was clapping and a few whistles. Sara listened with a sinking
heart. How could Joe do this to her? 

The new Captain Dante stood and joined Joe Siri in the front of the
room to say, "We've worked together for many years. You were an
inspiration to me when I was a rookie and didn't know my ass from a
hole in the ground. It's an honor to be here today."

Sara could hear the insincerity in his voice. Dante hated Siri. Joe
had been her father's partner in the old days. It was all a bunch of
bullshit meant to entertain the audience. Sara felt a hand on her
shoulder pushing her down. She turned and felt the compelling stare
Danny directed at her as he pushed her back in her seat. Damn, she
didn't even realize she had been ready to stand.

Dante gave a speech, complimenting Joe and the rest of the
detectives, and pontificating on how he was going to make theirs the
best homicide department in all of New York City. Sara felt like
gagging. Why couldn't anyone else see the selfish glance in his eyes
and the way he swaggered as he walked back and forth, across the
front of the room?

"…Now get to work, men. Go arrest some bad guys."

Sara felt the direct snub, as she was the only woman in the room. It
seemed that everyone cheered as they stood. Some went up to shake his
hand and congratulate him. As Sara went to leave, she cast a glance
up at him, and he was looking straight at her with triumph. Gritting
her teeth, she pivoted and walked out of the room.

IV

Jake walked into his apartment exhausted. He couldn't believe Dante
was going to be his captain. What a mess, taking orders from a man
you not only couldn't respect, but also actively disliked. He hung
his coat up and placed his gun in the desk drawer. 

The first stop was his phone mail. He was one of the few people who
didn't have internet access at home, so many of his Watcher contacts
left him messages on the phone. If he actually stayed in New York for
any length of time, he'd have to break down and have his computer
connected to the world. Only one message had been recorded.

"Jake? It's Stu. You're not gonna believe this, but I was working
the airport today, and I swear I saw Adam Pierson coming off an
international flight from Paris. I heard he was AWOL for the past
four years. You know anything about it? Call me back."

Adam Pierson was in New York? Jake pondered this piece of
information with relish. He couldn't wait to call Wyatt who was
supposed to be keeping Watch on Pierson, alias Methos. Or was it
Methos alias Adam Pierson? Jake laughed ironically himself. 

Tim Wyatt and Jake had never seen eye-to-eye. Tim thought Jake was
just a "pretty-boy" pretending to be tough, and Jake just couldn't
stand Wyatt's, "I'm better than anybody else attitude". Should he
call Wyatt?

No. Let the man search. He would have to call Stu back, though and
tell him not to mention the Pierson sighting to anyone else. Not many
Watchers knew that Pierson was really Methos. The information had
leaked out several years ago. It was only because of Jake's
connection with Harold Wyatt, his boss/mentor, who also happened to
be Tim's father that Jake found out the truth about Methos. Jake had
never seen the oldest Immortal in person and he kind of hoped that
maybe he'd catch a glimpse while they were in the same city.

Jake picked up the phone and placed his call to Stu. He casually
asked if Wyatt had flown in also, but as Stu didn't know Wyatt, he
couldn't be sure. Jake hung up gleefully, visualizing his old nemesis
searching all over Paris for his elusive assignment.

Still smiling, Jake fixed himself some dinner and then plopped
himself down in front of the TV to see the news. At seven, he washed
up his dishes, both the plate and the fork, and then went back to his
TV, bored. He glanced at the phone.

Should he call Sara? His first priority was to Watch Dante. His
second was to get all the information he could on the White Bulls.
Sara was the key to his investigations. He knew that the White Bulls
were responsible for James Pezzini's death. Dante's former Watcher
had verified it. Now, how could Jake spend time with Sara, get to
know her without breaking his cover? By pretending an attraction?
Hell, he wouldn't have to pretend; it was real enough. 

Closing his eyes, screwing up his courage, he pushed the numbers.
"Sara? This is Jake. How would you like to shoot some pool?" All his
words poured out in a rush. He sounded like a sixteen-year-old asking
a girl out on a date. This was pathetic.

"Jake? No, not tonight. Siri retiring has hit me pretty hard. I
think I'll stay in and--"

"Mope? Come on, Sara. It would do you good to get out."

"Thanks for calling, Jake. I'll see you tomorrow."

He knew a brush-off when he heard one. "Fine. Tomorrow." The click
of Sara's phone echoed in his ear even before he finished saying
tomorrow.

Shoving the phone back in his pocket, he grabbed his coat and
decided to shoot some pool on his own. Several days ago, he had found
a quaint pool hall, nick-named the Booze and Cues by the neighborhood
patrons, although the sign on the window said something like Frank's
or Sam's. Sara hung out there sometimes, and Jake also found it to be
a nice place to go and unwind.

He walked in and found it to be somewhat deserted. A stereotypical
bartender was wiping a few tables down and filling the small bowls
with pretzels and cheeseballs. Two men in torn jeans and T-shirts
were using one of the pool tables, but the other three remained empty.

"Can I get you something?" asked the bartender.

Jake thought for a second and responded, "Yeah, can I have a Sam
Adams?"

"Coming right up."

Jake took his beer and went over to one of the unoccupied tables and
racked up a set. He heard the door to the bar open while he was
concentrating on getting the green striped ball in the corner pocket,
so he didn't bother to look up. He missed that ball but sunk the next
two. Straightening, he took a swig from his beer. Jake unfortunately
looked up at the newcomer standing at the bar and choked, spraying
beer over the floor. His eyes widened incredulously.

The bartender handed the man a large mug of draft beer, and the
newcomer sauntered over to the pool table. "Rack 'em up," he
suggested, as if Jake wasn't staring at him like an idiot.

Jake couldn't believe his eyes. Was this just his imagination?
"Looking for a game?" he choked out inanely.

"I take it you know who I am?" There was a slight smirk on the man's
face.

Jake laughed, and there was a hint of hysteria in the sound. "Yeah,"
he answered and then whispered, "Methos."

"But, you can call me Adam Pierson."

"Right. Adam." Jake was regaining his equilibrium and started
thinking. Methos was reported to always have a reason for everything
he did. That meant the old Immortal needed him, Jake McCarty, for
something. Why else would Methos purposefully seek him out? A little
nervous, but damned interested, he took another swallow from his beer.

So Methos wanted a game of pool. Jake racked them up. "You break."

Methos chalked his stick and then lined up the white ball. He took
his shot and the colored balls bounced all over the table. Not one
went into a hole. 

Jake smiled nervously and decided his shot. As he was aiming, he
happened to notice Methos staring at him. Swallowing thickly, he hit
the white ball. The red striped ball missed the corner pocket.

Methos made a big production of circling the table, judging the
easiest vector. Making a decision, he bent down and let the stick
gently hit the cue ball, sending it into the black ball, which
dropped into the side pocket. "Guess this means you win," Methos
commented. His voice sounded innocent, but his eyes were laughing.

Jake grabbed his beer and drank deeply. He was nervous. Methos
propped his stick against the wall. 

"If you didn't want to play pool, why didn't you say so?" Jake asked.

"Thought I'd give you time to collect yourself. Why don't we leave
and talk some place with more privacy, like your apartment?"

"Okay," Jake responded hesitantly. 

Methos smiled and the two headed out of the bar and walked the ten
blocks to Jake's place. After they entered Jake's home, Methos walked
around, looking at everything. "I like the poster. 'Surfing champ,
1995,'" he read the caption aloud. "Why'd you quit and become a
Watcher?"

"I didn't exactly quit. I was surfing on a day I had no business
being out. A hurricane was blowing off shore sending monster waves
and I couldn't resist. I took a tumble and just about drowned, but
some hulking dude came out and rescued me. He carried me to shore,
called the paramedics and then disappeared. I was determined to find
this guy to thank him, give him some money as a reward for being a
good Samaritan."

"Let me guess: your rescuer was an Immortal and didn't want to be
found."

"Got it in one. That was when I was approached by the Watchers,
explained the circumstances and told to back off. I stopped looking
for the Immortal, but I wanted to know more about what the Watcher
had just glossed over. That's how I was recruited."

"Better than witnessing a Quickening. People are usually so spooked,
it takes forever for them to accept and be comfortable with it."

Jake's curiosity was getting the better of him. "So, what is it you
want? I'm sure you didn't come to New York to learn about me."

"Blunt, aren't you?" Methos stared at him. "I don't know if I can
explain it right. Something is going to happen. I'm not sure exactly
what, or who it will revolve around. You're both a cop and a Watcher,
and I'm hoping you'll allow me to help when the time comes."

"You can't be more specific?"

"Nope."

Jake started to consider what he had said. Methos, the oldest, the
most experienced person in the world wanted his help. "What's your
plan?" 

"First off, I thought I'd move in with you. There's enough room; I
can take the couch. I bet it's more comfortable than the one at
MacLeod's."

"You want to live here? I don't--"

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. Will you?"

Jake could hear the warning tone in the immortal's voice. "No."

"I did look you up. I needed to find someone in a position to help
me. However, I didn't learn much. Tell me about your assignment. Will
he interfere in our business?"

Jake wasn't sure how much to say. It could be that Methos was
hunting Dante's head and if that were the case, Jake wasn't sure what
to do. His Watcher oath forbade him to help Methos, but on the other
hand he'd be glad of Dante's death. "Dante is the captain in the
police department where I work," Jake explained. "I think as long as
you left him alone, he wouldn't bother you."

"Is he a nice guy?"

"To those he likes." Jake took a deep breath and then rushed
headlong into an explanation he was sure to regret if anyone found
out. "He's corrupt, a profiteer who's out for himself and--and--he
wants my partner dead." Jake stumbled over the last part.

"Why?" Methos asked, still sounding interested.

Jake threw himself down on the couch. "I don't know where to begin.
In fact, I don't think even Sara knows how much he wants her dead."

"Sara's your partner?"

Jake nodded.

"Start at the beginning." Methos sprawled on a chair opposite Jake.
"What's the source of his animosity?" 

"Bruno Dante's former Watcher recorded that Dante ordered James
Pezzini's death--that's Sara's father. Before he died, James was
investigating a corrupt group of police officers who called
themselves the White Bulls."

"White Bulls?" Methos remarked with a crooked smile. "How original."

Jake continued. "He hadn't identified the ring-leader, but guessed
that it was Dante. Tommy Gallo, a gangster friend of Dante's, killed
James in an effort to hush him up. If there had been any evidence, it
disappeared with James' death."

"Or was hidden in his possessions."

"Then why hasn't Sara found anything?" Jake asked, venting his
frustration.

"She hasn't known where to look," Methos responded, with a
thoughtful look on his face. "How does Dante treat your partner at
work?"

"He barely tolerates her. They are like oil and water, each rubbing
the other the wrong way. I think Sara goes out of her way to
antagonize Dante."

"So, he hasn't actually tried to kill her. He just openly hates her.
Correct?"

"Yes," Jake began, then corrected himself hastily, "No. Very
recently he put a contract out on her life. Dante wants Gallo to kill
her, and Gallo said it would be a pleasure."

"The same Gallo who killed her father?"

"Yep." Jake couldn't help the shiver than ran down his back at the
implications. "Gallo's a cog in the organized crime network."

"And Dante is part of this? Excellent boss you've got, McCarty,"
Methos quipped. "Do you think Dante's the head of the White Bulls?"

"No. It's more likely a judge by the name of Carmen D'Angelo. He was
captain back when Dante was a rookie detective. Now D'Angelo is a
city judge and as corrupt as the rest of them. To make matters worse,
we, the department, are investigating the murder of a high-price call
girl. This girl, Maria, was a friend of Sara's from her school days.
Well, the judge had spent the evening with Maria and they got pretty
high on cocaine. D'Angelo thought Maria had overdosed and called
Dante to get rid of her. Dante called his good friend Gallo, who
killed her. Now Sara is investigating the murder, Dante is
obstructing her behind the scenes, and I feel caught in the middle."

"Any other players I should be aware of?"

"Just the FBI."

"Ah yes. I read that Harold Wyatt is your mentor. And I believe I've
seen his son hovering around occasionally."

Jake saw what looked to be a sly smile cross Methos' face. He
obviously knew the identity of his Watcher. Did the oldest Immortal
still have access to the Watcher database?

Methos continued, "And what does the FBI want you to do?"

"Expose the White Bulls," Jake admitted.

"Sounds like a difficult assignment all the way around. Does your
partner Sara Pezzini know about you?"

"No!" Jake adamantly denied. "She does not need to know about the
Watchers."

"I mean about your connections with the FBI and the White Bulls."

"I don't think she knows anything about the White Bulls. She just
believes her father was killed by Gallo." Jake felt defensive with
all the questions, as if Methos was trying to find fault with the way
he was handling things. 

There was a lull in the conversation. Jake didn't know what to add,
and the Immortal had his eyes closed. "When did you get in to New
York?" Jake asked.

Methos opened one eye. "This afternoon. It feels like two in the
morning." He closed it back up again.

"Are you hungry? I can fix you something quick to eat."

"No, thank you." Methos yawned.

"Let me get some sheets and a pillow. By the way, the couch does
pull out into a bed."

Methos opened his eyes and grinned. "I know."

V

Jake turned the lights out. Methos shuffled around on the couch
trying to find a comfortable position, but sleep wouldn't come. His
mind kept reviewing everything the Watcher had told him. He didn't
have all the players yet. The White Bulls might be the concluding
reason for the time reversal, but not the whole reason. Powers much
stronger than a mere Immortal were at work, and he needed to figure
out what they were.

His intellect told him that Sara Pezzini was the Wielder; why else
would fate bring him to Jake McCarty? Methos closed his eyes, but
instead of sleep, he found himself inside a house of sorts. It was
empty of furniture, all he saw were white walls. Suddenly people
began to emerge out of the walls. Men in FBI uniforms were shooting
at him, or rather at something behind him. Turning around, he saw
Jake standing next to a dark-haired woman who looked remarkably like
Jeannette, and another man who fell to the ground. Though he felt no
Immortal presence, he knew that the fallen man was Dante.

The wielder, with her Witchblade prominent on her wrist, bent over
the dying man. He couldn't hear what the man said, but the Witchblade
showed her a vision--a vision Methos understood. Another party was
involved in James Pezzini's death. A man with a head of silver hair
commanded the death of Sara's father. Dante merely agreed to handle
the hit.

"Kenneth Irons," he heard the wielder mutter.

She jumped up from her crouching position and ran off. Jake McCarty
was right behind her. Another man was standing by with a car. Another
player. Methos wanted to follow them but his form was stuck in place
beside Dante. The FBI agents believed him to be dead and relaxed
their guard.

When Dante's immortal healing kicked in, he regained consciousness,
overpowered a nearby agent and gunned down another six before gunfire
overwhelmed him again. Methos was horrified at the carnage. He knew
it would continue until all the agents were dead and Dante was able
to escape. Methos was powerless to do anything. He wanted to shout to
Jake to get back there, help his co-workers, but this had all
happened in the past, or rather the future that hadn't occurred yet.
Suddenly Methos' vision clouded, and he knew the reversal had
started. The Witchblade began to negate the catastrophe.

VI

Sara sat on her couch, fingering the bracelet. It had not given her
a moment of peace since it settled on her wrist. Visions warred with
each other for notice. She wanted only to know who had killed Maria,
yet women who looked identical to herself, except dressed in ancient
costumes, paraded across her mind. Each wanted her to do something
she couldn't find it in herself to do--believe what they were telling
her.

In a fit of anger, she asked the thing who had killed Maria. It
broke from the image of a woman in a knight's suit of armor to Gallo,
walking into Maria's apartment, pulling out a gun and shooting her
supine body at close range. Gallo's face lit in a satisfied smile as
he calmly walked out again. Disgusted, Sara went to pull off the
bracelet and fling it across the room, but it wouldn't budge. She
twisted and turned it, but nothing worked. 

"It's a part of you, Sara," a deep melting voice said from behind her.

Sara jumped up, spinning as she pulled out her gun and aimed it at
the intruder. He was dressed all in black. His hair was long and
dark, and he sported a well-tended beard. "Who are you?" His dark
eyes bored into her. "What do you want?" She paused as an echo of a
memory came to her. "I saw you at the museum--."

"Yes. I was there when the Witchblade claimed you. Use it, Sara. Get
the justice your friend deserves. Her killer is your father's killer.
Find one; you find the other."

"I know who killed Maria. Tommy Gallo."

"Everything is connected." He backed up toward the window. "Use it,
Sara." The shadows swallowed him whole.

Sara jumped from her almost catatonic state and rushed to the
window, almost forgetting the loaded weapon in her hand. He was gone.
There hadn't been time for him to climb down three flights of steps,
but she could discern no movement outside. Closing and then locking
her window, she turned off the lights.

Gallo was the killer. Now all she needed was proof, something to
build a case on.

The phone rang just as she was getting into bed. She went to answer
it and noticed the message blinking light. She had forgotten to check
when she got home. 

"Sara? It's Gabriel Bowman," the caller recorded onto the machine. 

Sara picked it up before Gabriel could finish. "Hello?"

"Hi. We met a few days ago. At my--"

"Yes, of course I remember you." Sara paused, feeling that she knew
this man better than her memories told her. Shaking her head, she
returned her attention to the person at the other end. "What can I do
for you?"

"I'm really sorry to being calling you so late, but I, uh, had a
visitor in my shop today, she was really weird."

"All the people that go to your shop are weird."

"Funny," he responded wryly. "This woman looked like someone off the
cover of Vogue. She had on expensive clothes and walked like someone
who had spent ten years in charm school."

"You're right, that does make her weird."

"She told me that she was a real witch, with magic tricks and she
has this velvet voice. She bought an altar and said that every witch
should have one."

"What does this have to do with me?" Sara was losing her patience.

"She lives in your building, in fact just one floor down from you.
Isn't that a weird coincidence? You have the Witchblade and a real
witch just moves in below you?"

Her intruder's voice echoed in Sara's mind. "Everything is connected."

"Thanks, Gabriel." She disconnected the phone and went to her
window, looking down. She had met the woman last night; what was her
name? Cassandra. Maybe she ought to pay the witch, uh, lady, a visit?

Leaving her apartment, she locked the door and ran down the
stairwell. She came out to the hall and paused before Cassandra's
door. Did she really want to do this? 

Suddenly the door opened, revealing a statuesque woman, staring at
her calmly. She had below shoulder length hair, which fell gracefully
on her tan silk blouse. Her slacks were dark brown. A red scarf
accented the bland outfit. "I got tired of waiting for you to knock.
Come in, Sara." As the woman closed the door, Sara noticed her
manicured fingernails. They were painted bright red, exactly matching
the scarf.

Sara hesitantly entered the apartment. "How'd you know I was
outside? More of your magic powers?" she asked sarcastically.

Cassandra laughed. "No. The walls are pretty thin. I heard you leave
your place, run down the stairs and pause outside my door. I didn't
have any music on. I was meditating."

Sara looked at her in bewilderment. "Meditating? Like monks and--"

"Druids? We can all control the chaos around us by emptying our
minds and letting the gods talk. Too often we are so busy with our
everyday lives that we just don't listen to what is happening around
us. If you were to stop everything but your heartbeat, what would you
hear?"

"I don't have time for that mumbo-jumbo." Sara glanced around noting
the altar Gabriel had mentioned. On top was a vase full of daisies.
Not exactly what would adorn something devoted to devil worshipping.

"So, why are you here? Because I told your friend that I'm a witch?"
She paused then added dramatically, "It's true."

"Are you a good witch or a bad witch?" Sara thought the quip from
The Wizard of Oz would throw some humor into the conversation; she
wasn't suspecting the come-back.

"Is the Witchblade a good weapon or a bad one?" Cassandra asked and
then explained. "When we make value judgements, it is based on a
comparison. What does society believe is good? Things that are
considered good now are not the same as say, a few centuries ago. The
Witchblade is made for war. The wielder uses it to protect her body
from those around her. Is it also used to kill others? Yes. The blade
is not bad or good; it is an instrument used in both good and evil.
It is the wielder's job to determine its use."

Sara couldn't comprehend where the conversation was going, so
latched on the one thing she did understand. "How do you know about
the Witchblade?"

"I am sworn to its service. It brought me here when you reversed
time."

"Excuse me, reversed time?"

"Haven't your senses been telling you anything? Aren't things
happening around you a bit familiar? Doesn't the Witchblade feel like
it belongs on your wrist and no one else's?

"Yes, uh no."

"How about feelings of déjà vu? They have been plaguing me. It
almost makes me dizzy when I do something that I had done before. I'm
sorry, Sara, I'm explaining this badly. Come in and have a seat. Can
I get you a drink? White wine? Fruit juice?"

"Do you have any beer?"

Cassandra wrinkled her nose in distaste. "No. I don't have beer."

Sara went further into Cassandra's apartment and sat down on her
leather couch. The whole room echoed luxury and comfort. It was more
the home of a society mistress than a practicing witch. "Magic spells
must be profitable these days."

"So are good investments." Cassandra paused as if weighing her
words. "Have you detected differences in this time line? Is your
partner dead?"

Sara felt the shock down to the tips of her toes. "Partner? Dead?
You mean Danny?"

"I have no name, just a sense. I've had visions of an Asian man who
you are close to dying in your arms in a theater. Bullets rain above
you and you wield the Witchblade and kill everyone inside, except the
man responsible."

"You have visions? Have you been a wielder?"

"Ask it. Look deep within your self and the answer will be there. It
can and will tell you all that you need to know."

"You want it back? Is that why you're here? To take the Witchblade
back?"

"No, child. I have enough magic in my old bones. You're from the
proper bloodline. It is you and no one else who can meld with it and
make it a part of you. I can see it already has; you just don't
remember it. It has chosen and you have accepted."

"You're saying it's a done deal. I can't get rid of it even if I
wanted to?"

"You don't want to," Cassandra said with utter conviction. "Don't
worry, it will all become clear to you once you stop fighting it. It
is this conflict within you that has prevented you from learning
more. You expect answers immediately and life doesn't work that way. "

Sara couldn't take the run-around any longer. "I think I've taken up
enough of your time. I'll be going now."

Cassandra nodded regally. "I am here for you."

"Why? Why are you here for me?"

"To try and prevent the catastrophe that made the time reversal
imperative."

Sara really didn't believe what this woman was trying to tell her.
It was all an act, but what the motive was, Sara hadn't a clue. With
a sarcastic, "Thanks for the double-talk," Sara left and went back up
to her own loft.

Back in her own surroundings, she went first to the fridge and
removed a beer. Sitting on the couch, she drank, trying to forget
Cassandra's double-talk. Why was it that anyone who knew about the
Witchblade couldn't answer simple questions? Her eyes closed in
defeat and she took another swallow. Her body relaxed as the
alcohol's effects spread.

Feb 14, 1429-after two days on the road to Chinon

Most of their traveling had been done at night. They slept in
sheltered areas, far from the prying eyes of the enemy. This
particular evening, de Morency roused her early, telling her that it
was time to train.

"Now?" Jeannette asked, thinking that it was an odd request. Why did
she need to train?

"Yes. I didn't bother you at first, because you needed to become
comfortable with us. But now, you need to learn how to wield a sword."

"I am not a soldier."

"But you want to convince the king to let you lead an army. Every
captain needs to be able to defend himself." He paused. "Or herself.
This is just the beginning."

Jeannette groaned good-naturedly. She glanced over at the other two
knights, who were lying upon the ground, sharpening their swords and
knives. 

De Metz glanced up at her. "I have no wish to get my hand chopped
off teaching you. If de Morency wishes to do so, it is his blood."

Jeannette swallowed thickly. She didn't like the idea of hurting
anyone committed to her cause. Turning to de Morency who was
standing, holding out a hand for her, she gracefully rose to her
feet. "I am ready, sir."

He handed her a light short-sword. "You will use this with which to
train. When you become adept, I will give you another, more useful in
the killing of Englishmen."

"I do not kill. That is the work of my soldiers."

"But, you may need to defend yourself. For that you need to learn
how to wield the sword." He was emphatic.

They worked for an hour. De Morency seemed tireless in his patience.
Not once did he scold or make her feel inadequate. It bolstered her
confidence to have this man assured of her competence. 

"Enough. You need to rest. Let's go down to the stream where you may
wash your face and get a drink." He laughed. "I surely need one, too."

"When I left home, I did not consider that I would need these skills."

"For a woman who has no wishes to kill, you are a quick learner."

"St. Michael taught me the ways of war. I used that knowledge in our
lesson. Thank you for taking the time to teach me."

"I plan on teaching you many things on this journey. Sword work is
just one."

Jeannette began to get nervous. She was a woman alone with six
males. Two were young squires, but the others were virile men. Her
saints told her not to fear them, that they would always respect her
wishes, but de Morency's comment elicited apprehension all the same.

"What else do you plan--"

"You need some basic knowledge of warfare. Leading a group of men is
not an easy task and you need to learn how to do it so that they
respect you."

"My voices will show me how."

"What if God put me in this place for just this reason?"

Jeannette closed her eyes, willing the Voices to come to her. They
did. Words without form came clear in her mind: "Trust this man."

She nodded her assent, although still unsure.

"Another thing, the Woman's Glove. The talisman you wear around your
wrist is a powerful weapon, and you need to learn how to use and
control it, or it will control you."

"It is but a pretty trinket I received one year for my birthday."
She spoke out of reflex. 

"It is pretty, but it is much more. It will change shape and become
a gauntlet, or a glove with a sword thrusting from its center. Even I
do not know all the shapes it can manifest, but you must be prepared
for when it does make its presence known."

"When will it do this? Can I will it so?"

"Eventually, when you have mastered it. At this time, you are merely
a carrier, not a wielder. You must earn the right."

She felt so confused. Glancing down at the bright red stone in the
middle, she talked to it. "Change, pretty thing. Become what my lord
knight has said." Nothing happened. "Is it broken?"

De Morency laughed. "No, it isn't broken. It responds to the fear
that courses through your body at moments of great anguish or need." 

"You mean if I am in danger?" 

"You are always in danger. It lurks around the bend of the road,
behind the bushes and in the hearts of the men you will meet. It's
when the danger becomes a physical threat then the Glove will act."

Jeannette thought about it. She wanted to learn the sword and was
happy de Morency was willing to teach. However, the thought that the
bracelet might turn into a gauntlet was something that made her
uncomfortable. She bowed her head and asked her Voices if the trinket
would change shape on her. St. Michael soothed her, telling her that
the talisman would defend her, but that no one would see it. The
protection came from God and she was to accept it.

All too soon, it was time to tack up the horses and move on. The
night didn't drag, because her mind was fully occupied with thinking
about the bracelet that de Morency called the Woman's Glove. What a
wonderful name. Her Voices spoke to her, giving her comfort.

 

Nov 14, 2000

Sitting on the fire escape, Ian Nottingham watched Sara. The only
thing better was actually talking with her, but he made her nervous.
He understood. It had been a strange evening. He had wanted to learn
more of the woman living a floor beneath, and Sara had gone to visit,
or rather, cross-examine the stranger. It was odd that his master had
not known her. Irons had made a study of any human who had had
contact with the Witchblade, yet he did not know this one.

Ian had listened to every word the strange woman had told Sara. Much
of what she said he agreed with. A catastrophe had occurred. He had
tried to kill his lady Sara, which resulted in both his own death and
that of his master's. Could this woman truly prevent this? What was
her definition of a witch? He listened as Sara woke up from her nap
on the couch and prepared for bed. He listened to the sound of linen
sliding down her skin, the cotton socks hitting the floor. The silk
night shirt over her head and down her body. The sheets as they
separated from the bed and covered her in a soft cocoon. Perspiration
beaded on his forehead.

His ears were totally open when he heard the sound of a gun being
put together. He looked on the roof of the building across the way
and saw a sniper. Swearing in compressed fury, he raced to destroy
the man who was seeking to kill Sara.

 

Part 2

Nov 15, 2000

I

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

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

"But?" Kenneth Irons queried.

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

"Can we use her?"

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

"Does she have the Witchblade markings?"

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

"Has she tried to communicate with you?"

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

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

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

"Yes. I can see why this would trouble you. Keep observing her. I
must find a way to meet her and assess what threat she may be to me."

Ian nodded and retreated once more into a subservient position and
waited for his master to talk once more. Sometimes it took minutes,
sometimes hours. Ian had learned patience at a very young age.

II

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

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

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

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

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

"No, Captain Dante wants to see you."

"Comin', Pez?" Danny called.

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

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

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

"Busy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where do you live?" Dante asked.

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

"What period are you the most expert in?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That went well," Methos remarked.

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

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

"Did he act like you thought he would?"

"He seemed typical for a police captain."

"Known many?"

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

"Is there anything you haven't been?"

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

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

Jake knocked on Dante's door. 

"Enter."

"You wanted to see me?"

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

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

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

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

 

III

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

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

"Do you recognize me?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You were the Duke of Alencon."

And suddenly he was.

March 1429-Chinon

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

There was another reason for his haste to see Charles. Reports had
come to d'Alencon of a maid who declared that she talked to God and
His Saints and was sent by Him to drive out the English. The
entourage went out a back door where he found his kinsman talking to
a young woman.

At first he remained quiet. The woman was begging to be given an
army in order to raise the siege in Orleans. D'Alencon ignored the
words, but absorbed her fire, and listened to the eagerness in which
she wanted to begin her formidable task. 

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

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

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

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

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

Nov. 15, 2000

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

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

IV

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

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

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

"Getting a lot of those lately?"

Sara gave him a wan smile and followed him inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I didn't sleep good last night."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had no trouble understanding her meaning. "Yes. Your mother
couldn't get pregnant. They were so happy when they were selected to
get you."

Sara felt overcome with emotion. Stumbling to her bed, she flopped
down and curled instinctively into a fetal position, tears pooling in
her eyes. Her identity was being stripped away. "Why didn't you tell
me?" She clutched the phone tight against her ear.

"I'm telling you now."

"Only because you're leaving."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 1, 1429-Orleans

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How so?" He looked alarmed.

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

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

"I fear not battle, only betrayal--"

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


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

"Of the dauphin? Of the French people?"

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

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

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

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

V

November 15, 2000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake was disgusted that they had hookers decorating the meeting.

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

There was cheering and glasses clanking at the news.

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

There was some clapping and chairs scraping the floor.

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

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

"What are we going to do about McCarty?"

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

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

"Yes, Captain Dante."

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

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

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

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

"Out carousing?" Methos asked sardonically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake could feel small tremors rippling through his body.

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

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

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

"Are you going to kill him?"

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

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

VII

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

"Come in, Ian."

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

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

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

Ian stood, waiting for the next question.

"What else?"

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

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

Ian didn't need to respond.

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

"Now, master?"

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

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

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

Ian leaned into the caress momentarily, then straightened, once more
in control. Both left the room, each headed in a different direction. 

Ian slid between the satin sheets and snuggled into the pillow. He
emptied his mind and let it float, slowly letting a picture of Sara
filter in. Her eyes were soft, imploring him to help her. As
unconsciousness settled, Sara disappeared and Jeannette took
precedence. 

Friday May 6, 1429-Orleans

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

November 12, 2000

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

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

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

Nov 16, 2000

I

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, Pez. What's up?"

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

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

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

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

Sara was a little shocked at his attitude. It sounded like he knew
something. Could he be trusted? The Witchblade assured her that it
was okay.

She hung up the phone and went back to the TV and rewatched the
tape. Soon a knocking came at her door. Sara froze, her heart
pounding, sweat breaking out across her forehead.

"Sara?" a feminine voice called out. "It's Cassandra. Is everything
okay? I don't want to intrude, but I'm getting the feeling that
something's wrong."

Sara exhaled slowly. For some reason she knew that Cassandra was not
involved with the White Bulls. Whatever else her game was eluded
Sara's understanding, but in this instance company was better than
being alone. "Just a minute," Sara called out, turning off the tape
and walking to the door.

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

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

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

II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

III

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

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

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

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

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

Methos eyed the trap with distaste. "Lead on, MacDuff." As soon as
Methos' foot reached the third floor, he felt the presence of another
Immortal.

"There's another Immortal here," he grunted, reaching in his coat
and pulling out his sword.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassandra murmured suggestively, "De Morency."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassandra frowned. "This complicates things."

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

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

For the first time, Jake contributed to the conversation. "Sara, why
don't you show me your evidence and let *them* talk over there by the
window."

Methos liked that idea. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be totally
alone with Cassandra anyway. They might both want the same thing now,
but it was always subject to change. He didn't trust her not to try
to kill him as soon as it suited her purposes.

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

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

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

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

Both were quiet, contemplating.

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

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

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

"What have you seen?" she asked.

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

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

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

"Jake recognizes me."

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

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

Methos accepted this truth. "Anyone else?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Like a fish swimming upstream?"

"Yes. And never reaching the spawning bed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You did this?"

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

"You actually put it on?"

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

"Like only women were supposed to wield it?"

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

"Did you die?"

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

"Joan of Arc."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Has she gone through the Periculum?"

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

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

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

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

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

IV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And her?" Sara asked, indicating Cassandra.

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

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

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

"Alive for centuries?"

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

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

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

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

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

Sara gasped. "D'Angelo is involved?"

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

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

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

"Sounds like you've got it solved."

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

"Tell me everything, Jake."

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

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

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

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

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

She was caught and he knew it.

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

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

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

"Please call me Adam," he interjected smoothly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

V

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who's this?" Jake asked Karen.

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

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

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

"Think we should tell Sara?"

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

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

VI

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

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

Sara stared at the weapon in awe. "It's beautiful."

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

"You mean after I kill with it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ask the Witchblade. It knows."

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

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

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

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

Sara saw a woman who looked just like her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

"He delivered my mother."

"Probably no other doctor could be found."

"Is he human, like me and you?"

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

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

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

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

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

"But your arm?"

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

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

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

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

Sara went into the kitchen as ran some cold water onto a paper towel
and began cleaning her cuts. She noticed that Cassandra did not do
the same. "Don't you want to clean up some of that blood dripping
down your arm?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jealous, Nottingham?"

He kept his eyes down while handing her a box. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She flew out the door and went to her car. It was times like this
that she wished her bike were there. It was pitch black outside, but
she had little trouble finding her keys and starting the car. Pulling
into traffic, she passed one car and then went through a yellow light.

Suddenly an ominous feeling washed over her. Little hairs on the
back of her neck rose as she imagined someone breathing behind her.
Swallowing thickly, she looked in her rear view mirror and saw
Gallo's leering smile reflected there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pull over there," Gallo ordered her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

VII

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

Precinct Eleven was busy. Detectives and uniformed officers were
scurrying every which way, and Methos decided to back out of the
door, as a herd of men were about to run over him. They flew into
cars and turned their sirens on. Jake came bounding out followed by a
man of Asian descent.

"Gotta go, Adam," Jake spoke with worried urgency. "Call came in
with shots fired. I think Sara's involved. A car with her tag was
sighted in the vicinity." As Jake swept by, he whispered, "Dante's in
his office, grinning."

Methos let the Watcher go. If Sara was in trouble, he could do
nothing to help. She had to learn how to depend on the Witchblade.
However, with Sara and Jake both accounted for, with alibis, it might
be a good time to take care of Dante. Methos leaned against the
building and waited.

It took another thirty minutes before he felt the presence of
another Immortal. He absently gripped his sword's hilt within the
folds of his coat, anticipating, and waited for Dante to show. 

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

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

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

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

"Now, Bruno Dante. I challenge you. There can be only one." Methos
smiled again as he pulled out his sword, aggressively moving forward.

Dante turned and fled. His direction was towards the parked cars,
possibly to retrieve his sword. Methos followed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The challenge was on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Help me up, de Morency."

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

"Where do we go?" Methos asked.

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

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

Present-Nov 16, 2000

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

VIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only by granting immunity to me and my associates. And favors. We
do each other favors, like me taking care of you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The machine stopped. Jake pressed the play button.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake absently nodded. Sleep. He needed sleep.

X

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 3

November 17, 2000

I

Kenneth Irons sat at the breakfast table, sipping his coffee and
reading the newspaper. Ian had joined him a few minutes earlier, but
Kenneth wasn't ready to talk to him yet. Ian stood at attention, just
inside the door, waiting for instructions.

"Sit Ian. Eat some breakfast."

His dutiful son did as he was instructed. Kenneth was still
struggling to come to terms with Bruno Dante's death. It wasn't so
much the death itself, but who had killed him. The how was also quite
irritating. He knew neither Sara nor Nottingham had done it. Both
were occupied, although Ian didn't have an alibi.

"Bruno Dante is dead," Kenneth announced, looking for a reaction.

"How?"

"His head was cut off by a sharp blade."

"Like a sword, master? Perhaps the woman living below Sara decided
to take matters into her own hands."

"It's a good theory." Kenneth paused, considering his options. "Why
don't we *ask* the witch to come visit us. Perhaps I can determine
her guilt."

Ian bowed his head and backed out of the room. Kenneth smiled in
anticipation. This woman could prove to be a worthy opponent.

II

Cassandra paced inside her apartment. Sara hadn't come home the
night before. Several times Cassandra had gone up the fire escape to
see a dark loft. Something had happened. An urge to try and locate
Methos almost overwhelmed her, but self-preservation overcame the
impulse.

She tried turning off all the lights, leaving only a few candles
lit, and meditating. But the gods were silent. As she began her
morning routine, a presence appeared inside her room. It didn't feel
like another Immortal, but it was definitely an invader. She turned
suddenly, brandishing her sword, and found Ian Nottingham standing,
head bowed, before her.

"Alencon. What brings you here this morning?"

"My master wishes to see you."

He said nothing about her sword, which she lowered, but did not put
away. "Is the wielder safe?"

"Lady Sara is in the hospital. She went after Tommy Gallo last night
and sustained minor injuries. Gallo is dead," he added with obvious
pleasure.

"Were you present?" Cassandra asked.

"I was close by, observing her prowess." Ian stood, eyes cast down.
"My master awaits," he prompted.

"Let me get ready. Have a seat. It'll take me a minute."

Cassandra didn't glance back but walked steadily into her bedroom to
change her clothes. Staring at her closet, she tried to decide the
best outfit to wear to confront Nottingham's master. She knew without
a doubt that this man was responsible for this timeline's corruption.
He was playing with destiny, without conscience, only desiring power
to further his own ambitions. Somehow he had changed the soul of
Alencon from something pure to something perverted. Could she change
it back, or was it irrevocable? 

Deciding to play up her part as a witch, one who had lived
centuries, she found a silk dress with a flowing skirt. It was
elegant, yet proper for a day dress. Her wealth would be obvious and
she hoped her self-confidence would make Irons uneasy. If her costume
didn't work, she could always use the voice.

After brushing her hair and putting on the last touches of her make-
up, she left the sanctuary of her bedroom. "I am ready, d'Alencon."
The subtle reminder of his past life made his eyes fly to her face;
then they dropped just as quickly.

"It would be best if you didn't mention that to Mr. Irons."

"Why?" Cassandra asked, curious. She would have thought that Irons
would have figured that part out.

"He thinks he has full control of me. If you allude to Jeannette's
perfect knight, my master might doubt me."

Now that was an interesting tidbit. Ian Nottingham was playing both
sides of the fence. "Your secret is safe with me."

"I know. Shall we leave?"

Ian had a car waiting on the street. He opened the door and helped
her inside and then drove her himself. They came to an imposing manor
that sat on the top of hill. Several acres surrounded the house. 

Irons was waiting for them in a large circular room, with high
shelves of books, at least two stories tall, and a walkway to reach
the higher story. There was a fireplace and several chairs.

"Hello, Cassandra. May I call you that? I don't seem to know your
last name."

"I have many names, but Cassandra will do fine for now."

"You may call me Kenneth. I know we're going to become good friends,
because we both have Sara Pezzini's best interests at heart."

"I do wish Sara well, but I am a servant of the Witchblade. I do as
it commands. If it wants Sara healthy, I will lay down my mortal life
for her."

"Do you have an immortal one?" he asked, too innocently.

Touche, Cassandra thought to herself. "I am a witch. I have lived
many lifetimes; you might construe that as an immortal life."

"Did you know Joan of Arc?"

"I gave her the Witchblade when she was still a young girl. I did
not have further direct contact with her. May I sit?" She arched an
eyebrow.

"Of course, how remiss of me. Please make yourself comfortable."

His condescension was an obvious ploy, she observed thoughtfully.
Cassandra glided over to the other chair and gracefully sat down. Ian
went to stand in an alcove, almost hidden within the shadows. Irons'
hawk-like eyes watched her every move.

"You expect me to believe that were really there?" he asked. "We're
adults here. You can tell me your true interest. You want the
talisman for yourself."

"I have worn it. But, I am not a true wielder. It recognizes my
power and uses me as such." Cassandra crossed her legs, straightening
the skirt portion across her knees. "What about you? Do you feel
cheated because you can never wear it?"

"Like you, I have put it on, but never wielded it."

"And you live?"

"Like you," he repeated, "only to serve."

Cassandra considered his words. "How long did you have it in your
possession before it chose Sara?"

"For a few decades. During World War II, a woman by the name of
Elizabeth Bronte wielded it. When she died, it came into my hands."

Cassandra's eyes closed as a vision crowded out everything else in
her mind. She saw Kenneth Irons killing his lover and putting her, or
rather draping her, on a chair. Pictures flashed by showing scientist
and doctors removing tissue samples and experimenting on them. "How
old are you?" she asked, a contemptible suspicion coming over her.
His eyes looked older than his mere forty or fifty years.

Kenneth paused, then answered. "Around a hundred. The one brush with
the Witchblade has granted me immortality."

"No. It could not," she answered in assuredness. "You would need to
be constantly wearing it to stop aging. Or merging a wielder's blood
with your own. Have you turned to cannibalism to prolong your life?"
Disbelief echoed in her tone of voice. 

Irons did look taken aback. "I assure you that I am not eating a
past wielder."

"But you are consuming her. Doctors are making injections for you--
but they won't work forever."

"Are you clairvoyant as well as a witch?"

"I think they go hand in hand. I admit to having the gift of
prophecy. I can see the future, the past, and sometimes a new way to
look at the present. Now I begin to understand," she said, quietly,
mostly to just herself.

"Understand what?" His face had more lines and his hands were
clenched at his side. Even Ian was looking up at her.

"The corruption in this time line. Things went terribly wrong, and
Sara had to reverse time. I can see a discordant wave that ripples
outward, affecting everyone in its wake with you at its epicenter."
She shook her head, bringing her attention back to Irons. "However,
the problem didn't come from a wrong choice of hers, but rather from
the meddling you have done." Anger at his arrogance made her jump
from her chair and tower over him. Using the voice she compelled him,
"Did you use the former wielder's tissues for anything else than
prolonging your own life?"

Kenneth Irons went rigid in his chair. His jaws clenched, and his
fists now grasped the arms of his chair. Her eyes bored into his,
compelling the truth from him.

"I first made Ian." The words were reluctant, but they flowed. "I
used my own DNA along with Elizabeth's to create him. There were some
mistakes made, but our third version was by far the best." Kenneth
glanced over at Ian, with pride in his eyes.

"Tell me more," Cassandra commanded.

Irons was powerless to resist. "Next we made Sara. A direct clone of
Elizabeth. I had planned to raise her, make her mine, like I did with
Ian, but she was taken from me."

A vision of Lazar with an infant girl flew through her mind. "I see.
Lazar took her and placed her out of your reach."

"It took ten years before I could locate her residence, but *he*
guarded her well."

Cassandra smiled. "Lazar could do no less. A double corruption. Sara
has much to battle." Reluctantly, she released Irons from her mind
control.

"Impressive," Irons remarked, although his eyes were hard.

She instilled a light note to her voice. "I did tell you I was a
witch. That is just one of my powers." Cassandra waited, to see if he
would add anything, but he was silent. "Well, this has been a most
informative chat, but I must leave. I want to visit Sara at the
hospital."

Irons rose, as if suddenly realizing that all control had been
snatched away from him and he couldn't figure out how it had
occurred. Cassandra rejoiced in his discomfiture.

"Did you know that Bruno Dante is dead?"

Cassandra made her face look blank. "Am I supposed to know this
person? I don't believe I've made his acquaintance."

Irons gave two quick sighs. "He was murdered last night, while Sara
was battling Tommy Gallo."

"Murdered how?" she asked, hoping that Methos had taken care of the
problem

"Decapitation."

Cassandra was careful not to let the satisfaction show on her face.
"How unusual."

"Nottingham tells me that you have a sword and wield it well."

"I do," she agreed. "But if I wanted him dead, I wouldn't need to
slice off his head. I'm a witch; I'd just tell him to lay down his
gun and I'd shoot him. A sword is not much of a weapon against a
gun." She had hopefully put a kink in his conclusions. "I can't say
it was a pleasure." 

"But it was," he assured her.

She bent and picked up one of his hands to shake it, taking a quick
glance at the wrist in case a Watcher tattoo was present, but instead
found the double circle on the other side. Using her finger, she
traced the one circle and then the other. "Light and dark,
coexisting, intersecting, then making its own path away, yet only to
return once more for a confrontation," she mumbled half to herself.

"The Witchblade's mark," he informed her. 'Do you have one?"

She could see the sly look in his eyes. "No. Old age makes those
kinds of things fade away. Ian, could you take me home?"

Irons nodded to the look Ian cast over at him.

As she walked out of the room, she turned and addressed Irons again.
"The corruption may be too extreme for this universe to continue. If
this is true, the next time reversal will negate your birth." Her
warning echoed in the large room.

III

The first thing Jake did upon waking was to call his mentor at the
FBI. He used Methos' cell phone, hoping that the White Bulls wouldn't
be able to trace it. He informed them of the tape and that he now had
proof. He was instructed to make copies and that a courier would come
and pick them up. Jake would take his own copy to Sara. He'd keep it
a secret from the rest of Homicide until she decided what she wanted
done with it.

After showering and eating some breakfast, he went to work. Methos
was still sleeping and didn't move a muscle as he got ready. Jake
would bet every last dollar that the old Immortal was not sleeping,
he just didn't want conversation. That suited him just fine. 

When Jake arrived at his desk, Danny was pouring over some files. "I
just can't get a handle on this," he complained, tossing a manila
envelope across his desk. "My instincts are telling me that Karen
Bronte is in danger, but I can't find anything to support my
suspicions."

"Why don't we go over and talk to her again," Jake suggested. "Maybe
she's thought of something that'll shed some more light."

Danny agreed, and they left the precinct and drove to her apartment
complex. As they walked to the elevator, the superintendent was
waiting for them. "You made excellent time. I just called two minutes
ago."

"What happened?" Danny asked.

"Karen Bronte's door is wide open and the place has been broken
into. It's a mess."

"Is she there?" Jake asked, realizing that Danny's instincts were
right on target.

"No. It's empty." The super escorted them to the apartment. Several
of the residents hung around in the hall.

Jake and Danny entered, both whistling in disbelief at the mess.

"It's been thoroughly trashed," Jake commented, gazing around him.

"You know, I don't think our perp was stealing anything or even
struggling with Miss Bronte," Danny thought out loud.

Jake had to agree with the assessment. "It looks like a temper
tantrum."

"Look here, these holes in the wall, kind of like what a punch would
look like if you had a hook or something instead of a hand. I noticed
a mark like this in the snow, but I was attributing this to a missing
foot or leg. What if it was a hand, and the perp used this peg,
prosthetic thing to prop himself up as he arranged the bones."

"And here," Jake finished off the reasoning, "he was mad so he
punched in the wall and destroyed everything he could lay his hands
on."

"Look, here's that picture of her grandmother that looks just like
Pez," Danny pointed to the picture lying on the ground, the glass in
the frame shattered. He turned to Jake. "We need to talk to Dominique
Boucher again. Either Miss Bronte is in protective custody by someone
or she's all alone on the street, facing a killer by herself." 

More police officers arrived. Danny gave them what little
information they knew and left for the Boucher's modeling office.

She was sitting at her desk, frowning at them, when her secretary
showed them in.

"I don't have a lot of time. One of my models is home sick--"

"Which one, Miss Boucher?" Jake asked, curious to see if she'd
mention Karen by name.

"What is it you want?"

"Do you know where Karen Bronte is?" Danny asked. "Is she the one
who's sick?"

"Don't you have a partner?" she demanded. "You two men were here
last time, and I was under the impression that the detective in
charge was Sara Pezzini?" Her voice sounded a little forced, like she
was under a lot of stress.

"Detective Pezzini is not in charge, we are," Danny responded then
dug for the information again. "Do you know Miss Bronte's
whereabouts?"

"No, I do not. I would imagine she's in the dressing room with the
other models getting ready for the shoot."

"Could you call down and verify her presence or accompany us there?"

She let out a deep sigh. "Why isn't Sara Pezzini on this case?"

Jake was getting irritated with her obsession with Sara. "She was in
a shootout last night and she was injured."

"First blood," the Boucher woman whispered under her breath.

Jake and Danny exchanged puzzled glances at the weird phrase.
"Pardon me?" Danny asked.

"Nothing." She picked up the phone and called. "I want to speak to
Karen." There was several seconds of silence; then she hung up. "She
didn't show up this morning. Do you know where she is?" Dominique
glared at them.

"No. Her apartment was ransacked, but she is missing."

"She might have stayed at a boyfriend's house last night."

"Do you have a name?" Jake asked eagerly, hoping that this was the
answer.

"I don't know about my models' private lives. How badly was she hurt?"

Jake groaned, knowing that the Boucher woman was referring to Pez,
not Miss Bronte. "She was knifed in the shoulder. She'll be fine in a
few days."

Jake and Danny met each other's eyes again, silently agreeing that
this wasn't getting them anywhere. "Can we talk to the models?"

"Yes, of course. I'll take you down."

IV

Kenneth stayed in his chair after Ian and the witch left. He was
still in a state of shock. His iron control had always been a source
of pride within him, but this woman had shattered it. He could tell
that she could read every thought that flitted across his mind, and
that unnerved him.

"Mr. Irons?" A woman's voice spoke tentatively at the doorway.

"Come in, Miss Bronte. I trust you slept well?"

"Yes. I want to thank you so much for giving me sanctuary last night."

"I told you, my dear, if you ever found yourself in trouble, my door
is always open."

"I know you did. I just never thought I'd have a maniac trying to
kill me."

"No. That was not something I considered either. Did you have
breakfast?"

"Someone brought in a tray with some coffee and toast." She paused,
frowning. "What's going to happen next? Did you call the police?"

"No. They are so busy and they haven't even made any headway on your
roommate's death. I have a better idea."

She looked at him eagerly.

"I have some connections with a Paris designer. It would be my
pleasure to set you up with a job there. What do you think?"

"Paris? Me? Gosh," she stumbled over her words. "That's more than I
ever thought."

"Good. I'll call Dominique and make sure she understands my position
in all this. Don't you worry, she'll rip up your contract with little
fuss. I guarantee it." He gave a feral smile.

V

Sara lay half-way between sleeping and wakefulness. Then again, she
thought ironically, she had been that way since the Witchblade had
claimed her six days earlier. So much had happened in such a short
time.

Every time she closed her eyes, visions assaulted her senses.
Sometimes they were of the distant past, sometimes they seemed to be
from a past that hadn't occurred. Mourning Danny at a cemetery was
frequent one. While she cried, she knew that Gallo was responsible
for Danny's death, yet, Gallo was dead by her hand, and Danny was
still alive.

That brought a whole new set of emotions to the front. She had
stabbed Gallo with a sword that had grown from her bracelet. She
didn't understand how the bracelet could change from one form to
another, each day bringing something more horrifying.

"Don't agonize so," a voice told her in her head.

Sara looked at the woman speaking and thought that she must be
looking into a mirror, except for the neat chignon and crisp white
blouse. 

"I am of your blood and wielded the blade before you were born. You
must not fear your weapon but use it wisely. It has much to show and
teach you, if you are willing."

Sara didn't know what to say. "I killed a man with a sword."

"A fitting end to a monster," the woman told her. "You live in a
world where there is much evil and much good. Use the tools you are
given in your fight. The tools may reside within other people or
within the Witchblade. Don't be afraid," the voice faded, and Sara
fell into a light sleep.

"Circles of light and dark. You are the intersection; both have
their uses," the voice spoke deep within Sara's subconscious.

VI

Jake walked into the hospital and found his way to Sara's room. He
had come from the station and everything there had been in an uproar.
With Dante dead and no clues as to his killer, everyone was going
wild. Jake found he couldn't take it any more. He did know the killer
and was afraid his mannerisms might give his guilt away.

At least he had an excuse to leave. They had gotten an anonymous
call identifying who had murdered the model. Danny and Orlansky had
gone to arrest a man who had only one hand; the other was a
prosthetic. Jake volunteered to visit Sara since Danny would be busy
for some time. It also made a good excuse to talk to her in a
semblance of privacy about his answering machine tape. She still
didn't know about it.

He entered her room and found her dozing. Taking a chair beside her
bed, he waited a few minutes. Soon her eyes opened, as if sensing his
presence.

"Hi, Jake." Her voice sounded groggy. "Thanks for coming to my
rescue last night." She shivered.

"Hey, that's what partners are for. How did you connect with Gallo,
anyway?"

"I went to talk to the Boucher woman and he was waiting for me in my
car."

"Well, your ploy to get your conversation taped worked like a charm.
I've got the whole thing."

Her eyes lit up. "Everything?"

"Yes. I made some copies and sent a couple to the Feds. I've still
got the original. What do you want me to do about it?"

"Arrest Dante and all his minions."

"Hasn't anyone told you? Bruno Dante is dead." Jake waited while she
digested the information. 

"Dead?"

"About the same time you and Gallo were having your talk in the
subway station."

"Dead?" Her face looked pinched, as if she were in pain.

"Yes." Jake wished she'd show some relief, or something to assure
him that she understood what he was saying. "What do you want me to
do with your tape?"

"Whatever. You and the FBI handle it. You don't want me mucking it
up, anyway."

"This doesn't sound like you, Sara."

"Hey, what can I say. I'm not myself and haven't been all week. I
trust you to bring them all down."

Jake smiled. "Oh, I promise to do that."

She closed her eyes and Jake felt dismissed, but he had one more
thing to add. "By the way, we solved the murder of that model. Would
you believe it was Dominique Boucher who had her killed? Turns out
that the wrong woman died. The killer was supposed to do her roommate
instead."

Sara nodded, indicating that she heard, but her eyes didn't open
again.

The nurse walked in. "She's heavily sedated, sir. It's hard for her
to have long conversations."

"Okay, Sara. I'll come back and visit you later." Jake left.

VII

Sara heard Jake leave, but the vision of Dante getting his head cut
off by a sword would not leave her. She knew she hadn't been anywhere
near Dante when he had died, but what a terrible death. Lightening
shot out from his neck, putting his attacker in shadow, but Sara
could still see his outline, but not who he was. No matter how much
she pressed the Witchblade for an answer, it wouldn't tell her.

The woman with the chignon spoke. "It will only reveal what you are
ready to see."

 

Part 4

November 18, 2000

I

Cassandra entered the hospital room. Sara was sitting up in bed,
looking much better. Her face had more color to it and her eyes were
flashing with irritation.

"I'm here to bring you home," Cassandra informed the unwilling
patient.

"You? I thought Danny or--"

"They're pretty busy at work with the Feds having overrun the
department. I told them I'd take care of it, unless you'd like me to
call Ian Nottingham. I'm sure he'd be very willing to escort you
home."

"No thank you." She gingerly got up from the side of the bed, fully
dressed, "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Cassandra grinned at her enthusiasm. "We must wait for the wheel
chair. You know the rules."

It took little time before the nurse came back with the required
chair and an orderly to push it. Cassandra walked sedately behind.

The drive back to their apartment building was done in silence.
Cassandra darted a few looks over at Sara, but she was quiet. 

"Are you in pain?" the Immortal asked.

"Some," Sara reluctantly admitted.

"You know the Witchblade can help you. Healing its wielder is
another of its abilities."

"Really?" Sara asked, but Cassandra could tell she was too weary to
care. It was just one more obstacle to hurdle.

Cassandra helped Sara to her apartment, getting her changed out of
the jeans and T-shirt into something more comfortable. Then she made
Sara go to bed. "You rest now and regain some strength," Cassandra
said, and without further prompting, Sara fell asleep.

Going down to her apartment to get a few things, Cassandra found a
note from Methos. It asked her to meet him at St. Pat's at around
one. They needed to talk. Hoping that Sara would be okay while she
would be gone, Cassandra readied herself for the meeting with Methos.
It was hard to believe that they were now working on the same side.

 

II

Kenneth watched the news. The reporter was trying to stick a
microphone in Dominique Boucher's face as the lady was escorted to
jail. The headlines were saying that she was a murderer. His little
tip had paid off. They were able to find a connection between the
idiot with one hand and the modeling agency. No doubt the man had
told all he knew. Stupid woman. Dominique was no longer a threat to
either Karen Bronte or Sara Pezzini. Sometimes things do work out for
the best.

III

Instead of going back to the station, Jake decided to return to his
apartment and talk to Methos. The Feds, including his mentor, had
everything in order, so his presence wasn't required. 

Methos was propped on the couch with a beer in one hand and the
remote in the other, watching the news about Boucher's arrest. Jake
grabbed a yogurt from the fridge and joined him.

"Did you know that Boucher was after Sara?" Methos asked.

"No. Why would you say that?"

"Instinct. You told me about the picture you found in Karen Bronte's
room. Karen was the roommate to the woman killed. Now Karen is
missing, and you don't know where she is. Did Boucher know?"

"She said she didn't and the man admitted to trashing the place when
he couldn't find Karen there."

"Therefore, Karen escaped or found shelter somewhere before she was
killed."

"I follow you that far, but the rest?" Jake couldn't see any reason
why Dominique would want to kill Karen, but then he remembered her
fixation on Sara. "Wait a minute." Jake told Methos what he had
remembered.

"I think Karen Bronte has a connection to Sara; you just don't know
what it is yet. You should show the picture to Sara."

"Yeah. When she gets out of the hospital. You going to visit her?"

"No. I can't do anything to help her. Taking Dante's head was to be
my only contribution. I'm sure you can handle the rest."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"Go back to Paris. I left in kind of a hurry. Joe's probably worried
about me."

"You could stay here. I mean," Jake stumbled over his words, "I
don't have an assignment anymore."

"I don't think so." Methos sounded emphatic. 

"You did say there was a reason you came to New York," Jake tried
again. "I can't believe killing Bruno Dante, a two-bit hood, was the
reason for your trip."

"Maybe it was. I don't know. But, my feeling of impending doom is
gone. Besides, you've got Cassandra here. If you need someone to take
a head, ask her."

Jake eyes widened in shock. "I couldn't. I mean, I'd be--"

Methos laughed as he took another swig from his beer. "She is a
little frightening."

"Are you going to talk to her before you leave?"

"You think I should?"

Jake didn't know how to answer.

Methos finished the bottle. "I'm going out for a bit. Don't follow
me."

Jake stiffened. "Have I yet?"

"No. But I've told you I'm going to leave. You might think that's
reason enough."

"I figure you'd lose me fast enough. And with that I'd lose your
trust."

"Exactly." Methos put his bottle down and walked out the door.

Jake had to admit he felt tempted to see if he could follow the
oldest Immortal without detection, but decided it wasn't worth it.

IV

Cassandra slipped through the front door of St. Patrick's Cathedral,
feeling the presence of anther Immortal. The crowd was huge, and it
took her several moments to find him seated in a pew almost in the
front of the church. He turned and looked at her, and for a very long
second, she was back in the dusty tent, ready to do her master's
bidding. Then she straightened her spine and walked confidently
towards the monster that had haunted her dreams for three thousand
years. Pulling her coat around her legs, she slid in next to him.

"Did you meet Irons?" Methos asked her, without preliminary small
talk.

"Yes."

"Is he the cause of this corruption you mentioned before?"

"Definitely. He's a very rich and powerful man, and he's using his
position to orchestrate events and people. Irons killed the previous
wielder and had her body cryogenically stored. He's using her tissues
to both prolong his own life and to clone humans, wielders in their
own right. He wants to control the Witchblade."

Methos' jaw dropped. "Sara is a clone?"

"Yes. Of Elizabeth Bronte. Not only that, but Ian Nottingham is also
a genetically engineered man taken from Irons and Elizabeth's DNA."

"Didn't you say that this Nottingham is Alencon?"

"Yes. A very different kind of perfect knight."

"He was never perfect. He was a pompous braggart."

Cassandra laughed. "And a rival for Jeannette's affections. I can
see it now."

"What do you suggest we do about this Kenneth Irons?"

Cassandra stared at Methos. "You're asking my opinion?"

"You're the one who met him. Do we kill him?"

"I warned Irons that if he keeps up his present course, I see no way
around it but reverse time all the way back to before he was born. I
would have to do it."

"This would negate Elizabeth's and Sara's life."

"Yes." Cassandra waited, knowing that Methos would soon see the
impact upon his own life.

"Kronos would be alive again."

"Yes," she repeated, although this time there was a tremor in it.

"But we'd remember what has already occurred, right? We wouldn't
make the same mistakes?"

"I don't know. We're talking about a whole century. You might not
recall as much as you did this last time, because the Witchblade
needed your help. The second rewind would negate the discordance,
thus your help wouldn't be required."

Methos swallowed thickly. "You won't do this except as a last
resort, right?"

Cassandra let out a breath she hadn't even known she was holding. He
wasn't going to stop her. She looked at him with new eyes. "Only as a
last resort," she agreed. 

"Then let's hope Irons backs off. Do you need me to do something?"

"No. I intend to stay in New York City, get a job here and stay
close to Sara in case she needs my help. The police captain is dead;
you took his head?" she asked, hoping that he was responsible and
there wasn't another Immortal around.

"Last night. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"It was. Irons is beside himself with worry because he doesn't know
who did it. He thinks he's in control of everyone, yet a death
happened out of the blue. It was quite amusing to see his reaction."

The two ancient Immortals sat in the church pew staring in front of
them, each lost in their own thoughts, but no longer feeling
threatened by the other.

"Well, if you don't need my help," Methos broke the silence, "I
think I'll head back to Paris. I sort of left in a hurry. MacLeod is
bound to be worried." He gave a sheepish grin.

Cassandra was amazed at the difference between the Horseman from her
memories and the Methos that sat next to her. MacLeod had been right.
Or maybe he was just a miracle worker. Methos truly cared about her
Highland child. "Yes. You can leave. I've got everything under
control here."

Methos stood, getting ready to leave. "If you do reverse time, the
next time I see you, you might be in MacLeod's dojo, chasing me with
a sword. Remember, I don't want to kill you now and I didn't want to
kill you then, either."

Cassandra nodded, but didn't know how to answer. "Let's hope it
doesn't come to that."

Methos still looked troubled, but he nodded back and left.

Cassandra sat in the pew and waited until his presence was a mere
whisper. Then she slowly opened her mind and let the gods speak to
her. At first there was nothing, then she felt a soothing, comforting
feeling settle over her. They were happy with her decision. Wait, but
be ready to act. She felt at peace.

V

Sara woke up to an empty apartment. Cassandra had left some stuff
there, but she was gone. The Witchblade on her wrist was a glowing
mass of swirling red light. Was she in danger? No. It was nothing
like that.

Sitting up, she felt her head swirl, like the stone in her bracelet.
Following instinct, she took the bracelet off, clutched it in both
hands and held it to her chest. A warmth settled in her body,
spreading from her chest, outward. Her eyes were squeezed closed,
concentrating.

Her subconscious noted that her front door had opened and someone
had walked in. There was no threat, so she ignored it. She had utter
confidence that if the intruder had meant her harm, the Witchblade
would have told her. Instinct was still guiding her, but then she saw
the same woman in her mind, the one with the perfect chignon and old -
fashioned blouse.

"Sara. You learn fast."

That woman was replaced by another. This one still looked like her,
like Sara, but was dressed in a knight's armor. She too had a wound,
bound, but still painful. She was praying to God. The Witchblade was
healing her too, not totally, but enough so she could continue her
mission. "You are needed, Sara," the female knight told her. "You can
not stay hurt. Your friend is leaving you. You need to take him to
the airport to say goodbye. You need to be there."

Sara jerked away, flinching as her stitches pulled.

"Easy, Sara," Cassandra comforted her. "Using the Woman's Glove,
while making us strong, also makes us weak."

Sara took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I keep having people
talk to me in riddles. I understand only half of what they say."

"Do I talk in riddles?"

"Yes. How can something make us strong also make us weak?"

"Do you not feel strong when you wield the Witchblade against your
enemy? He was firing his gun at you, which you repelled easily. Yet,
if you come to depend upon it, you lose the edge of confidence in
your own ability, thus you become weak."

"I don't like feeling that rush of power. I felt like I could cut
down ten Gallos and not break a sweat. I wanted to kill him. I wanted
it so bad, I could taste it."

Cassandra opened Sara's shirt, revealing the twin circles. "Do you
know what that is?"

"A birth mark."

Cassandra smiled. "Yes. It is. In a way." She traced the first
circle. "This is the circle of light. It represents all things pure
and good in this universe." Cassandra traced the other circle. "This
one is the dark. Dark emotions, like wanting to kill. Revenge, the
hunger for retribution. These are the things represented by this
circle. Do you see how they connect, intersect one another. As a
wielder you will tread the dark circle or the light. But they always
meet at some point. You can be an evil person who does good," 

Cassandra stopped, a puzzled look on her face, then she smiled
again. "Or a good person who sometimes uses her power for ill. No
person can be entirely good or bad. You are human, not a god, and let
me tell you, gods make their own mistakes."

"I am justice." Sara spoke aloud. "I have been granted this gift to
wield justice in this world."

"Yes, although others will try to use you, bend you to their will.
You must be strong."

Sara felt a peace descend upon her. Every person must tread a dark
or light path; hers just had farther-reaching consequences. "I think
I'm ready for this challenge."

"Good. How is your shoulder?"

"It hurts, but not as much as before. I think I can get up and do
some stuff tomorrow."

"I'm sure you can."

"Are you staying with me all night?"

"No. I wanted to teach you how to heal, but you managed that quite
well on your own. If you want I can leave."

"I think I would prefer to be alone, if you don't mind."

"You don't have to say anymore. I understand the need to mediate.
Remember, I'm just a phone call away. Call, even if you only want to
ask me a question."

Sara was glad as the door closed and was left in solitude. The
voices inside wanted to talk to her. An audience, even Cassandra, was
an unwanted distraction.

VI

Ian Nottingham walked out of the bakery carrying a small round cake,
in a white box. His hands shook slightly, despite his wish that
they'd stop. It seemed that he had no control. Excitement warred with
fear as he made his way to Sara Pezzini's apartment. Opting for the
stairs instead of fire escape, he walked the final steps to her door.

Just outside, he listened, and could hear her heartbeat. It was
steady, but not so slow as to indicate sleep. Dropping to one knee,
he opened the box, pulled out the cake and lit the candles. Sweat
beaded on his forehead, which he wiped with the back of his gloved
hands. Realizing that his hands were still gloved, he removed them
and stuffed them in his pocket. If he had the chance to touch Sara,
he didn't want the leather barrier between their flesh. Picking up
the cake, then standing, he hesitantly knocked on the door.

He could hear her move. Would she answer? Would he have to open the
door himself?

It opened, and she stood there. A nightgown flared around her body,
and she wore a look of curiosity on her face. She wasn't mad. She
wasn't repulsed. 

"Happy birthday, Sara," he said quickly, wanting to keep her
slightly off guard and thus receptive to his friendly overtures.

"How did you know?"

"I was there when you were born. It is imprinted upon my soul."

She backed up and he walked in, carrying the cake to her table. The
candles were still burning.

"Are you going to make a wish?" he asked, breaking the silence.

She looked at him. "You're the only one that's remembered. Even
Danny hasn't phoned."

"I expect he's busy. Make your wish," he told her eagerly, reveling
in the magic surrounding him.

She paused, taking out the plates. "I don't know what to wish for."

"True love? Happiness? It's what I wish for every day of my life."

Sara met his eyes, puzzled, but she didn't inquire further. She
closed her eyes and Ian let his longing burst out of his eyes. As she
blew the tiny flames out on the two candles in the shape of a three
and a zero, Ian repressed his feelings once more.

She took a knife and cut them both a piece. Ian sat at the table
staring at his cake and fork.

"Aren't you going to eat it?"

"When I'm done, are you going to kick me out?"

This time Sara, looked at him directly. He wanted to meet her eyes,
he really tried, but they fell of their own accord. 

"We could watch TV? You do watch TV, don't you?" she asked.

"Sometimes, if my master is also watching it."

"You need to get out more." She took a bite of her cake. "So you
were there when I was born?" 

Ian stiffened, but answered. "Yes. I was four." He remembered the
day with shame. Ian had not wanted her birth, for he saw it as a
division of his father's affections. Sara was the female, the heir
apparent to the Witchblade. He was just the experiment. That was when
he decided to try on the Witchblade. His own jealousy, his own
arrogance told him that he could wield the Witchblade better than any
girl. It ended up costing him a father's recognition, and a sister
who might have come to love him.

Yes, he did put on the Witchblade, yes, it didn't kill him, yes, it
caused his father to come and rescue him, but it also gave Lazar time
alone with the baby to take her far away. From that day forward, Ian
became a slave, not a son.

"So young," Sara said gently. "What happened?"

"Fate. Destiny. Separation." Ian took another bite of cake, his hand
now visibly shaking.

The phone rang, and he jumped to his feet.

"Easy, Nottingham. It's only the phone."

She went to answer it. He heard her tell the person on the other end
that she would be glad to take them to the airport the next day. Yes,
she had been hurt, but was feeling better.

Ian took steps retreating towards the door. He couldn't take it
anymore. The pleasure in her company compounded by the misery he felt
because of his actions thirty years ago, felt more painful then any
beating he had endured under his master's hand.

"Goodbye, Joe." She hung up the phone but he was already running
down the stairwell. 

"Nottingham? Where'd you go?"

He was on the street, dodging people in frantic rush to escape his
own feelings.

 

Nov 19, 2000

I

Kenneth Irons waved goodbye to Karen Bronte as Ian drove her to the
airport. It was time to pay a visit to Dominique to ensure that she
left Karen alone. At least in jail Dominique wouldn't have the
opportunity to avoid him. 

He was shown into a room that had a glass barrier with phones on
either side. Dominique was brought in wearing the drab prison garb.
She saw him sitting there and immediately lost the arrogant tilt to
her head. He picked up the receiver on his side. She did likewise.

"Hello, Kenneth. You've seen the news?"

"I have the Bronte girl safe," he told her. "You cannot harm her
anymore."

"What do you care?" she asked, bitterly.

"Why do you care?" he returned. "She is only a blood heir, nothing
more. Not a destined wielder. She is too soft, too nice," he said
with mockery. "It would reject her in a second. You know this, so why
did you want her dead?"

She remained silent.

"Was it to bring the real wielder to you?" He laughed. "It didn't
work. Fate conspired against you, or should I say the Witchblade
engineered fate. For some reason it didn't want you to challenge her."

"I need it, Kenneth. I'm starting to get old. I see more and more
lines on my face. After wearing it that one time, I haven't aged. I
stayed young and beautiful and important. Now, my beauty is fading
and men don't--"

"It would never return to you, my dear. Sara Pezzini is the destined
wielder, and there is nothing either of us can do. Time must continue
on its present course. The Witchblade protects its own, even from
you."

"Can't you get me out of here?"

"Yes," he paused, noting the expectant look cross her face. "But I
won't. This is your punishment for trying to use Karen Bronte to get
the Witchblade from Sara. You have lost." Kenneth put the phone down
and walked out. Dominique could do nothing from inside a jail cell.

II

Sara accompanied Joe and Maria Siri to the airport. It felt like she
was losing a big part of her past, with Joe moving so far away.

"Don't worry, Sara. We'll keep in touch. There's the phone and the
Internet anytime you need to talk."

Sara let her sunglasses slide down her nose as she looked at Joe.
"It won't be the same, though."

She waited as they checked in their baggage and then they meandered
through the concourse toward the gates. As they got to security, Sara
flashed her badge and they let her through with the Siri's. Every
step seemed to make them further apart.

"Maybe we should have said goodbye at the car," Maria suggested,
obviously uncomfortable with the tension.

"No. I need to say goodbye. The two of you have been like parents to
me since Dad died. What kind of surrogate daughter says goodbye in a
car and then drives away like it was just another day?"

Maria nodded, then slung her arm around her husband, unknowingly
making Sara feel more alone than before.

They came to an intersection, when Sara thought she saw the back of
Ian Nottingham's head. He seemed to be escorting a young blond woman
towards customs and the international flight gates.

"Excuse me for a minute, Joe." Sara took off jogging, clutching her
shoulder where the stitches were pulling. The Witchblade tingled on
her wrist. Suddenly the vision of the girl with the dark hair cropped
up, urging Sara to go faster. 

Nottingham suddenly stopped and pivoted, gazing directly at Sara.
The woman next to him did the same. She was beautiful. The tiny stab
of jealousy was completely suppressed. 

"Sara, you shouldn't be out so soon after getting hurt." The concern
in his eyes was apparent, but so was embarrassment.

The Witchblade was alive, urging Sara to ignore Ian and talk to the
woman. The woman gaped at her in stunned bewilderment. "Who are you?"

"I'm Detective Sara Pezzini."

"Karen Bronte," she responded, looking somewhat dazed. "I'm sorry
I'm staring, but you look just like my grandmother. I never knew her,
but she was a legend in our family."

"We must hurry if you are to catch your flight," Ian urged, pulling
on Karen's arm.

"Why does she have to leave?" Sara asked, knowing that this woman
was a piece of her puzzle. After finding out she was adopted, then
going through the agony of being disconnected from the family with
whom she had always identified, now she had a chance of possibly
finding out something about her ancestry. It couldn't be an accident
that it was Iron's pet that was making Karen leave town.

"I really do need to leave," Karen acknowledged. "I'm starting a new
job in Paris."

"A new job?" Sara questioned. "Did Kenneth Irons find it for you?"

"Yes," Karen acknowledged. "He's been such a help. Listen, give me
your phone number, and once I get settled, I'll call you."

Sara brightened at the idea. She took out a piece of paper, and
wrote down her address and her number. "Here." She handed it to the
other woman. 

Nottingham seemed anxious to get moving. "I'll see you later, Sara."

"Thank you, Sara," Karen responded after sliding the paper inside
her pocket. "I look forward to getting to know you," she smiled,
looking genuinely glad.

Sara turned away and slowly made her way back to the Siris. 

She never saw Ian Nottingham skillfully remove the paper from inside
Karen's coat.

November 20, 2000

I

Ian opened the limo door. Kenneth Irons slid out of the parked car
and without a glance in Ian's direction went to stand near a crop of
trees in the Fairview Cemetery. Ian shut the door and followed his
master respectfully, three paces behind.

Bruno Dante was being laid to rest with the full pomp and ceremony
due to a respected police captain. Sara, in her dress uniform, was
standing between her partners, Danny Woo and Jake McCarty. Ian let
his eyes feast upon his lady. Despite her injuries, she looked
magnificent.

"Yes, Ian." Kenneth broke into his daydreams. "She *is* striking. A
woman in the full bloom of her beauty and power, but there are so
many of those. What is it, do you think, about Sara Pezzini that has
attracted the Witchblade?"

Ian bowed his head further, but his eyes remained on the wielder.
"Her courage. Concealed vulnerability." His words escaped before he
could stop them. The regret flashed across his face.

"It's okay, Ian. I don't begrudge you your passion. Sara is able to
invoke that in most men, even me at times." Kenneth laughed
condescendingly. "But never forget. We must learn how to control her."

"Even with Cassandra the witch lurking nearby?"

"You don't really believe that, do you? There are no such things as
witches, although I think she has tasted the Witchblade's power."

Ian disagreed; she was a witch, of sorts. He had witnessed her mind
control abilities as both observer and participant. His thoughts
naturally regressed back in time to when Joan of Arc had been at the
height of her powers. With Sara's form in front of him, his mind
instead saw Jeannette at the crowning of King Charles. Her exaltation
at her accomplishment was written all over her face. At that time,
Joan of Arc was at the height of her power and popularity. 

Faces of other wielders passed before his eyes. Each reigned supreme
at one point in her life and then fought tenaciously to achieve the
same glory once more. Some did, others didn't. Would Sara be able to
harness the Witchblade and truly make it a part of herself, or would
fate and circumstance destroy her in the process? Then the most
horrible thought of all: would his master's machinations induce the
witch Cassandra to reverse time so that none of them would exist? 

Ian swallowed thickly, then let his eyes feast once more upon the
woman from his dreams. At least he had today. He had no business
wishing for more.

 

II

Sara walked into her apartment, worn out from the ceremony. Dante
was buried, minus a head. Gallo was dead, a confession linking him to
both her father's and Maria's murders. The White Bulls had been
disassembled, thanks to Jake and his FBI friends. Everything had been
tidied up, except her life. It was still a mess. All through the
funeral, she kept having flashes of another funeral, this one
featuring Danny as the corpse. It was the time reversal Cassandra had
alluded to. Something had happened that caused Danny's death, but
Sara had prevented it this time around. What could it have been?

How was she ever to tell the difference between reality and her
imagination? All her visions seemed so real.

"The Witchblade is real." She spoke aloud, stroking the metal
bracelet, feeling its warmth flow into her palm. "I'm real," she
added.

Ian stepped out from the shadows. "Believe in the Witchblade, Sara.
It believes in you." 

His entreaty struck a nerve, a loose memory. She looked own at her
wrist and saw the swirling colors, hypnotizing her. When she looked
up again, Nottingham was gone.

 

Epilogue

Methos entered Le Blues Club and took a seat at an empty table.
There were only a few patrons, but it was still early. Joe was up on
stage, strumming his guitar, although no one paid him any attention.
Bar keepers were busy wiping glasses, stocking shelves and filling
snack bowls. The few people who were seated, nursed their drinks and
talked to their companions.

Only Methos was alone. A waitress came over to take his order. He
asked for a pitcher of beer and a glass. Joe seemed to have a sixth
sense, for when Methos spoke the word beer, the old Watcher looked up
and let a wide grin cross his face. Unfortunately, it was chased away
by a scowl as Joe set his guitar down and made his way over to the
table.

"Where in the hell have you been?" he asked grumpily.

Methos felt glad to be home. It was nice being missed. "I thought
you'd know. Don't you Watchers record everything?"

"How could I record--" Joe paused as a thought occurred to him. "You
were with that other Watcher? The one you were looking up in the
database. Who was it?" he asked impatiently.

"It doesn't matter now. It's all over." A warm fuzzy feeling came
over him. Not only did Joe miss him, but Jake hadn't reported his
presence. Realistically he had to concede that McCarty didn't write
anything in case he was found to be in collusion with one Immortal in
the death of a second Immortal. That went against all the Watcher
rules. That got Methos into wondering who was recorded as taking
Bruno Dante's head.

"But where'd you go?" Joe asked again, refusing to be put off.

"Had to take care of something." Methos decided to throw out a bone.
"It concerned Cassandra. Would you believe we worked together for the
greater good of the world?"

"You were looking up Cassandra?" Joe sounded outraged. "You told me--"

"Relax. Cassandra was a surprise. Believe me, I was quite shocked to
run into her. I really did look up a Watcher."

"Who?" Joe demanded.

Methos was unsure whether to tell him the truth. Part of him
rebelled against the thought, but another part was worried that
something might happen to Sara, and Jake might need to contact him
again. Going against habit, he replied bluntly, "Jake McCarty." Then
he abruptly changed the subject. "How's MacLeod? Been in any trouble
lately?"

Joe obviously sensing that Methos wouldn't be more forthcoming,
answered the question. "He's been helping Amanda find a teacher for
Nick Wolfe."

"That's good, as long as he doesn't look in my direction." Methos
took a swallow from his beer. "Why don't you go play some more? Maybe
something a bit more upbeat. After all, I just saved the world."

Joe grunted, and went up to the stage and resumed playing. Methos
smiled in satisfaction. Nothing beat drinking good beer, and
listening to his friend play some excellent music.

The end

Author's notes:

1. Joan of Arc was referred to by different names depending upon the
source. She was called Jeannette in her home village and Jehanne at
the French court. Many of the books I consulted referred to her as
both Jeanne and Joan. For simplicity's sake, I have decided to call
her Jeannette throughout this story to avoid confusion and make it a
smoother read.

2. The main resource I consulted for Joan of Arc facts was the book:
Joan of Arc by Herself and her Witnesses. Regine Peroud. 1969. Merrie
Gail was a godsend when it came to some of the little things to make
it sound more realistic.

3. Sara Pezzini's birthday is listed as November 18, 1970 in the
comic book canon. I decided to borrow that tidbit.