Immortal Cascade 12 Compassion

by Carol Roi

  A crossover between The Sentinel and Witchblade written for the Sentinel Lyric Wheel's Crossover Wheel. The lyrics are at the end of the story.

  Some background on Witchblade for those who haven't seen it. The Witchblade is an ancient weapon in the form of a bracelet. Its power can only be wielded by women. The blade has chosen Sara Pezzini, a NYC homicide detective, as its new wielder. The Witchblade gives her visions, as well as strength, and agility, and can turn into a bulletproof gauntlet and sword. Sara has a spirit guide, her dead partner, Danny. Conchobar is Sara's soulmate, who she knew a thousand years ago when she was Cathain, a Celtic warrior/goddess, and who she remet in her current lifetime. He was murdered by Irish patriots trying to get to his brother, an IRA bomber.

  In terms of timelines, this story takes place in the Witchblade timeline after Maelstrom, but before Periculum. In TS, it takes place in my Immortal universe, after Frozen.

  Rated R for sexual situations

  Compassion

  Taking a long drink of his ale, Blair glanced around the dimly lit pub, gazing at the faces of people sitting at the tables, at the bar, and on the dance floor. He wasn't sure who he was looking for, but he'd know them when he saw them. Blair felt a slight smile cross his face.

  Amazing how accepting he'd become of who he was, of what he was, now. The loss of Diandra had turned his focus inward, and through months of intense study and meditation, he'd come into his shamanhood. For the first time in a long while, he was truly comfortable in his skin. He didn't have to answer to anyone but himself and the universe, and he was okay with that. Things had gone much easier on him when he'd decided to quit trying to live up to everyone else's expectations and had concentrated on his own.

  What Blair had discovered then was that free of others advice and opinions, he knew the right choices to make. He'd refused the badge Simon had offered him, and instead started a detective agency with Jim, using the money Dee had left him.

  "That was Claudia. Our flight leaves at 8 am, so we need to head to LaGuardia at 6. Blair?"

  One of his companions' words interrupted his reflections. "Huh?"

  "Sydney said our flight leaves at 8. You going to sleep on us, Chief?" Jim asked.

  Blair shook his head as he gazed at his partner and their new friends, relic hunter Sydney Fox and her assistant Nigel Bailey. "No, no, not falling asleep. Just--looking for someone."

  "Why?" Nigel asked, "you have friends here in New York City?"

  "Sandburg has friends, and enemies, everywhere," Jim said with a laugh. "Did you call someone to meet us here?"

  "How could I? I didn't know we were coming here until Nigel suggested it in the cab. I just have... ." Blair's voice faded as he felt a finger of electricity trail along his spine. He wondered, not for the first time, if that tingle was similar to what Dee had called a buzz, the sensation that there was another Immortal in the vicinity. Blair was mortal as far as he knew, but over the past several months, he'd started to get 'twinges' when something important was about to happen. Like the woman walking in the door now.

  She was taller than average, with long dark hair and piercing green eyes. Dressed in a black leather jacket over a high-necked sweater that stopped two inches short of her jeans, she entered the bar as if she owned it, the crowd parting as she made her way to an empty table.

  Blair swallowed hard. He'd known one other woman with that kind of presence, the regal, cat-like grace of a born warrior. And he'd been drawn to her, too. His jeans were suddenly uncomfortably tight. Taking a drink of ale, he wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs, and got to his feet. "There's someone I need to talk to."

  "Yeah, sure, Chief. Go to it," Jim gave Blair a grin. "About time you started socializing again."

  With a nod to his friends, Blair started across the packed room.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Sara Pezzini took a seat at a table near the back of the pub, wondering why she'd come here, to the place that held so much joy, and ultimately so much sorrow. Not that she could feel either emotion. A numbing block of ice occupied the space where her feelings should have been.

  A waitress appeared at her elbow, asked her what she wanted.

  "Beer. None of that mud," she answered, her first conversation with Conchobar coming vividly to mind. He'd offered her dark ale, and she'd refused.

  She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it out of her face. The pub hadn't changed any, even though its main attraction, the alt Irish rocker, Conchobar, had been dead these past three weeks. His symbol, the rune of the Celtic dog, still adorned the walls.

  She closed her eyes to shut out the image, and was rewarded with the vision of the Irish bitch, Fiona, slowly pushing the Witchblade, Sara's Witchblade, into Conchobar's heart. She snapped her eyes open. She didn't need any more replays of that nightmare.

  Her head came up as the waitress set a bottle on the table in front of her and left. Sara picked it up, began to bring it to her lips, and stopped short. The red gem in the bracelet on her wrist, the Witchblade, was glowing.

  Sara raised her eyes from the jewel to see a man approaching her through the crowd. He was of medium height, with dark chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He wore a long black coat, over black jeans, and a tight gray T-shirt that emphasized his lean build. She blinked, and suddenly she was looking at the same man, his deep blue eyes set in a mask of dark face paint, his hair free on his shoulders, his only clothing a kind of sarong round his waist. In his right hand, he held a wooden staff, and at his side stood a huge silver wolf.

  A second blink and he was at her table, pulling out a chair and dropping gracefully into it. "Hi, this seat taken?"

  Sara was about to reply yes, when he said, "I've been looking for you."

  That stunned her for a moment, and she knew her expression must have given away her surprise, because he smiled at her. "Do I know you?" she finally managed.

  He shook his head. "No, not yet." He gave her the infectious grin again. "This is going to sound strange, but I knew you were going to come in here. I mean, I was just waiting, watching the door, and then there you were. And I had to come over here and talk to you."

  Sara chewed her lip, and surreptitiously glanced at the Witchblade. It was still glowing. Images flashed in her mind, her and this man, kissing, touching. Stop it! she mentally yelled at the relic. I don't want this, I don't need this. I want Conchobar! Again the vision of his death assaulted her, and she shoved it away.

  "Look, buddy--" she began.

  "Blair. My name's Blair."

  "Look, Blair, I'm sure you're a really nice guy, and you probably mean well, but--"

  He held out his hand to her, getting to his feet, slipping out of his coat. "Dance with me."

  "What?" This guy was either drunk, or just plain nuts. But he did have nice shoulders... .

  "Dance with me. One dance, then if you don't believe we were fated to meet tonight, you go your way, and I'll go mine."

  She didn't budge.

  "All right, then I'll just sit here all night and bore you with stories of my tragic life." Blair thrust his hand closer.

  With a toss of her head and a snort of disbelief, Sara took it. Blair pulled her effortlessly to her feet and led her to the dance floor. Once there, he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close. From anyone else, it would have been too much, too intimate too soon. But Sara felt... safe with him, though she couldn't explain why. Closing her eyes, she tried to ignore him, tried to tune in to the rhythm of the music. Just let me get this over with, and I can go back to my beer and get blindingly drunk.

  His arms tightened around her, his hand rubbing her back g
ently. She found herself leaning in closer, pressing her cheek against the soft skin of his neck and the silk of his hair.

  His breath tickled her ear as he spoke. "What's your name?"

  "Sara," she answered.

  "A beautiful, lyrical name. It suits you."

  A deep shudder rippled through her. Conchobar had turned her name into a song, one he would never finish. She bit her lip, expecting tears, but none fell at the memory. She could remember the pain, but she couldn't feel it, couldn't feel anything. Anything but the warmth of Blair's body against hers.

  Again the Witchblade sent a vision to her, of Blair's lips trailing along her neck, of his hands touching her gently, intimately. Her body reacted to the images, a rush of passion burning through her veins.

  She didn't want this; she wanted the pain, the fury, the sorrow Conchobar's death should have visited upon her soul, not this loveless sense of desire. She pushed away from Blair, angry at herself. This was not who she was. She wouldn't dishonor her soulmate's memory in this way.

  Then she saw his eyes, full of warmth, of concern, of caring, for her, a stranger. And for a moment she let herself believe that he might be the answer, that his touch might bring the healing she so desperately needed.

  Dominique Boucher's voice echoed in her mind. The old woman had worn the Witchblade once, had been cursed by it because she was not a true wielder. But she had shared some of its secrets with Sara. The blade weaves an unbreakable web. Nothing happens by chance. It draws to itself, to you, everything you need, only what you need, to teach you, to achieve its ends.

  All right, then. The Witchblade had brought Blair to her for a reason. She supposed she owed it to herself, to the blade, to find out what it was. She jerked her head in the direction of the door. "Let's get out of here. But I'm warning you, any funny stuff, and I'm hauling you in. I'm a cop."

  Blair stared at her for a moment then laughed. "Of course you are, of course. The universe wouldn't have it any other way." He followed her off the dance floor, stopping at a table with three people sitting at it for a moment.

  Sara continued on to the table she'd been sitting at. Danny was there waiting for her. "What?" she asked the ghost irritatedly.

  "Just checking on you, Pez," he replied. "Making sure you're listening to your gut instincts."

  She laughed sharply. "Oh right, now it's you and this thing," she waved the wrist wearing the bracelet at him, "ganging up on me?"

  "He's more than he seems, and wiser than his years. You would do well to listen to him."

  "Right. I'm listening, I'm listening, okay?" She glanced to where Blair was talking with a man with a receding hairline. When she turned back to Danny, he was gone.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Blair leaned over Jim's shoulder. "Sorry, guys, I'm splitting. I'll meet you at the hotel in the morning."

  Jim's hand grabbed a fistful of Blair's shirt. "Hold on there a minute, Junior. Where do you think you're running off to?"

  "Sara's place. It's okay, man, she's a cop." He looked in her direction, spying her talking to an oriental man with long hair.

  "I know that, Sandburg. It doesn't make it okay. I don't like it." His grip tightened on the guide.

  Blair squatted next to Jim's chair, so they were eye-level with each other. "I know, Jim. But you have to trust me on this one, okay? This is one of those things, like when you fell in the lake, or like I knew Esme Cooper was innocent. Sara needs my help. I don't know how or why, she just needs me tonight." He could see the emotions playing across his friend's face, worry, irritation, and finally acceptance.

  "This is one of those shaman things, isn't it?" he grunted.

  "Yeah, it is. Look, I'll get her address and call you, okay?" He touched a finger to his ear, letting Jim know he wanted him to listen in.

  "Okay, Sandburg, I'll trust you on this. But so help me if I have to come bail your ass out of jail... "

  Blair got to his feet, crossing his heart with his finger. "I'll be good, I promise." He turned to his friends. "Sydney, Nigel, sorry to cut our evening short, but--" He shrugged.

  "It's okay, Blair," Sydney told him. "We were just talking about heading back to the hotel anyway."

  "See you in the morning," Nigel added.

  "Right." Giving them a little wave, Blair headed toward Sara's table, feeling Jim's eyes on his back the whole way.

  Reaching it, he shrugged into his coat. "Who was that you were talking to? A friend?"

  Sara stared at him, her eyes wide. "You saw him?"

  Blair nodded. "Yeah, good looking Asian guy. He looked worried about you."

  "Jesus," she said under her breath. "He said you were more than you seemed."

  He didn't know how to answer that, so he asked, "Where to?"

  "My place."

  Sara exited the bar, and he had to run to keep up with her. She came to a stop by a motorcycle, lifting a helmet from the handlebars.

  Blair eyed her bike appreciatively. "Buell Lightning X1. Nice ride, Sara."

  "You ride?"

  "Not in a while. So where, exactly, is your place?"

  "Lower East Side, B Street, in the Village. Now can we go?" She straddled the cycle, settling the helmet on her head.

  Blair climbed on behind her. "One more thing, what's your last name?"

  Sara gave him a look of irritation. "Pezzini. Is that all?"

  "Yeah, that's it." He wrapped his arms around her waist as she started the Buell, feeling the vibrations of the bike's powerful motor in his bones.

  "Hold on!" she yelled, and then she twisted the throttle, pulling away from the curb with a roar.

  Blair leaned into her back, as he took a few minutes to get the hang of riding double again. Sara was a skilled driver, and she sped through the deserted city streets, taking the turns smoothly. They were approaching the Village when Blair felt her tense in his grip.

  "We've got trouble!" she yelled back over her shoulder.

  Looking behind him, Blair could see two other motorcycles closing on them quickly. As he watched, fire seemed to spurt from one of the rider's hands, and a bullet whizzed past them. "Shit!"

  Sara accelerated, and began to pull away from them.

  "Friends of yours?"

  "No, yours?"

  "Not mine," Blair said loudly. The riders chasing them began to catch up. "They're gaining on us!"

  "I'll lose 'em!" The Buell leaped ahead.

  "Not with me riding back here you won't! Turn into the next alley and slow down," Blair ordered.

  "What?"

  "Just do it!" He felt her shrug, but she did as he asked. "Circle the block and come at them from behind!" he told her as he bailed off the back of the bike, tucking his shoulder and rolling to his feet. "Go!"

  Her engine screamed as she drove away from him. Blair only had a few seconds, but he had the moves down. Reaching inside his long coat, he withdrew the two halves of his staff, clicking them together with a twist. A grim smile crossed his face as he remembered the lessons Dee had taught him. Surprise was the biggest advantage he had. He stood in the middle of the alley, staff upright before him. In the darkness, the cyclists wouldn't know what it was until it hit them.

  The two bikers turned the corner cautiously, sensing a trap. Seeing one defenseless man, they gunned their engines, racing toward him. One was slightly in front of the other, and Blair made his decision. As the biker drove straight at him, the warrior stepped lightly to the side, flipping the staff horizontally, catching the rider across the chest, and knocking him off the motorcycle. The biker hit the ground hard and lay still, the bike skidding on its side down the alley.

  The second rider overshot Blair, and was yanking his cycle around when Blair turned to face him, staff at the ready. He wasn't sure what to try next; he knew this guy wasn't going to fall for the same trick the first one did. The motorcycle raced toward him, and Blair held his ground. At the last second he whirled to the side once again, s
eeing a flash of light out of the corner of his eye, a burning pain lancing across the top of his shoulder. He managed to maintain his grip on the staff and slammed it into the rider's back.

  As the biker wheeled around again, Blair slipped in a puddle and went to one knee. I'm in trouble now. Jim is gonna kill me! Scrambling on all fours, he dove for safety behind a dumpster, just as he heard the distinctive growl of the Buell racing up the alley.

  Peering around the trash bin, he saw Sara charging at the biker, something long, shiny and deadly extending from her arm. A sword? She's immortal? As she passed the other motorcycle, she swung at the rider, the sword striking him across the shoulders, sending him flying.