The man sat back, comfortable yet straight, relaxed and yet with authority; much like a king of old, sitting upon his throne. But instead, his throne was finely crafted leather, his court the wall of HD plasma screens, , his Italian-crafted silk suit his only armor, and his only courtier the black-clothed man who stood just off to his side, head downcast.
“Fascinating, isn’t she,” the man asked, the slightest trace of an accent, almost as if it were part British, and part French.
His companion turned his head upward, just a touch. Dark eyes blazed from beneath his long dark hair, as it took in the array of images on the screen. “Yes. Full of life, full of energy; almost as if she were the embodiment of anima itself.”
The screens held images of a young woman, not even twenty. Her hair was a golden brown in some images, blonde in others, a vibrant yet artificial auburn in others still. Her expressions ranged from the captured laughter of a girl enjoying her day, to the smirk of someone who was about to do something with the confidence that nothing could stop her.
The modern-day emperor smirked himself, as he turned to look at his companion. “You are wondering why I am devoting myself to studying this woman, when I have already invested so much time in our fair Sara.” It was a statement, not a question.
The man in black hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Sara Pezzini is the wielder of the Witchblade, the one you have sought for the last fifty years. This woman is not of the bloodlines.”
The smirk broadened. “I have taught you much about the arts of warfare and strategy, Ian, but in this I would refer you to a modern colloquialism: do not put all your eggs in one basket.”
Ian inclined his head more, taking a more in-depth look at the images. His master tapped a tiny button on the pen-like device in his hand the images changed. Now the young woman was clad in an outfit of black and red leather armor, low-cut and revealing, a long black-leather trench coat wafted behind her in some shots, missing in others. In her hand she wielded a fencing sword of unparalleled craftsmanship, in others, on odd-looking axe-like weapon, made of what appeared to be silver and red chrome.
“That weapon… she is a Slayer.” It was a lost artifact, forged for the Slayer line but lost until a few years ago. “But there are dozens of Slayers in the world now, and even when there was but one, you cared little for them. What makes this one worthy of your attention?”
“Ah, you see, the fact that Ms. Townsend is a Slayer is but an incidental by-product, Ian. You must see her for who she is.”
Another tap and the screens changed again. “These are her companions and confidants.” A tall, serious well-built man in his early twenties appeared, alongside another man with long hair and a young face that radiated cockiness. “Dante Pearce and Alexander Hanover; both are warriors bound to the essence of Native American totem spirits. Mr. Pearce is her husband. In many ways they are the mystical equivalent of you, Ian. Previous models if you would. Vorschlag improved on the concept of course”
Next was another pair of young adult males, both with sandy brown hair, one kind of combed over and unkempt, the other short and spiky. Curiously, both also had eyes that appeared older than their faces. “Jack O’neill Jr. and Matthew Vannicut, as he was known at the time; I believe he calls himself Deveraux now.”
Ian nodded once. “The seer; you have mentioned him before. I recognize these children. They are the latest nouveau riche. Shall I assume the seer used his gift to win the lottery for all his friends? A generous spirit.” A touch of irony dripped off the dark figure’s tongue.
“Ah now lets be charitable, Ian. Mr. Hanover and Mr. Vannicut are both far older than they appear, much like myself, and the lovely Lexa Townsend has proven a shrewd investor. I believe our seer merely conjured forth seed capital to kick-start their entrepreneural ventures.”
“What of O’neill? He is no mystic or champion that I am aware of.”
“Ah, the enigmatic Mr. O’neill; I am not entirely certain of his true nature, though I have a few suspicions. His link in the chain will become more readily apparent shortly.” Another tap.
The next image to appear was of another young woman with golden brown hair that streamed passed her shoulders, framing her jade eyes. Before his master could speak, “I know of this one. She is the sister of the former Slayer, the Summers girl.”
“Quite right; she has attached herself to Ms. Townsend, first as her lover and later as the wife of Mr. Deveraux. She has also grown to be a powerful sorceress. Otherworldly whispers indicate she may have been the one to slay Akivasha.”
“Then she is more dangerous than the Slayer,” Ian added matter-of-factly.
The blonde man shook his head in disappointment. “Again you think only in terms of raw power, Ian. Yes, she is quite powerful, but she is still a sorceress, which means she can be dealt with, given the proper precautions.”
Ian’s eyes moved to rest harshly on the other man for a moment. If his master notices, he says nothing as he toggles the next series of images, this time of a young Asian woman, yet her Caucasian eyes spoke of mixed heritage. “Here Kei Santos, another in the long line of Slayers that has appeared recently, has sought refuge with our intrepid band following the disaster in Tokyo. It would seem she was originally the lover of Mr. Pearce some years ago and now shares their marital bed now as well.”
“A progressive arrangement; it would appear this Slayer has an appetite for more than just slaying demons.”
A chuckle echoed through the room. “Yes, our subject is quite libidinous. Most if not all of those I show you are, have been, or still are, her lovers.” Another tap of the pen and camera footage of a lavish hotel suite appears, within are Lexa and her friends, entwined in what would appear to be an attempt to outdo the orgies of ancient Rome, with the young Slayer the eager mistress of ceremonies.
Ian’s gaze returned to the floor. Debauchery held little interest for him. His physical desires were for one woman only. It was a thing he wrestled with daily, in his shame. She would never love him, and why should she; for all that he had done to her at the will of his father. “Is that the reason for this sudden interest?” His master rarely went to be bed alone, though he often preferred to wake up that way.
“While I would enjoy bedding our young miss, I’m afraid my interest is purely professional, for the moment. These are all her associates.” With another tap, a single image of each figure took its place in sequence on the monitors. “Tell me, Ian, what do you see?”
“I see a woman of great power and charisma who has gathered equally powerful men and women to her; the newest generation of champions. It is unusual to see such a large grouping of them. Champions usually work solo, or with a small team of mundane assistants. Is this what intrigues you, father?”
It was a title rarely used between them. Ian may have been biologically his son, but he was more of a trusted servant or pet than a beloved relative and both understood this relationship and knew their place in it. “You begin to see the larger picture, Ian, excellent. Now, let us pull back a bit further, to her extended associations and contacts.
A rapid display of images scrolled pas, and Ian recognized several of them: a casino president and ex-CIA agent, a U.S. Air Force General, a petite woman in her late twenties with long auburn, and a young man bald before his time. “I trust these last two need no introductions.” Indeed they did not. Julia Delaney was a necromancer of untold power, and Lex Luthor was one of his master’s greatest financial rivals. LuthorCorp may have folded recently, but the newborn LexCorp was rising quickly to take its place.
Ian spoke almost with reverence. “These people… if brought together, the combined resources of these individuals would be unstoppable.”
The father nodded only once and at last turned to face the son. “And so you see it. Her physical power is irrelevant, Ian. Lexa Townsend is a nexus point. Whether she knows it or not, she has called together and forged an intricate network of bonds among some of the most powerful and influential figures, physical, mystical, and financial, on this continent.”
With a smooth grace that belied his appearance, the blonde man surged to his feet and moved around behind his servant. “It has long been the belief of modern man that one man cannot make a difference against the tide of history, the power of armies, the will of whole nations. We both know the fallacy of this, that there are individuals who guide the course of history. I am one, the wielder of the Witchblade another, and now, her.”
Ian raised his head fully upright for the first time. “Her choices will shape the future to come. Two forces of destiny…” The pieces fell together in his mind. “Sara Pezzini and Lexa Townsend are major pieces in the Fates’ chess game; if you cannot control one, you will control the other.”
He dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “No, Ian, I’m afraid even indirect control of Ms. Townsend is beyond even me for the moment. She has too many guardians and protectors for my usual guidance. Fair Sara is alone and without support. She remains my primary focus. But Lexa Townsend must be watched, and should she prove a threat to my plans, she must be dealt with. And above all else, we cannot allow their paths to cross.”
Trying his best to cover his disapproval, Ian objected, “Can you not simply let destiny unfold as it would? If the Powers That Be truly watch over this one, then there is little you can do.” He was rapidly growing tired of his master’s obsessive need to control anything and everything that cross his path. Once he served loyally without protest, but he began to chafe at his bonds, and his role as not only protector, but spy, of the latest Witchblade wielder.
A scowl appeared on the man’s face. Without a word, he placed his hand on the back of Ian’s head and forced it back into its submissive positions. His once faithful son had grown more and more willful since their involvement with Sara Pezzini. Soon, Ian may outlive his usefulness.
“Destiny is shaped by those with the will to reach out and shape it, Ian. That is what free will is all about, after all.” A dark smile spread across the face of Kenneth Irons as returned to his throne to stare at the image of the young woman before him. Yes, shape it, he would, and if Lexa Townsend challenged his vision, then she would have to be brought around to his way of thinking. It was that, or die.