A Kind of Blindness: Chapter Eight
A Kind of Blindness
Fewthistle
Warehouse 13
Myka/H.G.
Disclaimer: Property of Syfy and other foolish souls who squandered the wonder that is Helena and Myka. I would never have been so unwise.
Rating: R to NC-17, dependent on chapter
Chapter 8/?
Words: 4,203
Author’s Note: This is a sequel to By the Pricking of My Thumbs. While it is not absolutely necessary for you to have read it, I would suggest you take a gander, if only to know what in the world is going on, since I veered completely away from canon into my own much happier world. Besides, my greedy little Muse insists on pointing out that it’s not too bad and who doesn’t enjoy a good read? *bg*. My eternal gratitude to darandkerry for finding all those missing words, removing all those extra spaces, and keeping me ever vigilant. You are the best, Tex-Ass!! Love ya!
The use of Millville, California and surrounding area is entirely accidental and wishes no harm to that lovely part of the country. I just liked the name.
A/N 2: The title of this piece comes from here: have a listen. Wait
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Redding, California
Helena was dreaming. In her dream, she watched as long arcs of blood splattered against the filthy cement wall of a deserted warehouse in Lyon, marveled at the way flesh parted under the silvered steel of a blade, listened as scream after scream bounced like billiard balls off the rusted iron ceiling. The sharp ring of Myka’s cell phone jarred her from sleep, the sound pulsing behind Helena’s eyelids in terrible bursts of crimson.
It took Myka a moment to untangle her limbs from Helena’s, to pull away from warm, silken skin, snaking an arm out from under the blanket to grab the phone from the nightstand.
“Pete?” Myka asked groggily, her eyes focusing on the yellow numbers of the alarm clock. 4:13.
“Myka, I’m on my way to the hotel. Reverend Shaw is gone,” Pete told her grimly, his voice unnaturally loud, carrying easily to Helena’s ears as she lay behind Myka, her chin resting on the younger woman’s shoulder.
“He’s gone? What do you mean, gone?” Myka tried to make the words make sense, tried to push away the sand of sleep that seemed to have seeped into every crevice of her mind, slowing all the cogs and wheels.
“Left, disappeared. As in no longer at the Campbell’s. I slept on the couch downstairs, so I would be able to hear if anyone tried to break in, but I wasn’t listening for someone breaking out,” Pete said, the bitterness of self-recrimination clear in his voice. “He must have snuck right by me. Moves pretty quietly for an old guy. He took the Campbell’s car. I heard it drive away, but by that time, it was too late.”
“Do they have any idea where he might have gone or why?” Myka asked, turning to meet Helena’s eyes in the dim light of the hotel room.
“I’d swear on a stack of Bibles that Reverend Shaw didn’t talk to anyone but the Campbells and me. The only thing I can figure is that he got thinking about what we asked him, about where his son might hide. The only place that the Campbells could think of that Reverend Shaw might believe John Michael is hiding is an old fishing cabin on Whiskeytown Lake. I guess the Rev used to take his son up there when he was young. Right now, it’s the only lead we have,” Pete supplied.
“Whiskeytown Lake?” Myka queried, the name sounding slightly familiar.
“It’s smaller than Lake Shasta. It’s on the other side of Redding. The hotel’s on the way. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.” Pete said brusquely.
As Myka talked, Helena slipped from beneath the covers, the cool air of the room hitting her sleep warmed skin and sending a shiver along her spine as she quickly pulled on the clean clothes she had discarded last night. Myka hung up and sat unmoving for several minutes, a frown creasing her forehead, the thin strip of yellow streetlight that crept in through the gap in the curtains falling across her shoulder and chest like a golden sash, the trappings of a hero.
“Darling? Were you planning on going and finding the good reverend sans clothing?” Helena asked gently, crossing back to the bed to perch on the edge of the mattress.
“What?” Myka asked, her frown deepening as the sound of Helena’s voice penetrated her consciousness, though not the words.
“I asked if you were planning on getting dressed. Pete will be here in a few minutes,” Helena replied, reaching out a hand to tenderly cup Myka’s cheek. Her fingers slipped down along the graceful curve of Myka’s arm, twining their hands together. “Myka, what’s wrong?”
“Something…there’s something about this. I can’t quite pin it down, but there’s something about this that I should remember, but I can’t,” Myka responded, frustration in her voice.
“Perhaps it will come to you on the drive. If I recall correctly from my short stint as navigator, Whiskeytown Lake is about thirty or so miles west of here,” Helena suggested, flicking on the bedside lamp and rummaging around Myka’s luggage. She pulled out clean underwear and clothes which she laid on the bottom of the bed. “Come on, love, get dressed.”
Helena watched Myka dress in the half light thrown by the lamp, a feeling of weariness settling over her like a heavy woolen cloak, bowing her shoulders. The thrill of the chase, the sense of adventure, the rush of adrenaline that usually accompanied the search for an artifact had left her somewhere amid the flames at the camp. Now, despite her encouragement to Myka to ready herself to go, all Helen truly desired was to crawl back into that warm bed, Myka’s arms wrapped solidly around her, and sleep for the next few days. Or weeks. Myka might not be able to pin down that elusive, troubling memory but Helena was quite certain of one thing. None of this was going to end well.
Myka was sitting on the edge of the bed, slender fingers lacing up her boots, curls falling around her face and shoulders like a curtain of golden brown. The sheer effort it took to stop herself from begging Myka to simply forget about the lyre, forget about the mad prophet and his father and everything else and stay here with her drained away a little more of her rapidly dwindling energy reserves. Myka finished lacing her boots and stood, their eyes meeting across the short distance. She frowned again, clearly finding in Helena’s expression something foreboding. Helena attempted a reassuring smile, but it merely touched the corners of her mouth.
“Helena?” Myka began, the rest of her question lost in the rap of knuckles on the hotel room door.
Helena tilted her head back and sighed, the smile stronger and less sincere than before as she turned and crossed to the door, turning the deadbolt back and opening it. Pete stood on the other side, face haggard, a dark shadow of whiskers lining his jaw, mirrored by the circles under his eyes.
“You two ready?” Pete asked hurriedly. “He’s got about a twenty minute start on us. The Campbells told me approximately where the cabin is. It’s been years since they’ve been out there, but at least we have a general idea. We need to hurry.”
“Yes, we’re ready,” Helena assured him, ignoring the look of concern still lurking in Myka’s eyes. Both of them knew there was no time for that now, and Helena felt a surge of anger with herself for being the continued cause of that expression on Myka’s face. “It’s time to put an end to our mad prophet’s reign of terror.”
Pete nodded grimly and turned to head back down the hall towards the exit. Helena started to follow him, only to be brought up short by Myka’s hand on her wrist. “Helena, what is it?”
“It’s nothing, darling. I’m just tired. It’s four in the morning, it’s cold, it’s damp and I’d much rather be back in bed with you than chasing some maniac around the countryside. That’s all,” Helena answered, trying but not quite succeeding at keeping the sharpness out of her voice.
Myka seemed to be struggling with whether or not to take Helena’s words at face value, but the sound of a car door slamming and an engine starting outside the hotel decided for her. “We should go,” she said, her fingers still wrapped gently around Helena’s wrist. She stepped out into the hall, pulling the older woman with her and shut the door. As they walked towards the outside door, her hand slid down, entangling her fingers with Helena’s. Myka squeezed tightly, although in reassurance, in sympathy, or in fear, Helena wasn’t certain.
Whiskeytown Lake, California
The ride to Whiskeytown Lake was a relatively quiet one. Helena sat in the back seat, gloved hands tucked under her arms, chin on her chest, buried in the soft leather of her coat and the warm wool of Myka’s scarf. The scent of smoke still lingered in the fabric, the smell bringing with it the memory of flames and a madman’s voice. Pete’s face was set in a determined mask, his eyes focused on the road as they flew through the darkened landscape, the wheels seeming to barely hold the pavement on the wide curves. Myka sat sideways in her seat, her gaze alternating between her clearly upset partner and her silent lover.
There were no other cars on the winding highway and soon they saw the signs for the lake. Pete slowed the car, the road narrower as they skirted the outline of the lake, the vague shapes of small cabins and dirt lanes that disappeared into the treeline just visible along the edge of the road. There was far more snow here, several inches that glowed with a spectral whiteness in the pale illumination of the half moon. Helena felt a shiver ghost along her skin, although this time it wasn’t the cold.
“How much farther do you think it is?” Myka asked, her voice unnaturally loud in the quiet of the truck.
“A few miles, I think,” Pete replied, face tight with concentration as he drove the snaking, twisting road. “The Campbells were pretty sure it’s up on the far corner of the lake.”
“Lakes have corners?” Helena inquired absently, her voice muffled against her chest.
“The far edge, okay? Far side? Outer rim? Any of those better?” Pete retorted sharply, his voice holding a distinct edge of its own.
“Pete!” Myka countered, surprise and annoyance stamped on her features.
Pete had the good grace to look contrite. “Sorry, H.G. Didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s been a long night.”
“No need to apologize,” Helena murmured, her voice clearer as she sat up straight and inched forward on the seat. “I was simply trying to break the tension a bit and all I succeeded in doing was making it worse.”
“It’s not your fault,” Pete reassured, giving Helena a faint smile in the rearview mirror. “I just feel like this is my fault, like I should’ve been watching the old man better.”
“Pete, he would have done the same thing to either of us,” Myka told him solemnly. “No one is to blame for any of this. Except John Michael Shaw.”
They lapsed back into silence, the only sounds the wind sweeping past the SUV and the snick of the tires on the cold concrete. Three pairs of eyes peered fruitlessly into the blackness, looking for any sign of the Campbell’s car. The number of houses and cabins had diminished greatly, with only the occasional structure now breaking the steady line of trees. Suddenly they rounded a curve and the lake appeared along the left side of the car, as if conjured out of some storybook, the water almost black and shimmering in the faint trickle of moonlight. Around the next bend in the road, a flickering glimmer shone along the shoreline, the light from a small fire that grew ever brighter against the dark waters of the lake.
Myka gasped, her eyes swinging from the flames to the back seat of the car, seeking out Helena’s face. Pete gunned the engine and the truck leapt forward, barreling toward the cabin that they could just make out in the burnished glow of the fire. The tires threw up gravel as Pete swung the SUV into the narrow lane that led to the cabin. As they drew nearer to the water, they could see two figures silhouetted in the beams of the headlights, a small fire burning brightly at the edge of the lake.
Dirt, gravel and snow flew as Pete slammed on the brakes, the three of them jumping quickly from the truck, running the few yards towards where the two men stood on the end of a dilapidated dock. The raised voices carried to them as they drew closer, one young and strident and angry, the other older and tired and anguished.
“Please, John Michael, please. Come back with me. We’ll find someone who can help you,” Rev. Shaw pleaded, his hands outstretched to his son who stood on the far end of the dock, the lyre clutched tightly to his chest.
As the footsteps of the three agents crunched on the snow-covered trail, John Michael looked up, an expression of malicious glee lighting his face. “Stop right there!” he yelled, raising the lyre in warning. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Reverend Shaw, are you all right?” Myka called as they paused about twenty feet from the dock, her eyes fixed on the slightly stooped figure of the minister.
“I’m fine, Agent Bering. You three should leave now and let me talk to my son,” the reverend answered, his voice frighteningly calm and patient.
“Oh, no, Dad. They can’t leave. Why, they just got here!” John Michael laughed, the sound echoing back from the hills surrounding the lake. “We can’t be inhospitable to our guests! Besides, they’re here to witness, aren’t you, Helena? Here to see the end of days?”
Helena tried to answer, her voice catching in her throat as the sound of maniacal laughter washed over them. Finally, she forced to herself to speak, “John Michael. This isn’t the way. Please, put down the lyre. Let your father go.”
“Oh, Helena, I expected so much more from you. After that lyrical, impassioned declaration of love the other day, I was expecting a bit more eloquence. But not to worry,” John Michael responded, shaking his head in disappointment. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Can’t let him leave. Can’t give you what you seek. Our work is almost done. I’m glad you’re here, though. I want to see your face as the world burns down.”
“John Michael, you don’t have to do this, my boy. Give these people that infernal contraption and come home with me,” Rev. Shaw begged, shuffling steps taking him nearer to his son.
“Home? There is no home, Reverend. Remember? It burned. Just like your church burned. And the town. All the homes of those hypocrites and liars. And now it’s time for your faith to burn,” John Michael shouted, the small fire at the edge of the water growing stronger, the flames rising up against the black winter sky.
Pete and Myka began to move slowly forward, the sound of their footsteps drowned out by John Michael’s voice. He saw them, however. “I told you to stay there, didn’t I? Your thug and your lovely girlfriend don’t listen too well, do they, Helena? One more step and there will be a pile of ashes where my father stands.”
“We won’t move, I promise,” Helena told him, hand reaching out to clutch at Myka’s sleeve, tugging her back. Myka came reluctantly, her eyes futilely scanning the area for some way to get to Shaw as Pete, too, stepped back.
“Good, because it’s time,” John Michael intoned with a satisfied air. “Time for the end of days. You know how it goes, now don’t you, Reverend Shaw?”
“John Michael, please. Let these people go and I will stay here with you. I’ll stay as long as I have to,” the minister cajoled, his tone one used on frightened animals and recalcitrant children.
“Oh, it’s far too late for that, I’m afraid. Besides, there must be witnesses to record the fall of your Father’s kingdom, like Homer telling the tale of Troy’s demise. And who better than my own Helen, cursed by her beauty, destined to destroy everything she touches,” John Michael detailed, the glow from the flames along the shoreline grown bright enough to illuminate his face, the flames reflecting back the madness in his eyes.
Helena felt the words strike her like sharp pellets of ice stinging her face. She closed her eyes, willing down the surging lava of guilt and recrimination that rose up inside her. The words were like an insidious whisper inside her head, mocking, taunting, daring her to argue, daring her to pretend that it wasn’t true, that she wasn’t responsible for so much death, so much misery.
Myka turned to her, long fingers pressing into the skin of her upper arm through her leather coat as she grabbed hold of Helena, her voice hard and uncompromising, “Helena! Do not let him get into your head!”
Helena opened her eyes to the love and protectiveness in Myka’s face, the sheer force of the younger woman’s determination capping off the flow of emotion that had suddenly threatened to overwhelm her. Again.
“I’m fine. We need to get Reverend Shaw out of there. Now,” Helena told her, releasing a shaky breath, her gaze fixed on the dock behind Myka where the two men still stood.
“Myka. If you can distract him, I’ll make a run for him, throw him into the water before he can use the lyre,” Pete interjected in a whisper, his breath a puff of smoke.
“No!” Helena answered for her, her expression adamant. “All it takes is one note, one string and you would be dead before you reached the dock. He thinks he’s a prophet. We need to find some way to use that against him.”
“Oh, Helena!” John Michael called in a lilting tone. “Are you ready to witness the end of all things?”
Helena took a deep breath and stepped around Myka, placing the other woman and Pete behind her. “Surely there’s more to it than that?” she asked, forcing every ounce of confidence into her voice. “Where’s the prophecy? The great speeches, the warnings and laments?”
John Michael paused for a moment, a smile playing on his lips. “Nice try, Helena. But you know the prophecy, you know the warning as well as I do. My father knows it, don’t you, Daddy dear?”
“John Michael, I don’t know what you mean. All I know is that you’re my son and I love you. I just want to help you,” Rev. Shaw answered, voice full of grief and fear.
“Behold, the end of days is at hand,” John Michael pronounced, his voice ringing across the still waters, resounding off the circle of hills as he began to strum the lyre, the minor chords harsh and dissonant. “And the beast was taken, and with him the false prophet that worked miracles before him, with which he deceived them that had received the mark of the beast, and them that worshipped his image. These both were cast alive into a lake of fire burning with brimstone.”
As the younger Shaw intoned the words, the flames from the blaze along the shore seemed to come to life, reaching out fiery hands and racing towards the water. As they reached the lake however, the fire wasn’t quenched by the water, instead skimming along the surface of the lake like flames across a field of gasoline. Soon a wide arc of fire engulfed the lake surrounding the dock. Reverend Shaw stood immobile with fear as the fire skirted closer and closer to the frail wooden structure beneath their feet.
“See, Father? A lake of fire to cleanse away all falsehood!” John Michael shouted. “You were such a hypocrite! You preached love and forgiveness for everyone but your own son! One mistake, one mistake and I was cast aside!!”
“No, John, no! I understood! I told you that it would be all right!” Reverend Shaw argued, eyes wide as he moved toward his son, hands again outstretched.
“You told me I had disappointed you. That I had disappointed Mom! You said you were going to have to tell the church women to cancel the celebration! You didn’t defend me! You let them punish me for something other people did and everyone said what a good father you were! How patient! Liar! Hypocrite!! All those words about forgiving. Lies!!” John Michael was screaming now, the heartrending cry of a wounded child. “It’s time for you to find out that there is no forgiveness!”
Reverend Shaw stepped closer to his son, momentarily blocking his view of the end of the dock and Myka saw her chance. She broke free from behind Helena, sprinting desperately toward the two men. John Michael shoved his father away from him and the old man collapsed in a heap on the wooden planks. The younger Shaw looked up and saw Myka running towards him, her coat flying out behind her like the wings of an avenging angel and he pulled his fingers across the strings of the lyre, one loud, discordant chord. The flames sailed along the water, racing up the shore and completely encircling the dock in a wall of fire with Myka inside.
“Myka!! No!!” Helena screamed, hurling herself forward, only to find her progress abruptly stopped by what felt like steel bands as Pete’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her back from the flames.
“Let me go, damn you!! Let me go!!” Helena yelled, struggling to be free, arms pinned to her sides, as she lashed out with her feet, kicking as hard as she could, to little avail. She could hear Pete grunting in pain as her boots made contact with his shins, but he did not loosen his grip on her. “Bastard!! Let go of me!!”
“No!” Pete shouted, his mouth close to her ear. “That’s a solid wall of fire! If we try to get through it’ll burn us alive and we won’t be any help to Myka that way!”
“I have to help her!” Helena begged, suddenly stomping the heel of her boot on Pete’s foot. Instead of releasing her, he pushed her to the ground, falling half on top of her and pinning her down.
“Myka will kill me if I let anything happen to you,” he grunted, as she shoved her elbow back into his abdomen. “Fuck it, H.G. Stop fighting!”
Helena stopped. She let her body go limp, her head falling forward, face pressed into the trampled snow and hard ground beneath it, uncaring as the cold stung her skin. She lay there, her breath coming out in stuttered, painful gasps. Pete held her down for a few moments longer, uncertain whether this was a trick. When she spoke, he had to lean over her to hear it, her voice muffled by the snow.
“You have to let me go,” she said softly, tonelessly. “Don’t you see? I love her. I either have to save her or I have to die with her. There are no others choices for me.”
Thirty seconds later, Helena felt the weight lift off her back and a hand under her elbow pulling her to her feet. She looked into Pete’s eyes and saw understanding and affinity. He nodded, turning to assess the situation. The fire surrounded the dock, flames rising twenty feet into the air, the roar of the flames and the hiss of the steam sending a cloud of moisture billowing into the night sky drowning out even the music that gave it life.
Helena moved quickly across the snow covered ground, Pete at her heels. She stopped on the far side of the fire, along the muddy bank of the lake, her boots sinking in, holding her in place as she stripped off her coat and gloves.
“I can go under. Wade out far enough to swim under the flames,” she reasoned, holding out a hand to Pete for balance as she bent to pull off one, then the other boot. “If I come up on this side, I should be behind him. Give me your gun.”
“Helena…,” Pete replied, whatever protest he was about to utter dying on his lips at the expression on her face.
He remembered Claudia telling him about what Helena had told her, about how she had hunted and killed the men who had murdered her daughter, and about the look that Claudia had described on Helena’s face as she spoke. It was there now and Claudia’s words echoed in his mind, “That was one of the scariest looks I’ve ever seen.”
Without another word he slipped the gun from the holster under his coat. He slid off the safety and handed it to her. She nodded and tucked it into the waistband of her jeans, her eyes black ovals in a pale face. They were nearly ten yards from the ring of fire and she began to wade out into the frigid lake water, the steam rising and ghosting along the surface of the lake.
She murmured softly, the words lost in the fizzle and sputter as fire met water, “And there passed through pale-glimmering phantoms, and the ghosts escaped from sepulchres, until he found Persephone and Pluto, master-king of shadow realms below.""
It had taken only a few minutes for all feeling to flee from her limbs as the glacial water turned her blood to ice. She pressed onward, the waters rising to lap against her chest. She forced air into lungs nearly paralyzed with cold, turning her head to glance at the shore where Pete’s figure stood outlined by the glow of the flames. She raised her hand, a brief, acknowledging wave before she dragged in a deep breath and sank down, disappearing beneath the surface.
TBC.....
Fewthistle
Warehouse 13
Myka/H.G.
Disclaimer: Property of Syfy and other foolish souls who squandered the wonder that is Helena and Myka. I would never have been so unwise.
Rating: R to NC-17, dependent on chapter
Chapter 8/?
Words: 4,203
Author’s Note: This is a sequel to By the Pricking of My Thumbs. While it is not absolutely necessary for you to have read it, I would suggest you take a gander, if only to know what in the world is going on, since I veered completely away from canon into my own much happier world. Besides, my greedy little Muse insists on pointing out that it’s not too bad and who doesn’t enjoy a good read? *bg*. My eternal gratitude to darandkerry for finding all those missing words, removing all those extra spaces, and keeping me ever vigilant. You are the best, Tex-Ass!! Love ya!
The use of Millville, California and surrounding area is entirely accidental and wishes no harm to that lovely part of the country. I just liked the name.
A/N 2: The title of this piece comes from here: have a listen. Wait
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Redding, California
Helena was dreaming. In her dream, she watched as long arcs of blood splattered against the filthy cement wall of a deserted warehouse in Lyon, marveled at the way flesh parted under the silvered steel of a blade, listened as scream after scream bounced like billiard balls off the rusted iron ceiling. The sharp ring of Myka’s cell phone jarred her from sleep, the sound pulsing behind Helena’s eyelids in terrible bursts of crimson.
It took Myka a moment to untangle her limbs from Helena’s, to pull away from warm, silken skin, snaking an arm out from under the blanket to grab the phone from the nightstand.
“Pete?” Myka asked groggily, her eyes focusing on the yellow numbers of the alarm clock. 4:13.
“Myka, I’m on my way to the hotel. Reverend Shaw is gone,” Pete told her grimly, his voice unnaturally loud, carrying easily to Helena’s ears as she lay behind Myka, her chin resting on the younger woman’s shoulder.
“He’s gone? What do you mean, gone?” Myka tried to make the words make sense, tried to push away the sand of sleep that seemed to have seeped into every crevice of her mind, slowing all the cogs and wheels.
“Left, disappeared. As in no longer at the Campbell’s. I slept on the couch downstairs, so I would be able to hear if anyone tried to break in, but I wasn’t listening for someone breaking out,” Pete said, the bitterness of self-recrimination clear in his voice. “He must have snuck right by me. Moves pretty quietly for an old guy. He took the Campbell’s car. I heard it drive away, but by that time, it was too late.”
“Do they have any idea where he might have gone or why?” Myka asked, turning to meet Helena’s eyes in the dim light of the hotel room.
“I’d swear on a stack of Bibles that Reverend Shaw didn’t talk to anyone but the Campbells and me. The only thing I can figure is that he got thinking about what we asked him, about where his son might hide. The only place that the Campbells could think of that Reverend Shaw might believe John Michael is hiding is an old fishing cabin on Whiskeytown Lake. I guess the Rev used to take his son up there when he was young. Right now, it’s the only lead we have,” Pete supplied.
“Whiskeytown Lake?” Myka queried, the name sounding slightly familiar.
“It’s smaller than Lake Shasta. It’s on the other side of Redding. The hotel’s on the way. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.” Pete said brusquely.
As Myka talked, Helena slipped from beneath the covers, the cool air of the room hitting her sleep warmed skin and sending a shiver along her spine as she quickly pulled on the clean clothes she had discarded last night. Myka hung up and sat unmoving for several minutes, a frown creasing her forehead, the thin strip of yellow streetlight that crept in through the gap in the curtains falling across her shoulder and chest like a golden sash, the trappings of a hero.
“Darling? Were you planning on going and finding the good reverend sans clothing?” Helena asked gently, crossing back to the bed to perch on the edge of the mattress.
“What?” Myka asked, her frown deepening as the sound of Helena’s voice penetrated her consciousness, though not the words.
“I asked if you were planning on getting dressed. Pete will be here in a few minutes,” Helena replied, reaching out a hand to tenderly cup Myka’s cheek. Her fingers slipped down along the graceful curve of Myka’s arm, twining their hands together. “Myka, what’s wrong?”
“Something…there’s something about this. I can’t quite pin it down, but there’s something about this that I should remember, but I can’t,” Myka responded, frustration in her voice.
“Perhaps it will come to you on the drive. If I recall correctly from my short stint as navigator, Whiskeytown Lake is about thirty or so miles west of here,” Helena suggested, flicking on the bedside lamp and rummaging around Myka’s luggage. She pulled out clean underwear and clothes which she laid on the bottom of the bed. “Come on, love, get dressed.”
Helena watched Myka dress in the half light thrown by the lamp, a feeling of weariness settling over her like a heavy woolen cloak, bowing her shoulders. The thrill of the chase, the sense of adventure, the rush of adrenaline that usually accompanied the search for an artifact had left her somewhere amid the flames at the camp. Now, despite her encouragement to Myka to ready herself to go, all Helen truly desired was to crawl back into that warm bed, Myka’s arms wrapped solidly around her, and sleep for the next few days. Or weeks. Myka might not be able to pin down that elusive, troubling memory but Helena was quite certain of one thing. None of this was going to end well.
Myka was sitting on the edge of the bed, slender fingers lacing up her boots, curls falling around her face and shoulders like a curtain of golden brown. The sheer effort it took to stop herself from begging Myka to simply forget about the lyre, forget about the mad prophet and his father and everything else and stay here with her drained away a little more of her rapidly dwindling energy reserves. Myka finished lacing her boots and stood, their eyes meeting across the short distance. She frowned again, clearly finding in Helena’s expression something foreboding. Helena attempted a reassuring smile, but it merely touched the corners of her mouth.
“Helena?” Myka began, the rest of her question lost in the rap of knuckles on the hotel room door.
Helena tilted her head back and sighed, the smile stronger and less sincere than before as she turned and crossed to the door, turning the deadbolt back and opening it. Pete stood on the other side, face haggard, a dark shadow of whiskers lining his jaw, mirrored by the circles under his eyes.
“You two ready?” Pete asked hurriedly. “He’s got about a twenty minute start on us. The Campbells told me approximately where the cabin is. It’s been years since they’ve been out there, but at least we have a general idea. We need to hurry.”
“Yes, we’re ready,” Helena assured him, ignoring the look of concern still lurking in Myka’s eyes. Both of them knew there was no time for that now, and Helena felt a surge of anger with herself for being the continued cause of that expression on Myka’s face. “It’s time to put an end to our mad prophet’s reign of terror.”
Pete nodded grimly and turned to head back down the hall towards the exit. Helena started to follow him, only to be brought up short by Myka’s hand on her wrist. “Helena, what is it?”
“It’s nothing, darling. I’m just tired. It’s four in the morning, it’s cold, it’s damp and I’d much rather be back in bed with you than chasing some maniac around the countryside. That’s all,” Helena answered, trying but not quite succeeding at keeping the sharpness out of her voice.
Myka seemed to be struggling with whether or not to take Helena’s words at face value, but the sound of a car door slamming and an engine starting outside the hotel decided for her. “We should go,” she said, her fingers still wrapped gently around Helena’s wrist. She stepped out into the hall, pulling the older woman with her and shut the door. As they walked towards the outside door, her hand slid down, entangling her fingers with Helena’s. Myka squeezed tightly, although in reassurance, in sympathy, or in fear, Helena wasn’t certain.
Whiskeytown Lake, California
The ride to Whiskeytown Lake was a relatively quiet one. Helena sat in the back seat, gloved hands tucked under her arms, chin on her chest, buried in the soft leather of her coat and the warm wool of Myka’s scarf. The scent of smoke still lingered in the fabric, the smell bringing with it the memory of flames and a madman’s voice. Pete’s face was set in a determined mask, his eyes focused on the road as they flew through the darkened landscape, the wheels seeming to barely hold the pavement on the wide curves. Myka sat sideways in her seat, her gaze alternating between her clearly upset partner and her silent lover.
There were no other cars on the winding highway and soon they saw the signs for the lake. Pete slowed the car, the road narrower as they skirted the outline of the lake, the vague shapes of small cabins and dirt lanes that disappeared into the treeline just visible along the edge of the road. There was far more snow here, several inches that glowed with a spectral whiteness in the pale illumination of the half moon. Helena felt a shiver ghost along her skin, although this time it wasn’t the cold.
“How much farther do you think it is?” Myka asked, her voice unnaturally loud in the quiet of the truck.
“A few miles, I think,” Pete replied, face tight with concentration as he drove the snaking, twisting road. “The Campbells were pretty sure it’s up on the far corner of the lake.”
“Lakes have corners?” Helena inquired absently, her voice muffled against her chest.
“The far edge, okay? Far side? Outer rim? Any of those better?” Pete retorted sharply, his voice holding a distinct edge of its own.
“Pete!” Myka countered, surprise and annoyance stamped on her features.
Pete had the good grace to look contrite. “Sorry, H.G. Didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s been a long night.”
“No need to apologize,” Helena murmured, her voice clearer as she sat up straight and inched forward on the seat. “I was simply trying to break the tension a bit and all I succeeded in doing was making it worse.”
“It’s not your fault,” Pete reassured, giving Helena a faint smile in the rearview mirror. “I just feel like this is my fault, like I should’ve been watching the old man better.”
“Pete, he would have done the same thing to either of us,” Myka told him solemnly. “No one is to blame for any of this. Except John Michael Shaw.”
They lapsed back into silence, the only sounds the wind sweeping past the SUV and the snick of the tires on the cold concrete. Three pairs of eyes peered fruitlessly into the blackness, looking for any sign of the Campbell’s car. The number of houses and cabins had diminished greatly, with only the occasional structure now breaking the steady line of trees. Suddenly they rounded a curve and the lake appeared along the left side of the car, as if conjured out of some storybook, the water almost black and shimmering in the faint trickle of moonlight. Around the next bend in the road, a flickering glimmer shone along the shoreline, the light from a small fire that grew ever brighter against the dark waters of the lake.
Myka gasped, her eyes swinging from the flames to the back seat of the car, seeking out Helena’s face. Pete gunned the engine and the truck leapt forward, barreling toward the cabin that they could just make out in the burnished glow of the fire. The tires threw up gravel as Pete swung the SUV into the narrow lane that led to the cabin. As they drew nearer to the water, they could see two figures silhouetted in the beams of the headlights, a small fire burning brightly at the edge of the lake.
Dirt, gravel and snow flew as Pete slammed on the brakes, the three of them jumping quickly from the truck, running the few yards towards where the two men stood on the end of a dilapidated dock. The raised voices carried to them as they drew closer, one young and strident and angry, the other older and tired and anguished.
“Please, John Michael, please. Come back with me. We’ll find someone who can help you,” Rev. Shaw pleaded, his hands outstretched to his son who stood on the far end of the dock, the lyre clutched tightly to his chest.
As the footsteps of the three agents crunched on the snow-covered trail, John Michael looked up, an expression of malicious glee lighting his face. “Stop right there!” he yelled, raising the lyre in warning. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Reverend Shaw, are you all right?” Myka called as they paused about twenty feet from the dock, her eyes fixed on the slightly stooped figure of the minister.
“I’m fine, Agent Bering. You three should leave now and let me talk to my son,” the reverend answered, his voice frighteningly calm and patient.
“Oh, no, Dad. They can’t leave. Why, they just got here!” John Michael laughed, the sound echoing back from the hills surrounding the lake. “We can’t be inhospitable to our guests! Besides, they’re here to witness, aren’t you, Helena? Here to see the end of days?”
Helena tried to answer, her voice catching in her throat as the sound of maniacal laughter washed over them. Finally, she forced to herself to speak, “John Michael. This isn’t the way. Please, put down the lyre. Let your father go.”
“Oh, Helena, I expected so much more from you. After that lyrical, impassioned declaration of love the other day, I was expecting a bit more eloquence. But not to worry,” John Michael responded, shaking his head in disappointment. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Can’t let him leave. Can’t give you what you seek. Our work is almost done. I’m glad you’re here, though. I want to see your face as the world burns down.”
“John Michael, you don’t have to do this, my boy. Give these people that infernal contraption and come home with me,” Rev. Shaw begged, shuffling steps taking him nearer to his son.
“Home? There is no home, Reverend. Remember? It burned. Just like your church burned. And the town. All the homes of those hypocrites and liars. And now it’s time for your faith to burn,” John Michael shouted, the small fire at the edge of the water growing stronger, the flames rising up against the black winter sky.
Pete and Myka began to move slowly forward, the sound of their footsteps drowned out by John Michael’s voice. He saw them, however. “I told you to stay there, didn’t I? Your thug and your lovely girlfriend don’t listen too well, do they, Helena? One more step and there will be a pile of ashes where my father stands.”
“We won’t move, I promise,” Helena told him, hand reaching out to clutch at Myka’s sleeve, tugging her back. Myka came reluctantly, her eyes futilely scanning the area for some way to get to Shaw as Pete, too, stepped back.
“Good, because it’s time,” John Michael intoned with a satisfied air. “Time for the end of days. You know how it goes, now don’t you, Reverend Shaw?”
“John Michael, please. Let these people go and I will stay here with you. I’ll stay as long as I have to,” the minister cajoled, his tone one used on frightened animals and recalcitrant children.
“Oh, it’s far too late for that, I’m afraid. Besides, there must be witnesses to record the fall of your Father’s kingdom, like Homer telling the tale of Troy’s demise. And who better than my own Helen, cursed by her beauty, destined to destroy everything she touches,” John Michael detailed, the glow from the flames along the shoreline grown bright enough to illuminate his face, the flames reflecting back the madness in his eyes.
Helena felt the words strike her like sharp pellets of ice stinging her face. She closed her eyes, willing down the surging lava of guilt and recrimination that rose up inside her. The words were like an insidious whisper inside her head, mocking, taunting, daring her to argue, daring her to pretend that it wasn’t true, that she wasn’t responsible for so much death, so much misery.
Myka turned to her, long fingers pressing into the skin of her upper arm through her leather coat as she grabbed hold of Helena, her voice hard and uncompromising, “Helena! Do not let him get into your head!”
Helena opened her eyes to the love and protectiveness in Myka’s face, the sheer force of the younger woman’s determination capping off the flow of emotion that had suddenly threatened to overwhelm her. Again.
“I’m fine. We need to get Reverend Shaw out of there. Now,” Helena told her, releasing a shaky breath, her gaze fixed on the dock behind Myka where the two men still stood.
“Myka. If you can distract him, I’ll make a run for him, throw him into the water before he can use the lyre,” Pete interjected in a whisper, his breath a puff of smoke.
“No!” Helena answered for her, her expression adamant. “All it takes is one note, one string and you would be dead before you reached the dock. He thinks he’s a prophet. We need to find some way to use that against him.”
“Oh, Helena!” John Michael called in a lilting tone. “Are you ready to witness the end of all things?”
Helena took a deep breath and stepped around Myka, placing the other woman and Pete behind her. “Surely there’s more to it than that?” she asked, forcing every ounce of confidence into her voice. “Where’s the prophecy? The great speeches, the warnings and laments?”
John Michael paused for a moment, a smile playing on his lips. “Nice try, Helena. But you know the prophecy, you know the warning as well as I do. My father knows it, don’t you, Daddy dear?”
“John Michael, I don’t know what you mean. All I know is that you’re my son and I love you. I just want to help you,” Rev. Shaw answered, voice full of grief and fear.
“Behold, the end of days is at hand,” John Michael pronounced, his voice ringing across the still waters, resounding off the circle of hills as he began to strum the lyre, the minor chords harsh and dissonant. “And the beast was taken, and with him the false prophet that worked miracles before him, with which he deceived them that had received the mark of the beast, and them that worshipped his image. These both were cast alive into a lake of fire burning with brimstone.”
As the younger Shaw intoned the words, the flames from the blaze along the shore seemed to come to life, reaching out fiery hands and racing towards the water. As they reached the lake however, the fire wasn’t quenched by the water, instead skimming along the surface of the lake like flames across a field of gasoline. Soon a wide arc of fire engulfed the lake surrounding the dock. Reverend Shaw stood immobile with fear as the fire skirted closer and closer to the frail wooden structure beneath their feet.
“See, Father? A lake of fire to cleanse away all falsehood!” John Michael shouted. “You were such a hypocrite! You preached love and forgiveness for everyone but your own son! One mistake, one mistake and I was cast aside!!”
“No, John, no! I understood! I told you that it would be all right!” Reverend Shaw argued, eyes wide as he moved toward his son, hands again outstretched.
“You told me I had disappointed you. That I had disappointed Mom! You said you were going to have to tell the church women to cancel the celebration! You didn’t defend me! You let them punish me for something other people did and everyone said what a good father you were! How patient! Liar! Hypocrite!! All those words about forgiving. Lies!!” John Michael was screaming now, the heartrending cry of a wounded child. “It’s time for you to find out that there is no forgiveness!”
Reverend Shaw stepped closer to his son, momentarily blocking his view of the end of the dock and Myka saw her chance. She broke free from behind Helena, sprinting desperately toward the two men. John Michael shoved his father away from him and the old man collapsed in a heap on the wooden planks. The younger Shaw looked up and saw Myka running towards him, her coat flying out behind her like the wings of an avenging angel and he pulled his fingers across the strings of the lyre, one loud, discordant chord. The flames sailed along the water, racing up the shore and completely encircling the dock in a wall of fire with Myka inside.
“Myka!! No!!” Helena screamed, hurling herself forward, only to find her progress abruptly stopped by what felt like steel bands as Pete’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her back from the flames.
“Let me go, damn you!! Let me go!!” Helena yelled, struggling to be free, arms pinned to her sides, as she lashed out with her feet, kicking as hard as she could, to little avail. She could hear Pete grunting in pain as her boots made contact with his shins, but he did not loosen his grip on her. “Bastard!! Let go of me!!”
“No!” Pete shouted, his mouth close to her ear. “That’s a solid wall of fire! If we try to get through it’ll burn us alive and we won’t be any help to Myka that way!”
“I have to help her!” Helena begged, suddenly stomping the heel of her boot on Pete’s foot. Instead of releasing her, he pushed her to the ground, falling half on top of her and pinning her down.
“Myka will kill me if I let anything happen to you,” he grunted, as she shoved her elbow back into his abdomen. “Fuck it, H.G. Stop fighting!”
Helena stopped. She let her body go limp, her head falling forward, face pressed into the trampled snow and hard ground beneath it, uncaring as the cold stung her skin. She lay there, her breath coming out in stuttered, painful gasps. Pete held her down for a few moments longer, uncertain whether this was a trick. When she spoke, he had to lean over her to hear it, her voice muffled by the snow.
“You have to let me go,” she said softly, tonelessly. “Don’t you see? I love her. I either have to save her or I have to die with her. There are no others choices for me.”
Thirty seconds later, Helena felt the weight lift off her back and a hand under her elbow pulling her to her feet. She looked into Pete’s eyes and saw understanding and affinity. He nodded, turning to assess the situation. The fire surrounded the dock, flames rising twenty feet into the air, the roar of the flames and the hiss of the steam sending a cloud of moisture billowing into the night sky drowning out even the music that gave it life.
Helena moved quickly across the snow covered ground, Pete at her heels. She stopped on the far side of the fire, along the muddy bank of the lake, her boots sinking in, holding her in place as she stripped off her coat and gloves.
“I can go under. Wade out far enough to swim under the flames,” she reasoned, holding out a hand to Pete for balance as she bent to pull off one, then the other boot. “If I come up on this side, I should be behind him. Give me your gun.”
“Helena…,” Pete replied, whatever protest he was about to utter dying on his lips at the expression on her face.
He remembered Claudia telling him about what Helena had told her, about how she had hunted and killed the men who had murdered her daughter, and about the look that Claudia had described on Helena’s face as she spoke. It was there now and Claudia’s words echoed in his mind, “That was one of the scariest looks I’ve ever seen.”
Without another word he slipped the gun from the holster under his coat. He slid off the safety and handed it to her. She nodded and tucked it into the waistband of her jeans, her eyes black ovals in a pale face. They were nearly ten yards from the ring of fire and she began to wade out into the frigid lake water, the steam rising and ghosting along the surface of the lake.
She murmured softly, the words lost in the fizzle and sputter as fire met water, “And there passed through pale-glimmering phantoms, and the ghosts escaped from sepulchres, until he found Persephone and Pluto, master-king of shadow realms below.""
It had taken only a few minutes for all feeling to flee from her limbs as the glacial water turned her blood to ice. She pressed onward, the waters rising to lap against her chest. She forced air into lungs nearly paralyzed with cold, turning her head to glance at the shore where Pete’s figure stood outlined by the glow of the flames. She raised her hand, a brief, acknowledging wave before she dragged in a deep breath and sank down, disappearing beneath the surface.
TBC.....