Chapter 2
Unknown warehouse, Moscow, Russia
January 1st, 1999, 1:30am
"Văduve, convoacă!" "Widows, gather!"
Under normal circumstances, a congregation of woman would have been noisy and boisterous, accompanied by giggles, the clicks of plastic heels on smooth concrete and small sniffs because of the extreme chill of Russian air. But these females were silent, walking lithely on the balls of their feet with ease, the cold barely worthy of note. Despite the imminent looming darkness pressing down on their shoulders, interrupted only by a small red-wax candle resting upon a splintered oak table, they evaded each other with great ease, winding cat-like to their respective places in the room, careful not to touch anything but the air they breathed. There were twenty of them, as varied in height, weight, and appearance as the colors of nature. There were redheads and blondes, brunettes and raven-haired beauties, short and stocky athletes, and tall, lanky businesswomen. Their features, too, were widely diverse; some had wide, open, kind azure eyes, while others had irises as black and soulless as night. Some wore energetic, interested expressions, while the majority appeared stoic and firm. Throughout the miscellaneous cluster of high cheekbones or heart-shaped faces, full lips or thin ones, curly or straight hair, one characteristic was the same; every female possessed a small tattoo on the back of her neck, centered slightly above her shoulder blades, of a small spider, its legs splayed out symmetrically on either side, with a dot of color in the shape of an hourglass upon its abdomen. Each color was different, red, purple, blue, even magenta pink, and each girl wore a stripe of eyeliner to match. They convened around the table obediently, and as if on cue tipped their heads in a small bow to the original speaker. "Rise," he instructed in a thick Russian accent, and the congregation dutifully obliged. Smoke carrying a more pungent odor than tobacco wafted around the room, creating wispy images in the low light; it filtered from a glowing cigarette with multi-colored leaves protruding from the illuminated tip.
"Greetings, my daughters," the man muttered in a raspy, airless voice. He coughed feebly, raising a hand, covered in a leather glove, to where his mouth should have been; a large purple hood, shrouding his face in darkness, concealed his whole head. The grating coughs shook the gray beard protruding from under his covering, and his shoulders trembled with the force of his illness. Two caretakers, both clad in matching purple robes and stationed on either side of the old man, took his elbows gently, cooing soothing words into his cloak; both of their faces were covered as well, an attempt at mystery that was unsuccessful to the assembled women. They knew very well who hid behind the purple shrouds, and paid the guises little mind.
"My apologies, children!" the man exclaimed as his hacking ceased for the moment. "I grow weaker every day."
"We are here to serve, father!" the group responded in unison, raising their fists to their leader. Beneath the hood, the man smiled.
"It has been long since I last saw the light of day," he continued, clasping his hands. "Alas, I have not the strength. I am scarcely strong enough to stand before you today. So tell me, daughters; how goes your search for the lobelia seed?"
Uncomfortably, the assembled women glanced between one another, and then, when the majority of attention turned to a tall, gangling blonde, she cleared her throat and stepped forward. The hooded figure at the head of the table flicked his head toward her; the blonde faltered slightly, but found the courage to continue.
"Not well, my lord," she sighed, voice like a dragonfly flitting on the breeze. "We've had… difficulties…" The tension in the room was palpable, and the man hissed beneath his cloak. "But, we did manage to cultivate more petals, sir!" the blonde woman explained. "Here, my lord!" she cried. "Widows, show our father what we've gathered!" Edgily, following the blonde's lead, the other ladies began pulling vibrantly colored flowers from pockets and tossing them onto the table, until it was a beautiful array of rainbow petals. "See what we've collected for you, sir?" the blonde whimpered, holding her hands wide, as if to demonstrate the magnitude of the gift.
"Pah!" the hooded man bellowed, slamming a fist on the table. The draping sleeve that had previously concealed his hand fell away, revealing a deathly skeletal shape, more dead than alive. Veins, coursing with sickly greenish-blue liquid, popped out against the flaky white skin, and the blonde recoiled at the sight. "These petals are meaningless if I do not obtain the seed!" The hand snaked away from the table, its drapes covering it once again. "You have failed me again, Widows." A silence more anxious than the pitch darkness was now weighing down upon the cult, sucking breath from the mouths of the assembled women and into the lungs of the hooded figure at the head of the table. All eyes were cast downward, nervous energy crackling through the air itself. "You may ask of course, why must we obey your orders and scurry through Russia in search of the lobelia. It is mightily unfair, isn't it, that I make you run such errands for me. After all you are not maids, oh no. You were trained for something more." No one dared make a sound. The man rose to his feet, splaying his long, eerie fingers out on the table before him. The blonde Widow looked up through her heavily made-up eyelashes, and almost thought she could see the rough outlines of a face. Certainly, those twinkling bits of light were eyes? She looked down as they turned toward her, and a peculiar feeling of unease crept through her spine. "I will tell you why!" The man slammed his palms down on the table, causing several of the blossoms to tumble to the floor.
"I made you!" he cried, harsh voice gravelly and menacing. "I gave you life! I saved you from pointless years of rotting in prison!" Beads of spittle flew from beneath the hood and landed on the table. The figure straightened slightly, breathing hard. "I was the one who convinced Gorbachev to consider the program in the first place, so listen well, you ungrateful wenches! You will find me the lobelia seed, and you will do so within the month! I don't care how far you must travel, or what trials you must overcome to succeed. Now go! Time is wasting!"
"Yes, Drakov!" the Widows chorused, extending their fists into the air in salute.
"I gave you life, Widows…" Drakov growled, collapsing backward into his chair, gasping for breath. "And I can take it away just as easily!"
The women disbanded, slipping silently back into the night.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
"Ana, Galina," the hooded man said once all of the women had gone, voice lapsing back into a feeble whine. "Were all Widows accounted for?"
"All but Romanova," came the gentle reply from Galina, one of Drakov's hooded caretakers. The elderly gentleman pursed his lips as his assistants helped him to his feet. His quick outburst of anger had sapped much of his strength; his breath came with much stress, as if the air was as thick as honey. With help from the two women at his side, he made his way through the warehouse and up a sweeping staircase toward his bedroom.
"My medicine!" he cried as they allowed him to flop backward against a great expanse of pillows. The sound of a lighter igniting was heard, and the putrid scent of burning lobelia filled the air. Ana held a glowing joint before him and Drakov seized it greedily, bringing it to his chapped lips and inhaling. He sighed heavily as the flower's healing properties worked their magic; his trembling hands slowed, and breathing became easier. He tilted his shrouded head back, allowing smoke to filter out of his mouth toward the ceiling as he thought. "Ana, go downstairs and clean up the lobelia petals the Widows left. Galina, summon Romanova."
"Are you sure that's wise, my liege?" came Galina's tentative, unsure voice. Drakov immediately began pounding his free hand against the mattress, kicking his legs wildly.
"Galina, damn you!" he shrieked. "I want the Black Widow now!"
"Yes sir, right away, sir!" Galina squealed, hastening from the room as fast as she could manage whilst bowing until the tip of her hood brushed the ground. "I'll go get her!" The woman exited the room, pulling the door closed in her wake. Drakov growled deep in his throat and sank back into the mountain of pillows, struggling to relax. He drew deeply on his special cigarette, finding that it calmed his aggravated nerves.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" asked a cool, indifferent voice moments later. Drakov's head snapped up, and a sneer crossed his face.
"Natalia," he spat excitedly. "The infamous Black Widow. How superior you are to your fellow sisters. Any one of them I would have detected in an instant. But you are far too sharp to leave loose ends or footprints."
"You know me well, Drakov. I am flattered." Although Drakov couldn't see beyond his drooping hood, he heard Romanova moving in the room, the key turn in the lock, and waited until she sat at the foot of the bed before he responded.
"You are too keen for flattery," he hissed, statement obscured by rough coughs. Quickly, he took a deep breath from the lobelia joint. "Praise has never compromised you in the past."
"Too true," she agreed. A steely silence persisted, broken only by the shuffling of Ana and Galina downstairs.
"I assume that you heard the contents of our meeting?" Drakov said presently.
"Yes. Your words were quite… sinister," Romanova replied, pushing her vibrant red curls behind her ear. "Had Anastasia quaking in her boots." Drakov chuckled quietly.
"Indeed," he agreed. "And what of you, my pride? My spider queen? My deadliest assassin? Were you… 'quaking in your boots?'" Drakov rolled the unfamiliar English saying around his tongue uncomfortably.
"Hardly!" Romanova scoffed, getting to her feet. "I am not petrified of you as the others are." Drakov grimaced as she proceeded to examine the small bedroom. He wasn't sure if her indifference was a good quality or not.
"Then what are you?" he growled, extinguishing his cigarette on the glass of the bedside table. He tipped his head backward slightly so that he could see her whereabouts. His eyebrows knit into a frown as he found the young, beautiful agent standing before his safe removing a substantial amount of Russian dollars. She counted the total carefully, thought for a moment, then closed the iron door.
"A Widow," she answered, turning to face Drakov indifferently. "No more, no less." He sniffed.
"Where are you going?"
"St Petersburg. They have a beautiful botanical garden there that I've been wanting to tour for a good while." Drakov smiled darkly beneath his hood.
"Excellent!" he crooned, heart racing in excitement. If anyone had a chance to acquire the lobelia seed, the rarest pod on the planet, if was Natalia. "Let Galina back in before you leave," Drakov ordered.
"As you wish," Romanova stated, and Drakov sighed as the lock clicked open once more.
"I will look forward to your return," he growled, sudden exhaustion overwhelming his sick body. But the Black Widow was already gone, disappearing into the night as silently as the predator she was named for.
AN: Hope you liked it! If you followed/favorited my story PLEASE review it.