Chapter Fourteen

When Myka heard her Farnsworth go off, she still had her arms wrapped tightly around Helena, but they were both lying down, on top of the covers, both fully dressed. They were facing one another, and had been deep in hushed, painfully honest conversation. They shared memories of the past, fears for their present, and hopes for their future. It was the first time in a long time they had been truly alone together and able to talk so fluidly. Myka had every intention of ignoring her Farnsworth, but Helena released her hold on her and insisted she take the call. They were here for a mission, after all. There would be plenty of time to talk when they got back to South Dakota, if all went well.

Myka tried, but wasn't sure she expelled all the weariness from her expression before she answered Artie's call. "Hi, Artie. What've you got for us?"

"We think we know what the artifact you're looking for is."

Myka perked up, and Helena did, too, peeking over her shoulder at her screen. "What is it?"

Pete pushed his way into view in front of Artie. "Lay in canoe day law sane!"

Artie's exasperated look caused Pete to disappear from view. "L'Inconnue de la Seine. It's a mask, created in the late 19th century."

"Yes," Helena said, a thoughtful look on her face, "that makes sense..." Myka looked at her imploringly, so Helena continued, "It was housed in Warehouse 12 back before I was bronzed." Myka's eyes darted down at the thought, but Helena went on. "It was shelved before my time there, but I read about it in our archive report. It's a mask made of a young girl supposedly drowned in a river, the mortician was enamored by her beauty and made a death mask of her, yet no one came forward to identify her."

Artie nodded in the little screen. "Yes, and in a strange, unique turn of events, this specific mask was replicated a number of times, and it's believed that with each duplication, the original gained power. There had been hundreds of other death masks made before this, and more after, but something about this one made it unique, made people drawn to it even without realizing why."

"So you think the original death mask is the artifact?" Myka asked.

"Indeed. The creator of the mask so wanted to preserve the face of this dead woman, to possess it, that now, whoever has control of the mask can take the form of any deceased person."

"So how do we find the mask?" Helena asked.

Artie threw up his hands in frustration. "That's what you need to find out!"

Pete appeared again to chime in, "Claudia is looking for clues as to where the mask might have been seen last."

Suddenly Claudia's voice drifted into the conversation from somewhere off screen. "I have a lead!"

Pete wiggled his eyebrows and picked up the Farnsworth, turning it towards Claudia.

"With modern technology, the process of making death masks is pretty much obsolete, but the art of making plaster molds from human faces is still alive. Alive being the key word here." Claudia took the Farnsworth from Pete so she was talking directly into the communication device. "There's a mask-maker just outside the Rosewood town line...kiiiind of creepily in the woods. He might be able to help you - if he doesn't have it, he has probably heard of it, considering he's into the rare and super-creepy craft of mask-making, and he might know where it is now."

"We need a name, Claudia," Helena said, with all the gentleness her voice could portray.

"Oh, right!" Claudia laughed. "His name is Hector Lime, he has a cabin oh-so-originally named Hector's Studio, in the woods surrounding Rosewood. I'll send the exact coordinates to your cell phone."

Myka felt a familiar rush of excitement wash over her. "Thanks, Claudia!"

"No problemo!"

Artie took the Farnsworth back from Claudia and added, "Myka, I cannot express to you the importance of being careful. You have an advantage, because you know what's going on, but the appearance of deceased figures from people's pasts can cause nostalgia to take over. Or worse, regret. Everyone is susceptible to their own emotions, and those emotions can cause people to do unspeakable things. This kind of perception-altering artifact can cause people to lose all sense of reality."

Both Myka and Helena nodded. "We know, Artie," Myka said. She felt Helena's hand cover her own, their fingers interlacing on top of the motel comforter. "We'll find it. We'll stop it."

Artie set the Farnsworth down on the table, making him look and sound more distant than before. "I know you will!" he called out, before flicking the device off.

Myka set her Farnsworth on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to determine their next move. She felt Helena brush her hair off her shoulder and place a kiss on her neck. Helena's hand moved from her hair to her shoulder. "You're so tense." She started kneading Myka's shoulders with her strong hands. Myka practically purred in response.

"It's unlikely a mask maker in the middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania is open on a Sunday at all, let alone at this hour," Helena encouraged, now using both of her hands to massage both of Myka's shoulders. She leaned in and whispered, "We might as well make the most of tonight."

As H.G. worked on the knots in Myka's shoulders, she couldn't help but let her mind wander to the day's events and to what Artie and Claudia had just told them. Her mind raced through all the people in her life that could appear to her... everyone she cared about from before she was bronzed. Her parents, her brother...her daughter. She took solace in the fact that Artie and Claudia seemed convinced that it was being controlled by a person, meaning it would most likely be a person alive today. That person, even upon researching H.G. Wells, would have no reason to believe the name was actually referring to a woman, let alone a woman alive in the 21st century.

If she were being honest with herself, her main concern was for Myka. A person of this century, there were any of number of people, even besides Sam, that this person could appear as to Myka that would throw her off her usually on-point game. From ex-partners to artifact victims, from Leena to even criminals she was forced to take down to save the life of an innocent or a fellow agent. H.G. knew that Myka had a tough exterior, but a delicate soul, and that seeing any of these people could and would shake her, even if she consciously knew they weren't really appearing before her. And the last thing H.G. needed was Myka to be shaken up and rendered useless in their battle against this invisible evil. She needed her partner - in life, love, and work - to balance her and help her find this foe.

Myka's groan of approval as she worked through a particularly stubborn knot caused H.G. to forget the worries that plagued her and concentrate on the stunning individual before her. Upon being consumed by Myka's beauty, she couldn't help but use her right hand to pull Myka's bushel of curls away from her neck and kiss her there again, her left hand doing its best to keep up its massaging rhythm. She worked each bunched tendon carefully, because as much as she wanted to relieve Myka of the burden she carried for everyone but herself, she didn't want to hurt her. H.G. hoped that their conversation tonight helped Myka understand that she shouldn't bear any guilt for anything in H.G.'s life, from Christina's death all the way to her attempt at recreating family by way of Nate and his daughter Adelaide. Not one bit of it was Myka's fault, and if anything, their last few months apart were H.G.'s fault for becoming so entranced with the young girl who reminded her so much of her own daughter, and by association her father who was left in such a vulnerable position.

She had known, even at the time, that it wasn't fair to any of the parties involved - not her, not Adelaide, not Nate - but she was so blinded by the idea of family, so enthralled by this partially-constructed one that she fit right into, that she couldn't resist. But it was moments like this - when she talked to Artie, Pete, and Claudia, when she was out hunting artifacts, when she was with Myka - that she truly felt at home. She pressed a kiss onto Myka's head, taking in her distinct scent that always somehow had a hint of strawberry. Myka turned to face her and H.G. drank in every detail of her face.

A smile crept across Myka's beautiful face. "What?" she asked.

H.G. smiled and placed a pack on Myka's nose. "Nothing, my love," she said. "Just so glad you're mine." And Myka was hers. Her life, her love... her family.