A/N: Here's the next chapter. Thank you to all still reading this story and encouraging me to continue it. I will have spotty internet connection for the next two weeks, but I will do my best to update at least once during that time.
Chapter 9
Mrs. Frederic lightly traced the tattoo on Myka's wrist, her finger burned at the meeting of energies.
"That would be an uncomfortable sensation for her if she were awake," Isis spoke to the caretaker of the Warehouse.
"I know," Mrs. Frederic replied lifting her finger, "I was only confirming the tattoo was an acquisition from the feather and not some other source."
"My presence is not confirmation enough?" Isis asked, tone not changing but voice sounding sharper.
"I meant no disrespect," she tilted her head in deference, "Do the others know you are here?"
"I make no secrets of my whereabouts or intentions," Isis deigned to answer the query of the powerful mortal before her.
"Do the regents know you are here?" There was an explicit hierarchy that was rarely ever bypassed.
"I need not their permission to do as I please, child," the goddess' eyes flashed fire.
Nodding in implicit understanding, Mrs. Frederic stated the obvious, "It has been centuries since the gods have interfered with human affairs."
"It has been centuries since a single mortal has threatened the entire world," Isis' voice seemed to fill the whole room.
Mrs. Frederic almost corrected the goddess. The world had been threatened many times over throughout the last few centuries. Then, realization dawned. "You mean to say," she was trying to grasp the enormity of the situation, "Earth itself is threatened, not just its inhabitants."
The goddess nodded once, "It has become a matter that begs our attention."
"Who could possibly wield that much power?" The caretaker wondered.
Looking down at the string of pale light pulled taught against Myka's sternum, Isis lowered a long finger and plucked the light- the vibrations causing a beautiful sound to fill the room, "She draws nearer every minute." The goddess cocked her head slightly as if listening to something. Straightening, she raised her hand and waived it in dismissal at Mrs. Frederic, "You are needed downstairs."
Before Mrs. Frederic could acknowledge the dismissal she was materializing in the living room. She let the immediate burst of anger at being sent anywhere flow through her, but quickly staunched it. Putting as much professionalism in her voice as she could, she addressed the two figures in the room, "I believe we need to talk."
Hand slipping into Myka's larger one, Helena tugged the young man into a door he had somehow missed seeing in the downpour. Shaking off the excess water, Myka finally got a good look around. "Do you frequent pubs, Ms. Wells?"
"Only on the occasional downpour, Mr. Bering," Helena replied with a smile.
"So, that's a yes, then," Myka's amused green eyes caught sparkling brown.
"London does tend to have unpredictable weather," Helena retorted smile coming through her tone as she detoured to the bar to pick up two glasses of what looked to be ale before leading them to a secluded table in the back corner to afford them some privacy.
The duo drank their ale in silence for a moment, each sizing the other up. Helena's eyes roaming the figure before her with far more curiosity and interest than was strictly warranted by a stranger. Myka gulped down a large swallow of the alcohol trying not to fidget under the intense scrutiny. While not as intense as the perusals Myka was accustomed to by Helena's gaze, the open interest in those brown eyes was unsettling. It made Myka want to answer every question she could see forming in Helena's lovely head.
"Mr. Bering," Helena began, "you are American. How is it that you know about the Warehouse?"
So the inquisition begins anew, Myka thought tiredly, though she had to admit Helena's ingenuity at asking the same questions in so many different ways. Hand automatically reaching for a lock of hair to twirl between her fingers as she thought, the young woman's fingers stumbled on air before proceeding higher to dark curls much closer to her head (though lengthening through process of time). Worrying her bottom lip, she contemplated a roundabout way of answering until a throat clearing across from her prompted a response, "Well, the same as everyone else who knows about it, I suppose: direct upending of life as you know by the powers that be."
An arched eyebrow told her that was unsatisfactory answer. "Will I ever get a direct answer to any of my queries?"
"Yes," Myka answered the question directly without hesitation, hiding a smirk behind a drink of ale.
"That is not the directness I was hoping for," Helena shook her head good naturedly and dropped the subject. "Perhaps, you will be more forthcoming about topics of a less tentative nature?"
Myka shrugged but nodded her head at Helena inviting her to sate her curiosity.
"Tell me about yourself," the woman said leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs under the table.
"How is that a safer topic, exactly?" Myka leaned forward resting her elbows on the table.
"You don't have to talk about how you are connected to the Warehouse," Helena tapped a finger to her cheek, "you can tell me simple things: where you grew up, what you enjoy doing, who you associate with, and such."
"I like to read," Myka said the safest thing she could think of, though she cringed at how lame it sounded once she said it.
"A man with a mind," Helena sounded impressed, "what an oddity."
"You, Helena, are the true wonder in this case," Myka laughed, "Such a forthright woman," in the 19th century she left unsaid.
"Does it bother you?"Helena asked as nonchalantly as if asking about the weather and not about her rebellion against the established system she was born into. Myka saw the mettle and the steel that seemed an inherent quality in the woman outshine any hesitation.
Without thinking in her desire to reassure this amazing woman who was fearless in the face of opposition, Myka reached her hand to envelop Helena's. "It would bother me if you felt the need to hide such a brilliant mind from me because of a diametrically erroneous world mindset," her thumb rubbed unconscious circles on the woman's skin, "you don't ever have to hide yourself from me."
Helena was deeply touched by the words, and the utter sincerity with which they were said. She turned her hand palm to palm in Myka's larger one and squeezed gently. "I feel a kinship with you, Myka. I do not understand its origins," she said into the ensuing comfortable lull, she seemed as surprised as Myka at the words, "It feels natural." Dark eyes darted around the pub before looking directly into Myka's beautiful green eyes, "And, that is a bit unnatural wouldn't you say?"
"Why are you telling me this?" Helena's hand felt warm in hers, she swallowed at the insistent tugging of her heart to show the woman she loved affection.
"Perhaps you are bewitching me," the inventor replied, sounding honestly bewildered.
"Or, perhaps it is you bewitching me," Myka squeezed the hand clasped in hers before pulling away. She felt a familiarity with Helena that she knew was dangerous; it would only lead to trouble if she let herself be enthralled by the realness of this woman. She drained the last of her ale, dropping to the cup to the table with a heavy thump, "I think the storm has passed."
Helena stood and moved around to Myka's side of the table. Smiling down, she extended her hand, "Shall we continue then, Mr. Bering?"
Smiling reflexively, she took the soft in hers and stood, "Lead the way, Ms. Wells."
Helena watched with barely concealed disgust as Pete shoved everything into his mouth at once.
"You're a really good storyteller, you know that?" Pete said through a mouthful of what looked to be chili cheese fries.
"You don't say," Helena replied acerbically, glaring as chili dripped from the end of the fry he had dangling much too close to her turkey on rye. "You realize, I have written several books in my lifetime," she said while moving her plate out of his messy reach.
"I read some of them, too," he munched thoughtfully on his fry, "you're pretty good at that, as well."
Humming noncommittally, Helena wondered at how the man's mind worked. Not interested enough at the moment for psychoanalytical thought, she resumed eating. The faster they ate and got back on the road, the faster she could get back to Myka. She felt a desperate need to be close to the young woman; her heart ached at the distance. She unconsciously lifted a hand to rub her sternum, right below where her necklace rested.
"But," Pete stressed, popping more fries in his mouth, "just because you're a good writer doesn't necessarily mean you're a good storyteller. Take Myka for example," he was again pointing a dripping fry in her direction, "she reads and knows enough about English that she's more than a passable writer, but she's a pretty crappy storyteller."
"Do explain this evidently important distinction between good writers versus good storytellers, Peter," Helena did not attempt to hide her disinterest, "I am most certainly dying to know."
"Remind me again," Pete narrowed his eyes at Helena, seeming to actually contemplate something, "how you wooed Myka?"
Chin tilting up as a hand smoothly swept the hair from her face, Helena smirked, "I simply walked into the room."
Unable to help himself, Pete laughed at the bloated arrogance of the woman, "It's a good thing your considerable charm was not required."
Taking a bite of her sandwich, she chewed slowly, leveling a tempered gaze at the man across from her, "I do believe my mouth was rather occupied with things other than witty repartee."
Shaking his head back and forth, Pete held both hands up, "So, definitely, not going there." Smiling around another bite of her sandwich, Helena's eyes flashed in amusement at having figured out the quickest way to quiet Pete down.
"Anyway," Pete picked up right where he originally left off, "as I was saying." Helena rolled her eyes; the silences were always so short lived. "You remind me of my mom."
"I do not recall talking about your mother," Helena was thinking of the quickest way to end this conversation, "And, even if we had been talking of your mother, I cannot think of a single thing we would have in common."
"You're both good storytellers," Pete said exasperated at having to explain everything to the writer.
"Yes," Helena muttered, giving up and humoring the overgrown boy, "of course."
"The reason you're both good storytellers," he said around his last fry, "is that you're such good liars."
"I don't think your mother would appreciate that assessment," the inventor supplied drolly.
He waved off the remark. "I don't mean that in a strictly negative sense," he qualified. "Maybe it's a skill all mothers have to learn," he said shrugging, "half-truth telling and subterfuge to protect their kids from knowledge of things too big for them."
Begrudgingly, Helena agreed, "Perhaps." Her esteem for the quirky man was increasing despite herself; he was remarkably insightful, although he had the oddest way of expressing it.
"And that's why Myka is such a terrible storyteller," he was coming full circle on whatever point he was making, "because she's not a very good liar. She can hedge and stonewall with the best of them, but she doesn't have a very refined ability to outright lie."
"Did you have a point to make in all this, Peter?" Helena prompted when the agent stopped talking.
"My point is," Pete moved his empty plate aside and leaned forward, his eyes holding Helena's, "if our Myka is the same Myka that was," he scrunched his eyebrows, "is," he shook his head, "back in the 19th century, which I'm pretty certain from what you've said that they are one and the same, then she wouldn't have, couldn't have, kept her heart hidden from you for very long."
"She did make a valiant effort to hedge, sidestep and avoid me for the first few weeks," Helena recalled, "but, as I said before, that quickly went to the wayside when we were partnered up."
"This story sounds like it's going to get a lot more complicated," sympathy seeped through his tone his eyes softened at the pain always present in the inventor's eyes, "and a lot bleaker."
Helena looked away unable to bear the compassion in Pete's eyes. "You have no idea," she said softly to no one in particular.
"You've got to be kidding me," the deep voice stopped Helena from entering the doorway. Turning around she noted the young man staring at the plaque inscribed with the address of the building. "Is this even supposed to exist?"
"No," Helena answered surmising Myka's line of thought, "but it was a happy coincidence that Doyle chose to make Holmes our neighbor."
"I'm starting to lose my belief in coincidences," Myka muttered walking into a nondescript building on 221A Baker Street. Following Helena up a winding staircase to a cluttered work space, the first thing that assaulted Myka's senses was the subtle scent of apples. She stopped and took it in. It reminded her of standing at the edge of an orchard, the wind lazily lifting the scent of fresh apples and leaves to her nose. It was comforting; like coming home.
Catching up to Helena, Myka opened her mouth to ask if the inventor smelled the same thing when the air in her lungs exited her mouth in a sudden rush as a large hand clapped her hard on the back. "Bering," boomed the loud, gruff voice behind her, "good to see you recovered and on your feet."
"MacShane," Myka squeaked out, gasping lightly for air, "good to see you, too." She rubbed her aching chest at the friendly gesture from the overenthusiastic man. Turning a genuine smile at the man, Myka clapped him on the back none too gently in return. He let out a loud bark of laughter.
Helena smiled but shook her head in confusion, "Men."
Caturanga slipped in silently sending a tense stillnesss through the room without opening his mouth. The three of them straightened and turned to him.
"Young man, follow me," Caturanga commanded.
Myka stood stalk still, not moving until MacShane shoved her in the caretaker's direction, "That means you, mate."
Shaking legs led Myka in the white haired man's direction. Anxiousness twisted her stomach in tight knots. The older gentleman looked nice enough, but he freaked her out in an I-can-annihilate-you-with-a-thought-if-you-displease-me sort of way, kind of like Mrs. Frederic did.
"Close the door behind you," Myka turned to obey, Adam's apple bobbing up and down before she turned back around.
"Sit," though his tone was soft, warm even, everything he said sounded like a command, so she obediently did as she was told. "Tea?"
Myka would have preferred coffee but she nodded and accepted a cup of tea. She was developing quite a liking to the drink. Sipping lightly at the hot liquid, she stared at Caturanga who had seated himself across from her. And, Caturanga stared at her. It was an uncomfortable silence, but Myka did not flinch from the scrutiny.
"Who are you?" the man's dark eyes narrowed on her as if he could not decipher exactly what he was looking at.
"Myka Bering," she replied honestly, innately knowing he would be able to detect a lie.
"Yes," Caturanga nodded slowly, putting his tea down and leaning forward elbows resting on his knees and his chin dropping onto his clasped hands, "but who is Myka Bering?"
"I can't say," Myka hedged, setting her cup aside and mimicking Caturanga's pose. She jerked forwards, barely catching herself, when the man grabbed her right hand exposing her wrist. "Hey," she immediately protested, trying to pull her hand out of an entirely disproportionate firm grip for a man as small as the caretaker.
Caturnaga's eyes locked on the tattoo, his index finger tracing it lightly. Myka grit her teeth at the burning sensation the touch caused and in irritation at the man's intrusion of her person.
"Did you kill this young man?" His grip tightened around her wrist.
"No," she expelled through gritted teeth, anger now bubbling up in her chest, "now let go of me."
He finally released her. She rubbed her aching wrist; the skin under the tattoo where Caturanga had rubbed pulsed unpleasantly. Her green eyes bored into the caretaker and he stared just as hard right back at her.
"How did you end up in this body?" He demanded.
"How do you know this isn't my body?" Myka asked evenly.
"You don't fit," he gestured to her chest with his hands, "you don't match up." He leant back and studied the young man before him. "You are from the future," he stated completely certain.
Myka gaped. She normally had an exceptional poker face, but she was wearing a face that was not hers so the statement caused shock to show over her features before she could school the new face into a neutral mask.
"I see you have not had enough time to mask your feelings on the face you are now wearing," Caturanga remarked.
Myka quickly tried to mask her slip, "I'm just shocked you think something so ridiculous."
Caturanga looked at the young man with both brows raised, "You are a terrible liar."
Running her hands through her short hair in frustration, she bowed her head, "Yeah, I've been told." After a moment, she looked up at him, "You understand I can't tell you much. I don't know what has the possibility to change the natural course of history."
"But you must tell me enough," the caretaker stood and quickly made his way to his desk. Myka felt compelled to follow. Finding what he was looking for, Caturanga passed the young man a leather bound notebook flipped open to a particular page.
Myka traced the carefully drawn feather on the page remembering the weight and feel of the very object that had brought her to where she stood. "Is that the object you touched?" Caturanga's voice seemed to be coming from far away. He touched her on the arm to get her attention.
"Yes," she said still staring at the feather. She was so engrossed in the drawing that she missed the grim look that crossed Caturanga's face.
"You will need to do some leg work if we are to get you back, or forward, as the case may be, " the caretaker was already moving about the office consulting maps and books, "I shall have you and Helena do the retrievals."
That snapped Myka back to the present, "What do you mean, me and Helena? And, you're just going to send me on Warehouse business? No test or trial required?"
Dark eyes snapped back to her, "That feather you touched categorizes people as either angels or devils, in a manner of speaking," he turned back to his research, "taking into consideration your ability at deception and the fact that you exude trustworthiness, I am confident in my decision to allow you to find a way home."
Myka stood dumbfounded, "Thank you."
Caturanga turned to her several papers in hand, "Now there's just the detail of how you happen to know Helena."