"Nothing is more sad than the death of an illusion." -Arthur Koestler
11:15 PM, April 26, 2004
Chicago, IL
She knew that something was off the moment she slipped through the back door and into her dressing room. The air was thinner, and deadly quiet. Easy, girl. Best thing to do is keep your cover.
In a haze of panic, she began her transformation.
First, the dress. She chose one that concealed her ankles (and the small revolver strapped to the right one). It slithered over her body lovingly, the venom-green silk tracing her figure and flaring out dramatically at her knees.
The hair. When she pulled out the clip that strained to keep them in place, her red curls tumbled down around her face and down her back. She tamed it slightly with some excessively expensive lotion (a gift from Alexei) that smelled mildly of neroli and roses. Otherwise, she let it run wild.
The adornments. Tonight she chose a set of emeralds that Igor himself had brought her from God knew where. They dripped from her ears and throat like beads of poison.
The face. This always took a while. She concealed her freckles, shaded her cheekbones, lengthened her lashes, and painted her lips a bright, bloody red. Finally, she drew a birthmark above her lip, the last shameless cliche of the hackneyed, used-up Vivian Grant.
Gazing at the glittering, unrecognizable beauty in the mirror, she realized that it bothered her slightly that she would die as someone else. Oddly, nothing else did.
She didn't think about Samson. Or rather, she thought she didn't.
Her eyes found the clock. 12:00. Showtime.
She ascended the steps from her room to the main stage, paused for a moment to remember the songs for tonight, then stepped out onto the stage before she had a chance to think about anything else. The lights directed at the stage blinded her for a moment, but when she could see again, her fears were confirmed.
The room was empty save for one hulking figure.
"Hello, Igor."
"It is lovely to see you again, kotik." She inclined her head and smiled graciously. She couldn't see his face, but his harsh voice was warm and conversational.
"Private show tonight?"
"If you wouldn't mind."
"Of course." She glanced behind her. There were no musicians tonight. It was just her, standing alone and exposed on her pedestal. She began to sing, but she wasn't sure what. She only knew that her voice didn't tremble and her smile never faltered. She performed perhaps better than she ever had before; her voice had never been extraordinary, but tonight it did not fail her.
"Another."
She sang again, enjoying herself now. A rush of fierce fatalism tore through her. He knew what she was, and she didn't give a damn. And if she got the chance, she'd take him down with her.
She sang her entire set, taking savage pleasure in her final danse macabre. For a full hour, she let her death wish carry her, ecstatic, through song after song. Her eyes remained on her impassive captor as his features began to resolve themselves. He looked relaxed and appreciative. When finally she fell silent, he applauded wholeheartedly.
"Wonderful, kotik. Simply wonderful. You are an artist."
"Thank you, Igor."
"You understand that I am not speaking of your singing, of course." He smiled wryly. He's really going to ham this up, isn't he? "No, your voice leaves much to be desired. A pleasant timbre, to be sure, but ultimately pedestrian."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
"Not to worry. You have other talents. Do you mind if we speak Russian, by the way? English is such a vulgar language."
"You may speak Russian if you don't want a reply from me, darling."
"Oh kitten, aren't you tired of pretending by now?"
Joke's on you, she thought bitterly. Pretending is the only thing that never gets old.
"Do you want me to tell you how I knew?" he continued. That would be nice.
"Igor, please, I don't understand a word you're saying," Vivian pleaded. "Just tell me what you want and it's yours."
"That lying bitch betrayed you, kitten," he sneered, watching her face for a reaction. "She came to me yesterday and told me the terrible, treacherous things she had done for you. She begged forgiveness from Arkady."
Every thought in Helena's mind was extinguished. She was paralyzed.
"That's right. Do you want to know what happens to whores who disappoint Arkady Ivanovich Volkoff, kitten?" Whatever expression showed on Helena's face seemed to please Igor immensely. "Grisha, would you bring in Madame Volkoff, please?"
No.
The young thug walked in, carrying a large duffle bag. Igor accepted it with a courtesy that contrasted comically with his barbaric appearance.
No.
Slowly, calmly, he opened the bag and began laying its contents out on the table.
First, a foot. Then an arm. A hand. Numbly, Helena noticed Katya's elaborate gold wedding ring on one of the few unmutilated fingers. She watched as the pieces of her informant were laid out one by one, each covered in burns and punctures. Igor had not been imaginative in his torture, but one does not need imagination to destroy another person.
Finally, the head. Helena looked into the glassy brown eyes, as she had done so many times when she reassured Katya that she would be safe.
You are under my protection, Katya. I swear that no harm will come to you, Katya. Don't panic, Katya. I'll keep you safe, Katya.
When she looked up at Igor, she mustered a smile. When she spoke, it was in fluent Russian.
"Alright, Igor. Let's talk."
"Finally."
Hotch and Reid slept fitfully for the two-hour plane ride. There was nothing to say and nothing to do. Garcia had briefed them on the way to the airstrip.
"Okay, it looks like she's been working as a performed at an old-timey speakeasy run by the Russian mob. It'll be full of gangsters when you arrive, so your best bet is to wait until morning and get her at her apartment. I'm sending directions to your cell."
"Thanks, Garcia," he said mechanically. He was too exhausted to think at all. All he could do was follow instructions.
When he arrived at the hotel, he passed out on the large, soft bed, and knew no more until 5:00 the next morning.
They sat across from one another at the center table with two tumblers of expensive Scotch. At that distance, Helena was engulfed again in the disorientingly powerful smell of death that always followed Igor. In the corner of the room, Grisha stood impatient and seemingly forgotten.
"Tell me your name."
"Helena."
"CIA?"
"Yes." She sipped from her glass, feeling the bracing burn of the whiskey spread over her tongue.
"You're here for Arkady?"
"For the girls."
"You can't save them."
"I have to try."
"Why?" he demanded, looking frustrated. "I don't believe for a moment that you're a heroic person at your core." Helena shrugged.
"I agree with you," she admitted. "I'm not a hero. Just a fairly good liar. But everyone needs a profession."
"Does that mean that you're open to other offers?" he asked, raising a brow. That surprised her. She had been sure that he would want to skip straight to the bloodletting.
As he waited for her answer, he moved to the bar and poured himself a
She considered her answer for a while. It seemed pointless to stall, but senseless to hurry things along. Quietly, she removed the revolver from its place at her ankle and, peeling the paper off a strip of adhesive that she had affixed to it, stuck the gun underneath the table. She moved smoothly enough that neither of the men seemed to notice. This done, she replied.
"I don't see why not, though I'm damned if I know how you'd pay me."
"I have outrageous sums of money at my disposal," he reminded her unnecessarily, gesturing at the finery she wore. "Don't you enjoy the lifestyle, kitten?"
"To be perfectly honest with you, Igor, I've never liked owning things. A government salary was more than enough for my tastes."
A ghastly grin broke out over Igor's twisted face.
"You really are a perfect spy, aren't you? Your only real appetite is for betrayal."
"That's an excellent description."
"You know, Katya never told me who her contact was," he remarked conversationally, and she felt a searing stab at her heart. "I'll tell you how you gave yourself away, shall I? For future reference?"
"I'd be very interested to hear it."
"You know, I think, that I was KGB back in my day." She didn't answer. "We used to train women like you. Beautiful, vicious creatures they were."
"What did you train them for?" she prompted with polite interest.
"We showed them how to give men what they wanted. How to be their Dulcinea. It is amazing how a man will lie to himself when he meets the woman of his dreams. He becomes so vulnerable to her. You are everything I ever asked them to be. I may as well have created you myself."
"I'm flattered."
"Once I was on the lookout for a spy who could persuade a woman as loyal as Katerina to turn, it was quick work to find you, kitten. I only had to look for the spy that I would have sent."
"Did you tell Arkady?"
"No, I wanted to do the honors myself."
"So your offer still stands, then? You want me to be your… assistant?"
"Imagine my elation at the idea that you most likely did speak Russian after all. Now you are perfect, kitten. Except for one small problem, of course."
"What's that, Igor?"
"I do not believe that you will ever abandon your mission."
"Why not?"
"Because, meager salary aside, your job with the CIA gives you one thing that I can't."
"Oh?"
"A sense of self worth." She gazed at him in consternation. He was alarmingly accurate in his observations of her. "Next to that, the offer of sparing your life must seem paltry. I don't think you are capable of giving it up."
"That's why you won't let me live."
"That's why." He looked genuinely displeased about it, as though he had been forced to throw away his ice cream cone prematurely.
"Well, get on with it, then."
"Oh no, kitten. Death will be your reward. First, you need to earn it."
Author's note: So I haven't had the best history about continuing stories consistently, but I am working on troubleshooting The Mortal Coil. I've noticed some narrative defects and am trying to decide how to handle the exposition. For those who are waiting for that story, I'll resume it soon. The story I want to tell with that one is compelling to me.
This one is a result of me starting Criminal Minds and finding myself surprised and impressed by how well-conceived the main characters are. Given that the show is based on the psychology of crazed killers, this story will be correspondingly dark and interior. Violence (including sexual violence) will happen. I don't really enjoy writing it, so I'm trying to stick to the effect on the characters, rather than just gore.
Helena Blythe is my attempt to write a character who, like the members of the BAU, is productive and admirable, but also irretrievably damaged. She's meant to be a foil for Hotch and a device for exploring the dark side that we occasionally get to see during the show.