Chapter Six: Power in the Silence
As Clara explored her new living area, running her soft fingertips over the linen that swaddled the room in satin and silk, across the globe, nestled in th Ural Mountains of Russia, Doctor Leonid Pavel briskly walked the length of a long hallway, the walls a stark white through the concrete walls of the nuclear facility in the Chelyabinsk Oblast.
It was nearing the witching hour in Russia as Dr. Pavel reached the control room of one of the four reactors.
He made a few notes on a form, his writing scratchy, unable to shake a sense of impending doom.
After Bane closed the doors after Talia and followed her back to a sunny patio, a pergola shielded the bulk of the sun's ray through a thick, lush vine, speckled with blood-red blossoms and bright yellow stamens.
"What is your assessment on the veracity of her compliance?" Talia asked Bane as she poured sangria into a glass from a round pitcher.
"She was easily moved to agree," Bane stated.
"What do you suggest to sus out the truth?"
"Provide her a friend, a confidant," Bane started as he watched Talia's lean neck as she swallowed the icy drink. "Someone to give her secrets," he added.
Bane expounded and they ended up deciding to send a regular servant to help her and ensure she was never out of anything she needed.
Talia suggested Maya, not a servant, not a kind woman but instead one of the militant's that worked for Talia, cash only, no questions asked.
Maya had a youthful face and full, pouty lips but carried the weight of death in her eyes and around her shoulders in a desiccated shroud.
Maya would be the one that would escort the Angel of Death through the gates of eternity.
Bane nodded his agreement.
Maya and Bane orbited each other carefully, both held mutual respect for the other and only interacted and conversed when absolutely necessary.
Apex predators generally didn't fight each other.
Maya would play the role of dutiful servant; she would be vulnerable and try to lure Clara away with an escape plan.
Maya would try to trick her into running into the arms of death.
A test that Clara could only take once, it was only for a pass or a fail grade.
Clara spent a couple days acclimatizing, finding her feet and adapting to the very air she pulled into her lungs.
She found herself comfortable with the luxuries she was accustomed to, she didn't find herself feeling without.
As Clara lounged about during the day and spent chunks of time pleasantly buzzed with the abundance of alcohol, Maya was briefed on her expectations and objectives.
Maya kept her expression neutral, while inside she seethed that she was being tasked with placating to the political socialite.
She nodded where appropriate and gave Talia a curt nod before she returned to her quarters and dressed in the clothing of one that serves. She brushed out her thick hair and pinned it in a low bun at the base of her neck.
The nondescript clothing covered the scars.
White gloves covered her thickened knuckles while Fabiana's makeup softened her hard features.
There was a lot of activity around Clara with her arrival and the extra eyes and bodies prevented Barsad from doing much leaf-peeping.
Bane's scrutiny was also stifled to a degree with the number of people that were orbiting Clara as she got settled.
Talia asked Fabiana to introduce Maya, to state that she trusted her. She felt Fabiana's words would hold more weight.
Clara didn't see much of Bane during her period of settling into the opulent compound in the jungle.
When she did though, he seemed to appear out of nowhere, he'd suddenly be a breathing chess piece blocking her view of the world.
He'd appear out of nowhere, the specter at the feast.
He was a towering tree that uprooted itself and soundlessly stomped along the forest floor.
A mountain that moved without uttering a sound.
Clara was finishing breakfast when Fabiana knocked lightly on the door, crossing the threshold, her heels sinking into the lush carpet as Maya followed, her eyes downcast as instructed.
"Good morning love," Fabiana cooed to Clara, finding the political socialite finishing a cup of strong coffee. "This is Maya, she has worked here for many years, she's going to help you with whatever you need."
Clara blinked a couple times before she rose to her feet and held out her hand towards the presumed help.
"Clara, nice to meet you."
Maya was surprised that the young woman even looked at her let alone extended her hand with her manicured nails, the oval shape was lacquered a delicate shade of summer apricot.
Maya murmured something that was a passable greeting before Fabiana dismissed her.
Fabiana waited until Maya went to the adjoining room and began stripping the bed linen before continuing.
"She is very dear to me and loyal," Fabiana said in a lowered voice, genuinely hating to lie to Clara about her relationship with the dangerous militant in sheep's clothing.
Barsad had secured a reason to be near Clara's room and was in an adjacent hallway when Maya carried out the bed linen and deposited it into a wicker basket before returning to Clara's room.
Barsad held his breath as he walked down the hall and snagged the pillowcase that Maya had stripped from Clara's pillow.
He shoved the silk under his shirt and walked urgently back to his own living quarters.
Barsad drew the linen drapes before pulling Clara's pillowcase from under his shirt.
He balled up the fabric and pressed his face against it, inhaling raggedly, pulling Clara's scent deep into his lungs.
He growled in disappointment when Clara's essence saturated his lung tissue.
Barsad threw the silk onto the floor and stalked over to the fireplace that dominated his living space.
He felt tears sting the backs of his eyes as he reached for a framed picture of his dead wife Rava.
Barsad stared deeply into the eyes of his dead wife.
They'd been escaping a war zone and she'd stepped on a land mine.
One minute, Rava was alive.
Then she was gone.
There weren't enough solid pieces to scoop up and bury.
Clara Leroux looked like Rava,
Barsad growled and stalked back to the discarded pillowcase, squatting, and retrieving where he'd dropped it.
He buried his face against the silk, inhaling so hard that he almost pulled the fabric into his sinus cavities.
She didn't smell like Rava.
Barsad pulled a hair free from the pillowcase that had fallen free of Clara's mane.
He wrapped the single strand around his knuckle.
Her hair didn't feel like Rava's.
Barsad looked up and met Rava's dead eyes.
"She's not you," he whispered, pressing the fabric against his mouth, running his eyes over his dead wife's face.
Barsad knew Clara Leroux was not his dead wife, but she was corporeal enough to bring solace to his damaged heart.