Warehouse 13 AU: Persist In Folly (2/9)
Jul. 9th, 2012 05:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficTitle: Persist In Folly
Fandom: Warehouse 13
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,448
Characters/Pairings: Myka/HG
Previous: Part 1
Next: Part 3
Summary: Of course, no deception lasts forever.
“You’re being kidnapped,” Helena said, leveling the gun squarely at Myka’s head. “Come quietly or I’ll destroy that which is most precious to you.”
“I guess you’ll just have to do what you’ll have to do,” Myka replied evenly.
“Very well then.” Helena pointed the gun at the report Myka was writing up and pulled the trigger. With oodles of pressure behind it, a spray of liquid hit the papers, knocking them off Myka’s desk with a squawk from the agent herself. “Now, will you do as you’re told and be a good little hostage or shall I waste more of this stellar vodka?”
“You’re crazy!” Myka yelped, frantically trying to find a way to dry off her paper. She had just thought up a good explanation for why Pete had ended up dangling fifty stories up, dressed like Betty Boop and singing It’s A Small World After All.
“Wonderfully so,” Helena retorted. “Your final warning…” she threatened, aiming at Myka’s computer.
Myka held up her hands in surrender.
***
At gunpoint, Myka drove Helena to a nearby apple grove. She knew she just should’ve gone along with her friend in the first place; it wasn’t like Mrs. Fredric really needed an explanation for Pete’s antics at this point. But something about the sight of Helena with a gun—and now, Helena cheerfully doing vodka “shots” from the barrel of the squirt gun—put her on edge. She knew it wasn’t H.G.’s fault, but she’d been homicidal, suicidal, and now it was like she was making light of her old ways.
“Stop here,” Helena said, indicating an empty speed trap behind a billboard. With a quick U-turn, they were out of sight from the highway. “There are two kinds of people in the world, Agent Bering. Those who carry bags and those who have guns.” Helena reached into the back, found a beach bag, and tossed it into Myka’s lap. “Giddyup, pack mule.”
With Helena occasionally prodding her in the back with the squirt gun—an act that was getting really old—Myka was led to a laid-out picnic blanket, complete with two chaise lounges. “Set it down between them,” Helena ordered, undoing the zipper on her trenchcoat. It had looked far too hot for the summer sun, but now Myka understood why H.G. hadn’t been sweating. She wore next to nothing underneath.
Fetching a pair of sunglasses from the bag, Helena slipped them on and perched herself in the right chaise lounge. “Sit down, darling. Let’s give Stockholm Syndrome a chance to work its magic.”
“You brought me all the way out here to tan?”
“I saw your stomach the other day, while we were stretching our legs at that rest stop. You looked frightfully pale. We should fix that. Now, do you want to apply the suntan lotion or should I?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“There’s a stereo in the bag as well. Please, dock your iPod in it. We can listen to some of your jams. And a bikini as well, if you don’t want to tan in your underthings. I promise I won’t look.” Helena lowered her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. “Not that you’d be able to tell.”
“And what’s to stop me from going back to the car and driving off, leaving you stranded, alone, in a bikini?”
“Your clothes need time to dry.” That said, Helena opened fire, thoroughly soaking Myka’s good pantsuit.
“This is so immature! You are acting like Pete! Quit it!” Myka cried, dancing around to avoid her fire.
“The sooner you undress, the dryer you’ll be!” Helena cackled.
“That’s it!” Myka tore off her suit jacket, flinging it to the ground. Helena blew imaginary smoke from her squirt gun. Then she froze, lips still pursed, as Myka ripped open her buttondown. Underneath, her white tanktop had started to soak through. Before Helena could commit that to memory, Myka had pulled her tanktop over her head—and thrown it at Helena. The wet cloth knocked the squirt gun from Helena’s hand and Myka scrambled to recover it, bringing it up to Helena’s forehead before H.G. could so much as fix her skewed sunglasses.
“Shoe’s on the other foot now,” Myka chided.
“Yes. But how are you going to finish undressing with a gun in your hand? Oh, I know…” Moving slowly to play along with the threatening squirt gun, Helena hooked her slender fingers in Myka’s waistband. With a purely exhilarated smile on her face, her thumbs found Myka’s belt buckle.
She worked slow, giving Myka so much time to protest, but Myka was frozen. Her jaw worked silently as Helena extracted a length of belt leather from its loop. With it undone, Myka suddenly felt weaker, the kind of feeling she would rebel against if it were anyone but Helena doing it to her.
“You know, it’s funny.” Helena’s voice was going low but not losing any of its thrilling edge—something cool and intimate in the way her lips softly parted at each word. “I can remember almost all of my time in your lovely century, but I can’t seem to recall ever making love to you. Refresh my memory.”
Myka found her voice. “How?”
As carefully as if she were disarming a bomb, Helena eased Myka’s belt free of its prong. Now there was nothing to stop her from simply pulling it loose, which she did—slowly, always slowly. “Soon… very soon now… I’m going to kiss you. Kiss me back.”
Myka’s belt was all the way free. Helena dropped it to the ground. She got down on her knees, her insouciant look up at Myka showing she knew exactly what thought had sprung to mind.
“Before we tan, we can wear ourselves out,” Helena suggested. She popped the button on Myka’s fly. Toyed with the zipper. Just the proximity of those clever, perfect hands to Myka’s sex was like a shot of electricity, running through her. But all Helena would do was fist her hands in Myka’s waistband. She pulled and tugged, eyes devouring every slope of Myka’s hips. “Then we can lie down together and let the sun take care of us.” Every inch of Myka’s thighs. “No cuddling, I’m afraid, but no tanlines either.” And the tiny butterfly tattoo on Myka’s muscular calf.
And seeing Helena so happy, so utterly in her element, Myka couldn’t help but contrast her with the H.G. Wells that had dominated her dreams—nightmares, really—for so long. The wounded, tortured woman who had needed the kind of love Myka had so wanted to offer. Neither of them had been brave enough to let someone else into their hearts, and yet now… it was like a second chance for Myka. A second chance for both of them.
“Helena.” Myka swallowed, her voice serious, and it gave even this new, painless Helena pause. “Do you want this?”
“I want you,” H.G. replied, running her hand over Myka’s leg, feeling the sun that was already warming it. “This is just a bonus. I’ll take your friendship, Myka. Your companionship, the smallest… iota of your affection. But I want all of you. I’m greedy that way.”
Myka reached down. Touching Helena’s face. The last time she had had been in Egypt, wiping the tears away after that cruel trap of the Regents had made her relive the loss of her daughter. Now she could feel H.G.’s smile. Her love.
“Take me then.”
***
Myka wasn’t sure how she was standing. Not when Helena had gotten down on all fours, a wicked expression on her face, and stooped like a dog to kiss the tattoo on Myka’s ankle. Sam had never done that. And Myka quickly realized she would have to stop comparing them, because Sam—sweet, caring Sam—would never measure up. He was pleasant, but H.G. was sex personified.
“See how sorry I am?” Helena asked sardonically, kissing Myka’s foot again. “Do you forgive me for my hostage-taking?”
“Kiss my ass,” Myka retorted.
Helena kissed Myka’s shin instead, fingers feeling at the soccer player muscle rippling through Myka’s leg. “In time.”
She moved upward, and standing did become impossible. As Helena twisted around her to lick the back of Myka’s knee—how the hell did she know that was an erogenous zone?—Myka lost her balance and fell over, right into one of the chaise lounges.
H.G. giggled at her misfortune, of course. “Hurt, dear?”
“Only my pride.”
“Well, I can’t exactly kiss that and make it better. Everything else, though…” Helena’s grin only become more wicked as she hooked her fingers in the waistband of Myka’s panties. The gleam in her eye only became more smug when Myka didn’t stop her.
Myka shivered as her panties slowly traveled down her long legs, Helena drawing it out. The fact that Myka spent so long, exposed to H.G., with the other woman making not one move to touch her, made her feel achingly vulnerable. And yet, not afraid. As exposed and defenseless and naked as she was, somehow the presence of Helena made her feel as covered as a woman in a burka. It was intimate, Myka decided. It’d been so long, she’d forgotten what that felt like.
When her panties slid over the ankle tattoo, Myka obligingly raised her feet to let Helena toss the useless fabric away. “Now then,” Helena said, casually mounting Myka, not expending the smallest fraction more than the necessary energy. She knew the only thing Myka would resist would be her stopping. “Where were we?”
“Who cares? I’m ready.”
“Not yet,” Helena chided, kissing Myka’s knee. And moving up her thigh, smelling Myka’s arousal but denying herself for now. “When you beg, then you’re ready.”
“Please,” Myka gritted out. If H.G. didn’t start soon, she was going to turn her chair into a very sexually frustrated Artifact.
“You call that begging?” Helena licked her way up Myka’s thigh, leaving her skin a parade of goosebumps. Myka actually spiked her hips, trying to force the lovely sensation down between her legs. With a churlish giggle, Helena held herself clear, then lowered that damnable mouth to Myka’s other leg. “What do you want, Myka?”
Myka dragged her lip through her teeth before answering. “Eat me out.” Helena was going to drag this out, she could just tell, so Myka reached down and grabbed a handful of H.G.’s hair. The Englishwoman looked properly amused by it. “Fuck me with your tongue,” Myka drawled, pulling Helena inexorably closer to the heat she needed to salve. “Take me like you promised.”
Helena resisted one last moment for the sake of coyness. “And that, Agent Bering, is how you beg.” She gave in. A moment later, so did Myka.
***
Myka looked down at the hand covering her breast. Helena’s long fingers were still damp and a little warm, although Myka wasn’t sure which of them was to blame for that. When Myka had been completely undone by Helena’s tongue, the only return she could manage was putting on a show for H.G. to enjoy. Next time, she swore, she’d be the one to make Helena beg.
“More?” Myka asked, when Helena’s hand stayed put, softly groping like her flesh was a toy.
“Darling. I am spectacular, but I do have my limits.”
“And yet, you still manage to get to second base.”
“As I said. I’m spectacular.” Helena scrunched closer, trying to get comfortable on the single chaise lounge they shared. Despite her earlier words, there had ended up being quite a lot of cuddling. Myka didn’t suggest they move to the blanket. She didn’t want to lose the way her nipple grated against Helena’s palm. “I can feel your heartbeat,” she confessed. “It was going so fast, a moment ago. And now it’s so soft. Steady.”
“It’s not that you’re not exciting, but I don’t think WW3 could get a raise out of me right now.”
“No, it’s nice. So many of my lovers were just about… mutual thrills. It’s good to have a companion whom I come as a comfort to. Who isn’t threatened by me. I charmed men and women alike, but they all saw me as a predator. And being willingly devoured isn’t the same as living in harmony.”
“If you’re going to compare us to a lion and a lamb lying down together, I should tell you that Twilight ruined that for everyone.”
“You’re far too pretty to be a lamb.”
“You’re definitely a lioness.”
H.G. smiled. “I know.”
Myka laid back and watched the sun set. It’d been midday when Helena had taken her hostage. Her report would be due by now. She couldn’t bring herself to care.
The Regents’ trap in Egypt had been depressingly accurate. All she’d really wanted was a place to belong. But as much as she loved working at the Warehouse, it was just a job. Helena was someone she could belong to. If the trap could give her her deepest fantasy now, she knew it’d be just this.
And as the sun died, Helena put her head down on Myka’s other breast, greedy as she’d always claimed, trying to take in as much of her lover as she could before the sun was gone and it was too cold, even for their shared body warmth. With as much attention to detail as she’d used on any of her book, any of the wondrous inventions she’d described, she committed to memory each and every all-important facet of Myka’s being for the interminable wait until next time.
The girlish curl of her hair.
The peaceful way her eyes closed in languor, not troubled by a thing in the world, a condition Helena took immeasurable pride in.
And the locket around her neck, displaced by their lovemaking, now coiled by her collarbone, its gold chain in a knot.
Suddenly, H.G. felt a fierce twinge in her mind. It was like she’d had an idea for a story, but this one was so urgent, so impossibly important—the kind of feeling she’d imagine a prophet would have before jotting down the Book of Isaiah or some such. Her world contracted to the contents of that locket, and with a tremble in her hands, fingers light as a feather, she opened it.
Myka’s head jerked up. The motion should have jolted the locket out of Helena’s hands, but H.G.’s grip was so tight that instead the chain cut across Myka’s throat, making her gasp. Helena didn’t even realize the pain she’d caused, and that, more than anything, made Myka panic.
“Whose child is this?” Helena asked, her voice both quivering and strong, as she turned Christina’s picture to face Myka. A weapon.
Fandom: Warehouse 13
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,448
Characters/Pairings: Myka/HG
Previous: Part 1
Next: Part 3
Summary: Of course, no deception lasts forever.
“You’re being kidnapped,” Helena said, leveling the gun squarely at Myka’s head. “Come quietly or I’ll destroy that which is most precious to you.”
“I guess you’ll just have to do what you’ll have to do,” Myka replied evenly.
“Very well then.” Helena pointed the gun at the report Myka was writing up and pulled the trigger. With oodles of pressure behind it, a spray of liquid hit the papers, knocking them off Myka’s desk with a squawk from the agent herself. “Now, will you do as you’re told and be a good little hostage or shall I waste more of this stellar vodka?”
“You’re crazy!” Myka yelped, frantically trying to find a way to dry off her paper. She had just thought up a good explanation for why Pete had ended up dangling fifty stories up, dressed like Betty Boop and singing It’s A Small World After All.
“Wonderfully so,” Helena retorted. “Your final warning…” she threatened, aiming at Myka’s computer.
Myka held up her hands in surrender.
***
At gunpoint, Myka drove Helena to a nearby apple grove. She knew she just should’ve gone along with her friend in the first place; it wasn’t like Mrs. Fredric really needed an explanation for Pete’s antics at this point. But something about the sight of Helena with a gun—and now, Helena cheerfully doing vodka “shots” from the barrel of the squirt gun—put her on edge. She knew it wasn’t H.G.’s fault, but she’d been homicidal, suicidal, and now it was like she was making light of her old ways.
“Stop here,” Helena said, indicating an empty speed trap behind a billboard. With a quick U-turn, they were out of sight from the highway. “There are two kinds of people in the world, Agent Bering. Those who carry bags and those who have guns.” Helena reached into the back, found a beach bag, and tossed it into Myka’s lap. “Giddyup, pack mule.”
With Helena occasionally prodding her in the back with the squirt gun—an act that was getting really old—Myka was led to a laid-out picnic blanket, complete with two chaise lounges. “Set it down between them,” Helena ordered, undoing the zipper on her trenchcoat. It had looked far too hot for the summer sun, but now Myka understood why H.G. hadn’t been sweating. She wore next to nothing underneath.
Fetching a pair of sunglasses from the bag, Helena slipped them on and perched herself in the right chaise lounge. “Sit down, darling. Let’s give Stockholm Syndrome a chance to work its magic.”
“You brought me all the way out here to tan?”
“I saw your stomach the other day, while we were stretching our legs at that rest stop. You looked frightfully pale. We should fix that. Now, do you want to apply the suntan lotion or should I?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“There’s a stereo in the bag as well. Please, dock your iPod in it. We can listen to some of your jams. And a bikini as well, if you don’t want to tan in your underthings. I promise I won’t look.” Helena lowered her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. “Not that you’d be able to tell.”
“And what’s to stop me from going back to the car and driving off, leaving you stranded, alone, in a bikini?”
“Your clothes need time to dry.” That said, Helena opened fire, thoroughly soaking Myka’s good pantsuit.
“This is so immature! You are acting like Pete! Quit it!” Myka cried, dancing around to avoid her fire.
“The sooner you undress, the dryer you’ll be!” Helena cackled.
“That’s it!” Myka tore off her suit jacket, flinging it to the ground. Helena blew imaginary smoke from her squirt gun. Then she froze, lips still pursed, as Myka ripped open her buttondown. Underneath, her white tanktop had started to soak through. Before Helena could commit that to memory, Myka had pulled her tanktop over her head—and thrown it at Helena. The wet cloth knocked the squirt gun from Helena’s hand and Myka scrambled to recover it, bringing it up to Helena’s forehead before H.G. could so much as fix her skewed sunglasses.
“Shoe’s on the other foot now,” Myka chided.
“Yes. But how are you going to finish undressing with a gun in your hand? Oh, I know…” Moving slowly to play along with the threatening squirt gun, Helena hooked her slender fingers in Myka’s waistband. With a purely exhilarated smile on her face, her thumbs found Myka’s belt buckle.
She worked slow, giving Myka so much time to protest, but Myka was frozen. Her jaw worked silently as Helena extracted a length of belt leather from its loop. With it undone, Myka suddenly felt weaker, the kind of feeling she would rebel against if it were anyone but Helena doing it to her.
“You know, it’s funny.” Helena’s voice was going low but not losing any of its thrilling edge—something cool and intimate in the way her lips softly parted at each word. “I can remember almost all of my time in your lovely century, but I can’t seem to recall ever making love to you. Refresh my memory.”
Myka found her voice. “How?”
As carefully as if she were disarming a bomb, Helena eased Myka’s belt free of its prong. Now there was nothing to stop her from simply pulling it loose, which she did—slowly, always slowly. “Soon… very soon now… I’m going to kiss you. Kiss me back.”
Myka’s belt was all the way free. Helena dropped it to the ground. She got down on her knees, her insouciant look up at Myka showing she knew exactly what thought had sprung to mind.
“Before we tan, we can wear ourselves out,” Helena suggested. She popped the button on Myka’s fly. Toyed with the zipper. Just the proximity of those clever, perfect hands to Myka’s sex was like a shot of electricity, running through her. But all Helena would do was fist her hands in Myka’s waistband. She pulled and tugged, eyes devouring every slope of Myka’s hips. “Then we can lie down together and let the sun take care of us.” Every inch of Myka’s thighs. “No cuddling, I’m afraid, but no tanlines either.” And the tiny butterfly tattoo on Myka’s muscular calf.
And seeing Helena so happy, so utterly in her element, Myka couldn’t help but contrast her with the H.G. Wells that had dominated her dreams—nightmares, really—for so long. The wounded, tortured woman who had needed the kind of love Myka had so wanted to offer. Neither of them had been brave enough to let someone else into their hearts, and yet now… it was like a second chance for Myka. A second chance for both of them.
“Helena.” Myka swallowed, her voice serious, and it gave even this new, painless Helena pause. “Do you want this?”
“I want you,” H.G. replied, running her hand over Myka’s leg, feeling the sun that was already warming it. “This is just a bonus. I’ll take your friendship, Myka. Your companionship, the smallest… iota of your affection. But I want all of you. I’m greedy that way.”
Myka reached down. Touching Helena’s face. The last time she had had been in Egypt, wiping the tears away after that cruel trap of the Regents had made her relive the loss of her daughter. Now she could feel H.G.’s smile. Her love.
“Take me then.”
***
Myka wasn’t sure how she was standing. Not when Helena had gotten down on all fours, a wicked expression on her face, and stooped like a dog to kiss the tattoo on Myka’s ankle. Sam had never done that. And Myka quickly realized she would have to stop comparing them, because Sam—sweet, caring Sam—would never measure up. He was pleasant, but H.G. was sex personified.
“See how sorry I am?” Helena asked sardonically, kissing Myka’s foot again. “Do you forgive me for my hostage-taking?”
“Kiss my ass,” Myka retorted.
Helena kissed Myka’s shin instead, fingers feeling at the soccer player muscle rippling through Myka’s leg. “In time.”
She moved upward, and standing did become impossible. As Helena twisted around her to lick the back of Myka’s knee—how the hell did she know that was an erogenous zone?—Myka lost her balance and fell over, right into one of the chaise lounges.
H.G. giggled at her misfortune, of course. “Hurt, dear?”
“Only my pride.”
“Well, I can’t exactly kiss that and make it better. Everything else, though…” Helena’s grin only become more wicked as she hooked her fingers in the waistband of Myka’s panties. The gleam in her eye only became more smug when Myka didn’t stop her.
Myka shivered as her panties slowly traveled down her long legs, Helena drawing it out. The fact that Myka spent so long, exposed to H.G., with the other woman making not one move to touch her, made her feel achingly vulnerable. And yet, not afraid. As exposed and defenseless and naked as she was, somehow the presence of Helena made her feel as covered as a woman in a burka. It was intimate, Myka decided. It’d been so long, she’d forgotten what that felt like.
When her panties slid over the ankle tattoo, Myka obligingly raised her feet to let Helena toss the useless fabric away. “Now then,” Helena said, casually mounting Myka, not expending the smallest fraction more than the necessary energy. She knew the only thing Myka would resist would be her stopping. “Where were we?”
“Who cares? I’m ready.”
“Not yet,” Helena chided, kissing Myka’s knee. And moving up her thigh, smelling Myka’s arousal but denying herself for now. “When you beg, then you’re ready.”
“Please,” Myka gritted out. If H.G. didn’t start soon, she was going to turn her chair into a very sexually frustrated Artifact.
“You call that begging?” Helena licked her way up Myka’s thigh, leaving her skin a parade of goosebumps. Myka actually spiked her hips, trying to force the lovely sensation down between her legs. With a churlish giggle, Helena held herself clear, then lowered that damnable mouth to Myka’s other leg. “What do you want, Myka?”
Myka dragged her lip through her teeth before answering. “Eat me out.” Helena was going to drag this out, she could just tell, so Myka reached down and grabbed a handful of H.G.’s hair. The Englishwoman looked properly amused by it. “Fuck me with your tongue,” Myka drawled, pulling Helena inexorably closer to the heat she needed to salve. “Take me like you promised.”
Helena resisted one last moment for the sake of coyness. “And that, Agent Bering, is how you beg.” She gave in. A moment later, so did Myka.
***
Myka looked down at the hand covering her breast. Helena’s long fingers were still damp and a little warm, although Myka wasn’t sure which of them was to blame for that. When Myka had been completely undone by Helena’s tongue, the only return she could manage was putting on a show for H.G. to enjoy. Next time, she swore, she’d be the one to make Helena beg.
“More?” Myka asked, when Helena’s hand stayed put, softly groping like her flesh was a toy.
“Darling. I am spectacular, but I do have my limits.”
“And yet, you still manage to get to second base.”
“As I said. I’m spectacular.” Helena scrunched closer, trying to get comfortable on the single chaise lounge they shared. Despite her earlier words, there had ended up being quite a lot of cuddling. Myka didn’t suggest they move to the blanket. She didn’t want to lose the way her nipple grated against Helena’s palm. “I can feel your heartbeat,” she confessed. “It was going so fast, a moment ago. And now it’s so soft. Steady.”
“It’s not that you’re not exciting, but I don’t think WW3 could get a raise out of me right now.”
“No, it’s nice. So many of my lovers were just about… mutual thrills. It’s good to have a companion whom I come as a comfort to. Who isn’t threatened by me. I charmed men and women alike, but they all saw me as a predator. And being willingly devoured isn’t the same as living in harmony.”
“If you’re going to compare us to a lion and a lamb lying down together, I should tell you that Twilight ruined that for everyone.”
“You’re far too pretty to be a lamb.”
“You’re definitely a lioness.”
H.G. smiled. “I know.”
Myka laid back and watched the sun set. It’d been midday when Helena had taken her hostage. Her report would be due by now. She couldn’t bring herself to care.
The Regents’ trap in Egypt had been depressingly accurate. All she’d really wanted was a place to belong. But as much as she loved working at the Warehouse, it was just a job. Helena was someone she could belong to. If the trap could give her her deepest fantasy now, she knew it’d be just this.
And as the sun died, Helena put her head down on Myka’s other breast, greedy as she’d always claimed, trying to take in as much of her lover as she could before the sun was gone and it was too cold, even for their shared body warmth. With as much attention to detail as she’d used on any of her book, any of the wondrous inventions she’d described, she committed to memory each and every all-important facet of Myka’s being for the interminable wait until next time.
The girlish curl of her hair.
The peaceful way her eyes closed in languor, not troubled by a thing in the world, a condition Helena took immeasurable pride in.
And the locket around her neck, displaced by their lovemaking, now coiled by her collarbone, its gold chain in a knot.
Suddenly, H.G. felt a fierce twinge in her mind. It was like she’d had an idea for a story, but this one was so urgent, so impossibly important—the kind of feeling she’d imagine a prophet would have before jotting down the Book of Isaiah or some such. Her world contracted to the contents of that locket, and with a tremble in her hands, fingers light as a feather, she opened it.
Myka’s head jerked up. The motion should have jolted the locket out of Helena’s hands, but H.G.’s grip was so tight that instead the chain cut across Myka’s throat, making her gasp. Helena didn’t even realize the pain she’d caused, and that, more than anything, made Myka panic.
“Whose child is this?” Helena asked, her voice both quivering and strong, as she turned Christina’s picture to face Myka. A weapon.
