Don't Call Me Kitten! Read online

  He started projecting to her on a regular basis. First only as reflections in the mirror but later flying over her city. The city itself amazed him. Some parts seemed grey and bleak. In winter it was liberally dusted in white as snow covered the ground and the inhabitants wrapped themselves in hats and coats of thick fur to survive the outside temperatures. Yet parts of it also looked like they were straight out of some child’s fantasy. Great buildings with multicolored onion shaped roofs gave the city its own unique flavor.

  As he watched the girl grow into womanhood he felt his bond with her grow. She was becoming a kind of obsession although he didn’t see himself as a stalker. More as her protector. Even though she didn’t seem to be the type that would need or welcome much protection. She was developing into a resilient and capable young woman.

  He wanted badly to communicate with her but all he’d manage to do so far was project a few images to her. Her rigidly schooled scientific mind seemed impervious to anything more like a telepathic verbal exchange. Yet he admired her intelligence and he was there, high in sky, on the day she graduated.

  Helena stood before her mirror, brushing her hair moderately long blond hair and contemplating her destiny. There was no avoiding the fact that Eduard Petrov would want his due. Six years ago he had kindly but firmly pointed out that the rouble had just crashed. So many changes had been going on in Russia at the time. The wall had come down only a few years ago, Yeltsin was in power but another ominously waited in the wings. What her mother had paid the Mafia to dispose of her husband and look after her girls if the beast killed her before they they killed him hadn’t been nearly enough. Helena and Anya had inherited the house but they still had to live. With no breadwinner and schooling expenses for both of them she’d had no choice to put herself at Petrov’s mercy. He already effectively owned them. Given her miniscule options at the time she should be grateful he’d waited before starting to collect on the debt. He could have forced both of them into prostitution or the slave market there and then. Plenty of wealthy businessmen liked a pretty blond and few had scruples when it came to age, some even preferred their “possessions” young. Her mouth went dry when she thought of what could easily have been. Despite his ruthless reputation Petrov had been magnanimous enough to let her continue her schooling and let her care for Anya. He’d used his influence with the authorities to ensure she’d gained full custodianship of her sister which was vastly better than having Anya carted off to one of Russia’s infamous orphanages, or worse. One of Petrov’s men dropped by each week to give them just enough cash to live on. Petrov looked after the bills himself. His henchmen passed by the house most nights, letting it be known that the house and its occupants were under the Mafia’s protection. But all that came at a cost and now it was time to pay up. She had no doubt what form that payment would take. Petrov had made little secret of it over the years. Her and her sister could have their lives, even follow their careers to an extent, but he owned them. Once they finished their schooling they would work for him each and every weekend, in his brothels, clubs or wherever he saw fit.

  As she peered thoughtfully at her reflection in the mirror she knew what men would see in her. A tall platinum blonde with high cheek bones and piercing corn flower blue eyes. Eyes that had belonged to some long forgotten Viking ancestor no doubt. The northmen were known to have used the inland river systems a thousand years ago, raiding deep into Russian territory, eventually setting up trade routes. Her height deterred some men but not enough. Her weekly allowance hadn’t been enough to put weight on, not that her metabolism would have allowed it anyway. Working out with her friend Levi and running, as she loved to do, she had failed to bulk out. The irony was that most women would be glad of what she saw staring back at her in the mirror, the spitting image of some ancient warrior queen. If she’d been born into a different life, in a different place, she might have made it as a screen star but at this moment all that beauty spelled her doom. Or at least a certain amount of deflowering. Ugh! She’d sworn on her father’s grave never to let a man dominate her as he had her mother. The thought of selling her body, necessary as it was to her and her sister’s continued existence, was repellent to her. Giving herself to any man was on the absolute bottom of her personal bucket list. Was there no way she could avoid becoming a saleable commodity?

  A faint bird call caught her attention, she looked around but realised it was coming from the mirror. Her phantom friend was back. She’d never told anyone, not even her sister, of this oddity in her life. A logical, skeptical science student who sees birds in mirrors. Yeah, right! They’d have carted her away for sure and then where would her sister be. She’d first seen the bird the night her parents had died. It had come to her many times since. In every other way she thought of herself as sane. She had no way of explaining what she saw. Yet the bird had come to be a kind of friend. She wasn’t even a hundred percent sure what species it was. Studying what she could find in quiet moments at the uni library she’d decided it was some kind of vulture. Some would say it was an omen of death but she wasn’t superstitious and anyway it had appeared at times when nothing dramatic was happening in her life.

  “Hello old friend. What do you think?”

  The bird’s now familiar cry was at best uninformative. She couldn't very well be blamed for not speaking bird. But the sudden image that flashed through her mind was an answer. Was the thought from the bird. Nah! Couldn’t be. She laughed at herself for even thinking it however briefly. Instead she steeled herself and went to the kitchen for a knife and some salt. The idea had merit.

  Rattling around in the cupboards attracted her inquisitive sister’s attention.

  “What you up to?”

  Helena didn’t want her sister getting in the way of what she was about to do. “Go back to your homework sis. I’m just getting ready for my meeting with Petrov.” She hurried back to her room before she got caught up in a discussion she didn’t want. She didn’t want to frighten her sister. Time enough for tears later.

  Once again in front of her mirror she raised the knife to her cheekbone. You know why you must do this Helena. Do it! She ordered herself. She took a deep breath, then quickly made a slash across her cheek. Fuck it hurt but it wasn’t deep enough. Raising the knife to the cut she started to run it back along the cut.

  Anya appeared at their bedroom doorway. “What the hell are you doing.” The frantic voice of her sister pulled her away from her task.

  “I’m saving myself Anya. This is my choice. I’m taking what little control I have over my future, a future that does not include me becoming some damned whore. Now pass me that salt.”

  Tears streamed down Anya’s shocked face as she took in what her sister had just done. “But...the salt will make it scar worse.”

  “Exactly.”

  Eduard Petrov took one look at Helena, at the red raw slashed that now marred her face, then turned to his second in command. “Shoot her Sergei, she’s of no further use to us. Maybe her sister will make us more on the slave market.”

  Helena screamed inside herself. My god what have I done. Frantically she cased the room with her eyes looking for a way out of this debacle she’d brought on herself. All because she’d been too proud to submit to what the fates had decreed.

  Sergei took his gun from his holster, shaking his head sadly. “Sorry Kitten.”

  But as he took aim Helena snapped her body to the side, taking hold of Sergei’s arm with one hand she used her other to knock the gun away from her, forcing it back on itself, efficiently breaking his trigger finger in the process. She easily took the gun from his busted hand and while he was still stunned by the pain she used the hand she still had on his arm to pull him forward and down towards the floor, using her weight to aid momentum. She kneed him in the kidneys, using her body mass to hold him to the floor, before turning the gun back on Petrov. “I am more valuable to you alive Mr Petrov. I’m worth more to you as muscle than I ever would have been as a whore. Just keep your han
ds off my sister.”

  “Well well! And where did you learn that little maneuver? Not in genetics class I’ll wager.” He walked calmly towards her until he was almost within touching distance. “Now either shoot me or give me the gun and we’ll talk.”

  Helena thought giving him the gun might be the stupidest thing she’d ever done but at this point her options were limited. She either trusted him or became a murderer, with the whole of the Russian Mafia after her for ever more. She handed him the gun.

  He took it and emptied the chamber of six bullets. They were odd shaped bullets to Helena’s eyes.

  Petrov answered her unspoken question. “This is a double action Nagant M1895 Revolver. It takes seven proprietary rimmed cartridges, 7.62 calibre. It’s been around a long time and as you can see it is still in use. Now I’ve left one bullet in there.” He casually turned the chamber a few times then cocked it. Then handed the gun back to her. “Lets have a game you and I. If you are brave enough to play and fortunate enough to live then we’ll talk. You have my word that if this shot kills me Sergei will release you and your sister from all your debts and no harm will come to you. Right Sergei?”

  A grunt from the man on the floor beneath her well aimed knee was barely discernible as a “Yes.”

  “I have no use for someone who isn’t prepared to pull a trigger so you’d better pull it now before I change my mind, call my other guards, have you fucked then dumped in the river to rot in the bottom sludge with your father. I know a cartel who’d happily break your sister, making her their depraved little whore. You wouldn’t like that would you Kotitsya?”

  Fuck. She might have been a closet atheist but at that moment she prayed like crazy that if there really was a god she or he would forgive her. She pulled the trigger but nothing happened. Before she had time to think about it Petrov had wrenched the gun from her hand and was turning the chamber again.

  He gave the chamber a few turns. “Now my turn.” He held the gun to her head. “What do you feel now Helena? All consuming fear? Are you pissing in your pants?”

  But Helena was remembering what Levi had told her about fear. Fear is always in the future. At this moment she was alive. The next she might be dead but she wouldn’t know about it then. Instead she returned Petrov’s steady stare and held her calm. He pulled the trigger.

  Petrov continued to stare at her. “Impressive.”

  Game over, whatever game he had been playing Helena wasn’t sure. Maybe the man go his jollies from facing death, but he was getting up now and returning to his desk as if nothing of import had happened.

  “You might let poor Sergei up. Although I’m sure he’s getting a hard on from you holding him down like that. He’s a masochist and likes to be dominated.”

  “Ugh!” Helena spat her disgust and got up from the guard, watching him warily, sure that he’d take his revenge.

  Sergei struggled to his feet, cradling his gun hand. Ashen faced but with a tented fly he returned to his post by the door, staring at Helena like he’d just fallen in love.

  Helena swallowed the bile that rose in her throat.

  Back behind his desk Petrov was obviously amused by the look of horror on her face. An evil smile etched his face. He leaned forward ever so slightly, one elbow on the desk, resting his chin in his hand. “Now tell me. Where did you learn to be such an Amazon?”

  Helena straightened herself, this discussion was better had standing up. Her above average height, at times, gave her a measure of confidence and she needed that in spadefuls right at the moment. “A friend in class, an Israeli, he’s since gone back to his country.” She hoped she carried the lie. She didn’t want the Mafia turning up on Levi’s doorstep. “It’s called Krav Maga. He used to teach me in the University gym in our longer lunch breaks.”

  Petrov smirked knowingly “He was your boyfriend.”

  Helena laughed. “I have no interest in getting shackled to some man. Even if we’d both wanted more than our friendship offered we couldn’t have gotten involved like that. He was full blood Ashkenazi, his family would never have allowed it.” She carefully avoided using his name and kept her references in the past tense. Petrov didn’t need to know that Levi was still teaching her, at least until he really did go back to Israel next month now that he’d finished his scholarship. It had only been his close family ties that had drawn him to study in Russia in the first place, despite the ever present hatred his people faced from the general population who saw them as Zionists. The more extreme parts of the popular media painted them as crazed fascists bent on sucking the monetary lifeblood out of the country. They were a convenient scapegoat, distracting the masses from the opportunists, bankers and global cartels who were the ones really milking the economy. If the fear of fascists didn’t whip the public into a frenzy then the media shifted their focus to other minority groups; homosexuals, Muslims, Catholics, atheists...whatever worked on the day. It was fear of hate crimes that had led to the development of Levi’s martial art. The brainchild of a Slovakian-Israeli martial artist, Imi Lichtenfeld, in the 1930s, it had quickly become a way to protect his people, ironically from the very fascists they were accused of being. Based on the most effective techniques from the Eastern martial arts and combined with practical street survival skills it was even now used by many of the world’s elite military forces.

  If Petrov was disgusted by who she associated with he didn’t show it. He merely looked thoughtful. “So, what do you propose Helena, being my very personal body guard. I might like that?”

  Helena, couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the not so subtle sexual invitation. Self-preservation should have schooled her facial expressions better but she’d never been very good at that.”

  Petrov frowned. “No? I’m wounded Helena. Of course I could force you but I’ve always preferred my women to come to me willingly.”

  About an hour later Helena left Petrov’s office, exhausted from both the adrenalin overload and the delicate tightrope of a negotiation that had followed. A run would help to calm her nerves before returning home to break all the news to Anya. She stretched the run out for a couple of miles before heading towards Sokolniki park where her attention was suddenly drawn to an ancient birch tree and a patch of dry ground beneath it. Just out of sight of the evening joggers pounding Sokolniki’s complex network of alley ways but not in the danger zone where muggers might prowl she could take a moment to digest the evening’s events. She was alive. Sighing she let the relief wash through her.

  She could now look to some future, working weekdays as a geneticist. She’d accept the research post the university had offered her. Friday and Saturday nights she’d work variously as a bouncer, barman and something Petrov had called a dungeon monitor at one of his sex clubs. She wouldn’t be required to prostitute herself. Instead she would be there to protect his assets, the girls who worked at a club called the Red Thorn. She would also be his eyes and ears. Each Sunday morning she would report to him, disclosing any useful gossip, overheard conversations that might give Petrov power over some of the club’s more influential clients. When he needed she’d also work behind the scenes at Mafia run events, essentially in the same capacity. In essence she was his spy. To pay off the bulk of her debt she’d had to sign over the deed to the house to Petrov but he would let her live there for a modest rent. She and her sister would be protected. They were still assets, however minor, in Petrov’s vast empire and Petrov protected his assets.

  Anya could continue her schooling and Petrov would give her two years after she finished her degree to ‘have a life’. Helena had had to argue hard to get that little bonus. After that time Petrov would sell her sister as a Russian mail order bride but she would get some say in the country she went to and a choice of who she agreed to marry. If she refused to marry anyone then she’d have to become a part-time prostitute for Petrov. It wasn’t much of a reprieve but it was something. If her sister agreed to the mail-order bride option at least it would get her out of the country, maybe
to somewhere she could find a better future. Helena didn’t like the thought of losing her sister but it was better than seeing her simply disappear one night, lost forever in the modern day sex slave market that few acknowledged as existing.

  One last thing Petrov had stipulated. If Anya marred her beauty as Helena had done they would both pay with their lives. Helena gently stroked the drying scar. She would carry it with her for the rest of her life but she would wear it with pride. Her life might not be perfect but she had in a way shaped it and that at least gave her a small feeling of empowerment.

  Slowly relaxing as she let everything drift from her mind she became aware of a subtle warm throb emanating from the tree. It was just her imagination she knew but enjoying it she bonded with the sensation. She imagined the tree as a great being, protecting her back and lovingly folding it’s branches around her. In her mind’s eye she became part of a vastness that was just the tree and her. A great peace and silence seemed to sweep her away. Reluctantly she parted from the vision and opened her eyes to a stunning panorama. She was still in the park, still sitting against the great birch but in every other way things were very different. The scent of freshly mown grass near bowled her over. Little movements caught her attention, first a squirrel jumping branches in a nearby pine, then a weasel scurrying through the undergrowth. A vast array of birds and insects she had barely noticed before flitted amongst the brightly colored flower beds. And there was more. Each plant seemed to be overshadowed by a myriad of small beings dancing within a field of colored light that surrounded it like a protective layer. Larger winged beings flew alongside the birds, seemly blissful, lost in a trance as they swooped and somersaulted like dolphins playing in a great ocean. A brighter area of light coalesced before her, forming into a radiantly beautiful but somewhat androgynous looking being who was definitely not human. Human’s didn’t have translucent wings sprouting from their back and they certainly didn’t go around semi-naked like that, not in the middle of Moscow. Only one word could describe it, a word from tales she had read as a child, Feya.