This is Jezebel in Hell

Tunguska, Soviet Union (USSR), January 1961

Somewhere, the Soviet's told themselves, her plans went very much awry. The wooden beam that must have broken off during the explosion lodged itself in her chest, piercing the skin just under the shoulder blade and coming out the other side. "Принесите её." Bring her. Boomed out KGB Field Commander Anatolyl Brezhnev, the burly Russian, before taking a swing from his leather flask with a hammer and sickle emblazoned in the center. Wisps of smoke puffed out of his mouth into the brutally cold air. "Perhaps we could stuff her, ah?" He laughed then, his yellow teeth, rotten by drinking poorly distilled vodka, protruded out in many directions thanks to his favorite past time- boxing. The laughter that rolled off his tongue was slow and sounded demented somehow, not like any sound anyone should have to hear. It sounded like a choking seal: arf, arf, arf, orf. "Perhaps we can use her to send a message to her comrades." Nudging the body with his foot he admired her beauty as a lion admires the warm, oozing entrails of the deer it slaughters. Her face was a death mask, smooth and yet wild against the snow that she was starting to sink into. The snow would outline the death of a foreign operative like crime scene tape. However, the evidence of her existence would be erased by the cold powdery stuff that complimented the deathly pallor on her marble-like face. There was something hideous in her beauty. So ugly as if to mesmerize. Like a burn victim that you couldn't take your eyes off of or the decapitated car accident victim. Yet, there was nothing so horrid there to warrant the comparison. Still, as young Lt. Vasili's eyes darted nervously to and from her face, he decided that she was the most monstrous, beautiful woman he had ever seen. He just didn't quite understand why.

( But she and the snow had something in common, they were both cold and heartless. )

Chambord Anjou, France, 2000

Rien de sert de courrir, il faut partir à point
It is not worth running, one should leave at the right moment

The delicious notes of the piano are well behaved in their soulful and decidedly distinguished legato. They drowned out the throbbing notes of the dance music shaking the foundations of Château Challain. Our dear Catherine twirls with the notes, spinning 'round and 'round until the room swirls around her as she laughs with mirth, eyes opened in thin slits to watch the chandelier sparkle above her like a thousand stars bursting in crystalline glory. Her arms gracefully stretch above her head, hands reaching for something that she could only see in her minds eye.

Zamor laughs and hoots out in glee, slapping his black damask dressed knee as he watches his mistress in her divine reverie of herself. The dark blue gown looked like a sky of angry clouds wrapping itself around her waist in billows of night. Satin--colored like dusk chewing on the edge of a countryside mountain--spilled down every curve of the bodice like water, until it flowed like a gushing angry river out in every direction at her waist. Jagged pieces of fabric poked out from her neckline and petticoat, like shards of glass from a broken window, while silver frosted the hem of her gown in iciclic swirls. "Winter is hot again!" Chuckles Zamor, his French perpetually stained by an Bengali accent. Glittering blue Sapphires dripped off her neck--an unforgiving choker, given to her by her Sire at a time when her heart still beat with adoration when he entered the room. Things change. Not everything. Most things.

"Allez! Go! Go! Devious enchantress! My grand addiction, you will be late!" Zamour's eyes grew wide like tea plates as he spied the time. "You have but only eight minutes!" Catherine's laugh caressed the air, her dangerous heels barely touching the floor as she floated an inch off the ground. "Do not worry yourself, mon petite chou, that is plenty enough time to destroy heaven!" Still, as her feet touched the ground, she gathered the front folds of her dress in her hand and dashed out of the room, throwing open the french doors that were gilded with gold ornamentation around their borders and the colour of coffee cream.

I must not be late. He would not be pleased. Tick, tock, tick tock. Zut! Her dark blue-black tresses, half held up by a long transparent blue crystal pin, bounced against her shoulders as she ran down a set of marble stairs and up another. The eyes in the portrait paintings along the candle lit corridor followed her as she ran with a smile flourishing on her face. Less then five minutes to midnight. The ballroom doors seemed to recede further with each step she took. Plenty of time. After all, she had this down to the second. Perhaps. Pale filigree-like fingers pushed against the tall doors to the ballroom. ( Witness the lie... )