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The voices faded as the slow ache of suffering returned. Where was Sokolov? She needed his guidance and instruction. She didn't want to endure these trials anymore.

When she came to, she was covered in a thin sheet. "Ah, good. You're awake," Sokolov said. Her stomach burned in a fiery rage, the constraints of time once again weighing down on her with the agony of limitations and fear until, in the end, she knew there would be no justice from this hell without him. She looked at him expectantly. He had helped her once. He would do it again. He undid the restraints around her feet, arms, and chest and lifted the sheet. She looked down. The outline of some type of crest or seal was cut into her skin. Its pattern was intricate and detailed. A wave of nausea hit her as the memory and sensations of the process came flooding back. She leaned over the table and threw up, the sound splattering across the cement floors. "You don't like our creation?" He picked a rag up off the table and dipped it into a bowl, running it over her stomach. It felt like pure hell, a thousand hornets stinging her all at one time. She curled in a ball on her side, trying to catch her breath. The ear-piercing scream that followed resonated off the whiskey casks, mixing with the angel's share until it too evaporated into silence.

"Welcome the pain, Lottie. Dive into it like you did before." He rubbed her back tenderly before dipping the cloth back in the bowl and pressing it against her stomach, holding it there. "Lemon juice," he explained. "It will help with the scarring. You don't want our creation to be for naught."

She shook violently, tears streaming down her face until the same feeling of calm took her in a rush.

"There you go," he said softly. "I can give and take away. Pain and pleasure, they're both the same. It's not so bad now."

"N-n-o."

"Remember you owe me. Imogen is safe again."

"Yes, w-whatever you want." She would give him anything as long as he safeguarded her from the pain.

"You'll take our picture back to your people and you'll give Sinclair this message. Are you listening?"

"They're not my people. I don't want to go back to him. I don't know where he is."

"You'll figure it out. You'll do it for me. For Imogen in the other room." He turned her face, looking into her eyes. "Tell him and his group if they want to save your friend, he'll meet me in five days with the print he owes me, and he will bring you, my little Lottie, so you can personally give it to me."

"Where?"

"He'll figure it out," he said, running his thumb under her eyes. "So unusual, rusalka." Then he put his mouth to her ear and whispered, "Don't cross me." His hand brushed over her stomach. "Or you'll only find pain." He rang the bell and the bald man came in. "Nicholai. Take our Lottie to the park and leave her there. They'll find her eventually. And don't soil her."

He helped her stand up. She tried to walk, but her legs gave out on her. Nicholai picked her up and carried her to the car, depositing her in the back seat. They didn't drive far before he opened the door and pulled her out. It was raining, and the night sky was black, the moon hidden by dark clouds. Thick drops fell, drenching her, and the ground squished beneath her. She tripped over her own feet, her legs shaking as he led her into a wooded area and unzipped his pants, pulling out his cock. She backed up, but her foot caught a branch and she fell backwards. "No," she begged.

He was on top of her, taking advantage of her position. Her stomach burned as thick fingers pulled at her thighs trying to separate her legs. "No." There was the sound of splintering wood and the man fell on top of her, crushing her with his weight as blood pooled from his temple. She waited for the nightmare to subside, trying to remember the words Sokolov said to her to bring her to safety, but it was too late. There was no end; he too had failed her.