Page 86 of Stripped

A hand came down on the back of her neck, squeezing either side painfully. "Don't ruin the surprise," Viktor hissed. "What you are about to witness is a mechanical ballet that spins the tragic story of the human spirit as it struggles against the ruthless circle of life and death. A story you know so well."

He pressed a button on a remote and the room filled with fog. She strained to hear the child's cry again, and whatever was about to happen waited silently. The room sat in stillness. It started with the electronic soundwaves of Shostakovich's Symphony no.5 hybridized by techno pop, creating a haunting, chaotic sound. Dim lights in red cast eerie shadows on the walls as the objects surrounding them began to move. Machines whirred into action. Pim's eyes opened wide. It was a clockwork of contraptions and automatons. Hundreds of carved figures, frightening birds, grotesque humans and terrifying creatures made up from pieces of scrap metal and wood, lurched to life, as the larger pieces they inhabited awoke from their demented hibernation. The lights began to strobe, flashing to the sound of the music and radiating off the machines, infringing with her thoughts. Countless tiny monsters turned cranks or rode gears, making up a maze of different creations, some standing over eight feet tall and each representing their own theme, spinning and clattering in its own predestined universe. She was rendered speechless, and it created the type of inconsistency of emotions that were not only jarring but nonsymmetrical, not unlike the white swan and black swan. It left her in a dreamlike state, where panic sat just below the surface, as she tried to reason with her own complexity of existence.

"It's beautiful. Isn't it?" Sokolov said.

It was enough to pull her to her senses. The music drowned out other sounds. If Hamish was in the room, she would never hear him. "Jesus Christ, what is this?" She stood up and walked around one of the machines. A spinning disc of artists sat on a spire, while underneath, a tiny skeleton rotated a wheel. And below that, in an enclosed area, a hideous metal creature turned another wheel with its left hand while operating a sewing machine that, in the end, pierced its right hand.

Sokolov came up behind her, brushing her hair off her shoulder. "Wheels of Life. The connection between inner workings and outward displays."

"I get the symbolism, but what is all of this?" She stood still, his touch unsettling. The flickering of the lights matched her rapidly increasing pulse, keeping beat together like a metronome.

"Sharmanka." He kissed her neck. "The genius of a fellow countryman."

She clutched her handbag tight, the feel of the gun a reassurance. "Sharmanka?" She kept her back to him, as she listened for any sound resembling a cry.

"Russian for hurdy-gurdy. A medieval hand cranked instrument reminiscent to your bagpipes because of the drone. The apparatuses are named after it." His arms went around her as he spoke into her ear, his fingers brushing the swell of her breast through her dress. Her nipples hardened in response. "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid."

"Don't lie to me. It's always been fear that motivates you." He pulled the strap off her shoulder, caressing her skin. "It's why you perform so well for me."

Her body flushed with heat. "You're wrong. Fear does not control me. I stopped being afraid a long time ago." The pictures of her father's dead body ran through her mind. "I stopped letting fear rule my life the day my father died."

"Ah, yes, fear of disappointing Daddy and now, fear of disappointing me. You can tell yourself all the lies you want, but it was fear that made you dance so well tonight." His hand ran down her hip and thigh, and finding the slit in the dress, he slid his hand down her panties.

"No, it's you who's wrong." She stepped away from him. "I decide my own fate."

He grabbed her hair. Wrapping his hand around it, he pulled her head back. "I've given you everything, you ungrateful little bitch. I've shown you how to achieve a level of artistry that only the most talented would dream of." He let go, pushing her away.

"Artistry?" she turned on him. "Look around. You've broken into this place and taken someone else's art, subverting it with your debased and perverted mind. You don't know what art is."

That earned her a slap across the face. She stood there as heat radiated through her cheek, the cacophony of the scene suddenly paralyzing. A tear made its way down her face, dripping onto her chest.

He was quick to compose himself. As he straightened his jacket, he adjusted the sleeves at each of his wrists and gently reached out, wiping her face. "That's my girl," he said, embracing her. He looked into her eyes then, ever so gently, put his mouth to hers as he kissed her. "Come. This isn't even the best part." He put his arm around her waist, guiding her through the metal labyrinth of human pain and suffering, disorientating and confusing as each one was acted out by their mechanical performers. He stopped by a large contraption in the corner covered in a white sheet, yet to come alive. "I made this one myself. I call it Death Dance." He pulled the cover off.

Pim covered her scream with her hand. Hamish sat blindfolded and gagged in a cage, whimpering behind the cloth restraint. Sokolov pressed the remote and the machine screeched and rumbled. A wooden figure wearing a plague mask turned a crank, making the cage slowly spin. There were four other mechanical creatures, all wearing the same long-nosed, beak-like mask. Three surrounded the cage, awaiting their time to rotate a gear. The last one sat atop the cage with a sword pointed down through a hole. "Now, we decide."

"Stop. Let him go. You have me, just let him go."

"Wrong." He pressed another button and the second creature came to life, turning its handle. The cage began to spin faster. "No. It's one or the other. One of you must die."

She pulled the gun from her purse, pointing it at Sokolov. "Stop it. Stop the machine, or I'll shoot. You can kill me, but you must let him go first."

Sokolov laughed. "I can't stop it; only you can. This is your death dance. This is your swan song." The shattering of glass could be heard below. He pressed the remote again, and the third figure's wheel began to turn, the cage spinning faster.

"I swear to God, I'll shoot you."

Footsteps could be heard climbing the stairs.

"If you were going to, you already would have." The fourth creature came to life, turning its handle and wheel, the speed at which the cage spun hitting full tilt. Only one figure remained. The one with the sword. "You don't have it in you.'

"Bloody hell," Wraith's voice called out. "What the fuck is this place?"

Sokolov held a finger to his lips, silencing her. His thumb hovered over the remote as he smiled slowly. She counted to three in her mind as she watched it come down on the button. One, two, three. All hell broke loose. There was a flash of light and a thick cloud of fog erupted in the room. She turned the gun toward the machine, aiming for the creature on top, and fired.

"Primrose," she heard Wraith yell as the kick back from the gun knocked her down.

The next thing she remembered, she was looking up into Wraith's eyes. "Hamish," she said, sitting up, panicked. "He's in the cage." She looked over. The top of the cage was missing and the creature hung from the side, his head missing, sword still in hand. Alex was helping the young boy out, removing his blindfold and gag. "Is he okay?"

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