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Chapter 25

Charlie and Phinneas exited the dirt path into a large field. The mist moved in waves across the land, thick at moments, causing a white blindness, then thinned out, revealing the surroundings in brief glimpses of mystical alchemy. It was like she had stepped into a whole new world.

Phinneas led her to a giant metal sculpture whose top was hidden in the fog. At the bottom, a table was set up and Sokolov sat there waiting for them. The beaked man, Ivan, stood next to him with his box of knives.

"There she is," he said, standing up. "My masterpiece. Or should I say masterpieces. I hope you brought my picture."

She handed him the bag. He took it, setting it to the side. "Please, have a seat on this fine Scottish night."

Phinneas pushed her down in a chair.

"Leave us," Sokolov said to the two men.

"Where's Imogen?" she asked, looking around, but the fog blocked her from seeing anything at a distance.

"Always in a hurry," he scolded. "Everyone is always in such a hurry nowadays. It takes the fun out of everything. We'll have a drink first." He poured her a glass of wine from a crystal decanter. Raising up his own, he gave a toast. "To the beauty of art," he said. "Slange."

"Slange," she repeated and took a sip.

"You're looking well, my dear," he said. "Though I've heard you had a rough time of it."

"I brought you the print." She looked at the bag, hoping to remind him why she was here.

"I don't care about that print. You're the masterpiece I want to see. But we'll save that for later. Right now, we're talking." He pulled the cigarette case from his pocket and took one out, lighting it. "Like I was saying, you've been through a lot. Daddy abandoning you, the death of your fiancé, marrying that fool."

He was trying to break her, break her into a million pieces so she would need him to put her back together, need him to take the pain away.

"Of course, Daddy wouldn't have been a surprise. He didn't want you the minute he realized you had a cunt and not a cock." He sat back, taking a draw off his cigarette and crossed his legs. "Am I right?"

A tear ran down her cheek.

"I thought so. And your fiancé. You never really loved him, or you wouldn't have left him. He was dispensable," he said with a nod. "You were too good for him anyway, and he was about to cause trouble."

Another tear fell.

"But marrying that piece of filth." He finished his wine, pouring himself more. "That was unforgiveable. You opened your legs and let him fuck you. You truly are art made from trash."

"I didn't ruin anything. The picture is in the bag," she cried. "Please take it and let me see Imogen."

He laughed, the evil and sardonic sound piercing the fog and leaving her with a feeling of something akin to dread. "That print will sit in a safe somewhere, never to be looked at. It was an investment, but the reason I wanted you to be the one to bring it was so I could see the true treasure. Our treasure. But you ruined it. The canvas is soiled." He leaned forward, stroking her cheek.

"That wasn't the deal. You said I owed you a picture. I brought it."

"You're right. I said you owed me a picture and I brought my artist to create another one. But instead, I'm going to have to punish you." He whistled into the dark.

"Punish me, but let Imogen go. Please," she begged.

"I can't," he said.

"You promised."

"I can't because I never had her," he said, delighted. "That's your surprise."

"What do you mean you never had her? I saw her in that room. You promised to give her to me." Her heart sank.

"It wasn't her in the room. It wasn't even a girl."

"I don't understand. I know I saw her."

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