As Chloe's truck hurtled through Arcadia Bay's streets, Max kept her eyes on her phone, rereading sections of the document Brooke had risked her life to get to them. Compared to sneaking out of the hospital, the document proved more of a challenge—she stumbled over the technical language, but she felt she was getting the gist of it.

"Okay, Max," Chloe said as she shifted gears. "How're we doing this?"

"You'll hate it." Max put the phone down and rubbed her eyes. "I'm going into the Theater alone to break Rachel out."

"You're right—I hate it. Max, why are we splitting the party again?"

"I can't take you with me when I'm time-walking. The chances of something going wrong are simply too high."

"It sounds fucking cool when you call it 'time-walking.'" Chloe bit her lip. "So what do I do then? Sit outside and wait for you to come back?"

"You're our getaway driver, Chloe. Once I bring Rachel out of the Theater, we drive out of Arcadia Bay and head for Seattle. I'll call my parents and we'll meet them halfway."

"That part I like. Everything before, not so much." She thought for a moment. "So did the spirit give up and make you Incarnate?"

Max shook her head. "No, Rachel is the Incarnate. She was chosen. I'm kind of a back-up, someone called in when things go to shit."

"Why can't you just go back in time and tell everyone what Dionysus has planned? We could even save Juliet."

Max held her peace for a moment, then she said, "I once went back in time to save William, Chloe."

"What?" Chloe stared at her. "You—you tried to save Dad?"

"I thought I could make your life better. It…it didn't work out. You were the one who got into an accident and—you ended up paralyzed from the neck down."

Chloe's silence filled the truck.

"I don't want to risk another scenario where I keep fixing things I break. Tuhudda was right—we have our best chance here and now."

"Okay."

"And we kind of have to hurry."

"Yeah, but…so we're clear, you could still rewind and fix some stuff in the present if you need to, right? So this rescue's pretty much in the bag, yeah?"

"I can—up to a point. But…" She scowled down at the file on her phone. "If I'm reading this right, there's still one way we can lose."

"How?"

"If the spirit dies."

"How the hell can that happen? Are you saying Dionysus can murder a spirit?"

"With the Bacchanalia, absolutely. We stop it, we save Rachel." She looked back at her phone's screen. "So let's hope I get this right."

Rachel came to her senses as she was dropped into a sitting position. Her head buzzed with white noise; she shook it to collect her thoughts before opening her eyes.

Pale, recessed lighting illuminated the antechamber. The white walls were bare but oddly shaped, covered in layers of grooved foam, the kind used to soundproof studios. As she gathered her wits, she realized she was in a wheelchair, the type used for asylum patients. Two guards were busy tightening the straps around her arms, legs, and torso. They and the other guards standing nearby looked like they had lived through a war, all disheveled suits and wary, bloodshot eyes. All gazes converged upon her, ready to spring if she even moved a finger.

But one man sat among them on a folding metal chair, his legs crossed, his hands laced together on his lap, waiting placidly. "Do you know who I am?" he asked as she oriented herself.

"Henrik Morten." Rachel's voice sounded brittle and coarse to her ears.

He gave an acknowledging nod. "It's a pleasure to meet you again, Ms. Amber. Please remain calm. There is nothing you can do."

Rachel tested this by pulling at the straps. They held her fast and her powers refused to respond. Something held them down, as if the Theater's crushing weight was piled on top of her.

"So," she muttered. "This is the part where I die."

"Eventually." Morten uncrossed his legs and leaned in. "There's a process to it. Do not hasten to bid us adieu."

Rachel watched him for a moment, a pale, frail balding man of perhaps seventy, wearing a black turtleneck and a dark navy blue suit. He seemed so mundane, someone she could pass in the street without another glance. It was hard to believe he was the creator of the Twins and the head of a murderous conspiracy.

But there was something else to him, the certainty in his voice and the way he looked deeply into her gaze. He was addressing someone else inside of her, something he'd known and had been dealing with for a long time.

Keep him talking. There must be a way out; you need time to figure out how.

"I thought there'd be more of you," she said, looking around the room.

"There are, and they cannot wait to meet you. They've prepared a warm welcome in the Theater proper."

"But you want to gloat over your prize first."

"Nothing so crass. If I must destroy a life, I first wish to explain why. The last thing that I am is wasteful, killing without reason." He smiled and pointed his finger at her. "Between us, you were the one with the aptitude for destruction. You decimated my men." He gestured to the four in the room. "I have only a handful left."

"I hope you're not waiting for an apology, not after you threatened my friends."

"I do regret that you took my Twins from me. Do you realize what it cost me to create them? How long it took to find the right candidates? They were the only ones to survive a concentrated Bacchanalia." He sighed. "But then, after tonight, such things will no longer be necessary."

"After the Bacchanalia, you mean."

His eyes gleamed at the word.

"Just what is it?"

"I wouldn't dream of spoiling it for you. You will find—"

He paused as a commotion erupted from the adjoining room. A woman's shrill voice cried, "Enough! Keep your filthy hands off!" Then the door opened, revealing a man and a woman pushing past a flustered guard. Despite herself, Rachel's jaw dropped open and she momentarily forgot to breathe.

The olive-skinned man wore gold-accented glasses, an impeccable double-breasted burgundy silk suit with a yellow necktie and silver cufflinks. Despite his nervous look, he had the air of royalty about him. He would if he truly was Frederico Salvi, owner of one of the biggest fashion empires in the world.

But the woman in the black evening dress captured her attention. There was no mistaking the jade eyes that caught the light without reflecting it, nor the lustrous dark mane that had not a single gray strand despite her being on the wrong side of fifty. Rachel had seen her face countless times on the movie screen, watched her love and lose and betray the biggest leading men in Hollywood while winning every acting award imaginable. Deborah Troy was here, in the same room as she was.

Morten sighed. "Deborah, Freddie. I requested you stay in your seats."

"For what, Henrik?" Deborah demanded. "So we can watch ourselves age?"

"Deborah has a point, paisan." Frederico wiped his brow with a silken handkerchief. "We shouldn't delay. Every second adds to the risk we are discovered. What if our erstwhile friend shows up here, eh? With the police at his back?"

"He will do no such thing," Morten stated. "And his car has been spotted leaving town."

"Yes, stop jumping at your own shadow, Freddie. It's unmanly." Deborah approached, staring Rachel down from her nose. "So. This is the one."

"Indeed, my dear," Frederico said, looking kindly at Rachel. "The last Incarnate there is."

"The last witch in the world means as much to me as the last mosquito." Her gaze hardened. "Look at you. Without flaw, without a wrinkle. Time doesn't know you exist. Well, girl, talk to me. Why do you think we went through all this trouble for you?"

When Rachel failed to answer, Deborah snapped, "Speak, or I'll rip that ridiculous feather from your ear."

Rachel finally found her tongue. "T-this man's brainwashed you," she said, glancing at Morten. "He's duped you into his cult with impossible promises. Whatever it is you want, I'm not—"

Red lightning ripped through her vision as the woman's palm cracked across her face. Frederico gasped and Morten leaped out of his chair.

"Don't touch her!" he cried. "You'll leave evidence!"

Rachel tasted blood and realized she had bitten her tongue. As she stared up at the woman in fury, Deborah replied, "We'll clean her up afterward. A point must be made—this is no place for lies." She turned and headed for the door. "Shall we get on with it? We've already prepared him in the other room like you asked."

Prepared…him?

Morten sighed again and motioned to his men. "I apologize," he said to Rachel as the guards began to push her wheelchair toward the open door. "I meant for this to begin differently, what with it being the last time and all. But patience is not a virtue shared by all of Dionysus."

They pushed her into a long hallway that resembled the room they left behind—all-white walls, recessed lights, and grooved foam. On the wall far to her left, a pair of steel double doors led elsewhere.

What grabbed Rachel's attention was a gurney in the center of the room. A balding doctor in a lab coat stood nearby, pointedly ignoring the man ranting and struggling against the bed's leather straps.

"I'll rip your fucking heads off, you goddamn gimps! You're all fucked in the head, you know that? Lemme outta this thing right now!"

The familiar voice dropped a heavy, dreadful weight in Rachel's guts. It couldn't be—they wouldn't. But there was no mistaking the dirty blond hair, the unkempt beard, the playing card tattoos on his neck—

"Frank!" The name tumbled from Rachel's slack lips. He was held down by leather straps across his limbs, wrists, and chest. Trembling, she whirled to face Morten, questions lodging in her throat.

"I did mention we knew every important detail about you, Ms. Amber," came his only reply.

"Let him go!" she shrieked. "He's got nothing to do with this!"

Frank turned his head at the sound of her voice. His eyes grew wide, confusion replacing anger, and he forgot to struggle. "What—Rachel? Jesus, why are you here?"

"Frank, I'm—" Not part of this, she was about to say. Except she was. If he was here, it was because of his connection to her. "T-they kidnapped me, too. Please, try to stay calm and—"

"YOU!" Frank glared at Morten. "You let her go right fucking now, you gutless piece of shit! What the hell is wrong with you, taking a kid? I don't care what you do to me but don't drag her into this!"

"This is moronic," snapped Deborah, crossing her arms. "Can we please get on with it?"

Morten nodded to the lab coat. "Go ahead, Doctor."

The man gave a hint of a smile as he reached into his pocket, pulled out a needle, and uncapped it. "Four milligrams of heroin and Fentanyl," he mused aloud. "A guaranteed overdose."

Rachel's heart stopped. "Don't!" she screamed.

"Hey, HEY!" Frank eyed the dripping needle as the doctor prodded his arm for a vein. He struggled harder against the leather straps, but the men around him stepped in to hold him down. "What the hell do you think you're doing? This is crazy! Hey, STOP!"

"Frank!" Rachel whirled back to Morten. "Please, I'll do what you want, whatever it is. Look, justtell me what you want!You don't have to do this!"

Morten said nothing and kept his eyes on the gurney. "Hold him, please," the doctor told the guards, who clamped their hands down on Frank's left arm. The doctor then tied a rubber tube around his elbow.

Rachel screamed his name again, but a gleam of understanding had reached Frank's eyes. He stopped ranting, and for an instant, Rachel thought he'd come up with some kind of plan, a way to bargain himself out, or at least stall them till she could figure out how to set him free.

But in a quiet, urgent voice, he said, "Rachel, listen to me. You're going to be okay. Whatever it is they're doing, they need you for it. Stay calm and focused. Someone's going to come find you, baby, I swear. So don't give up, you hear me? Stay alive."

Tears streamed down Rachel's face as the doctor pressed the needle into Frank's flesh. She couldn't bear to watch, but when she turned away, Morten gripped her head in his gloved hands and with surprising strength forced her to look back.

"Watch," he ordered her. "This is for you."

He made her watch as the doctor emptied the needle into Frank's vein. She watched as his fists uncurled from their death grip on the gurney's railing, as the rise and fall of his chest slowed and his face slackened and drained of color. Watched as a dark ring formed around his lips and his mouth, the same one that had once stumbled over promises of undying love, twitched and leaked foam onto his beard.

As all recognition faded from his eyes, like bulbs flickering before dying out, Frank rasped, "You're okay."

One final, rattling breath, and he was gone.

Rachel pitched forward in her wheelchair as Morten released his hold. Bile pooled in her stomach and she wanted to retch. "Monsters," she keened. "You're all monsters!"

"Yes," Frederico agreed. "Yes, we are."

Deborah leaned in next to her ear. "Do you want to know what happens after?" she drawled. "We'll leave him cold on the floor of his trailer. And, after we are done with you, we'll place your naked body on his bed. Reporters will parade the tale of how these two lovebirds died from an overdose. And your parents, your friends, everyone you hold dear will bear the shame of ever having known and loved you."

She pulled back as Rachel strained up to bite at her—only the straps kept her from getting at the actress's neck.

"Enough," Morten said. He gripped the wheelchair's handles and pushed her down the hall toward the double doors. "All is ready. It's time for the Bacchanalia."

His friends fell into step beside him as the guards wheeled the gurney away. As Morten pushed Rachel closer toward the double doors, she screamed, "Why? Why are you doing this?"

Deborah wasted no words. "Because we hate you, dear."

"We're almost there."

Chloe killed the engine and headlights; the truck went silent as its momentum carried them further down the dirt road. As Chloe eased down on the brakes, Max watched the Theater come into view.

Only a dim light emanated from the grounds and Max saw why. Something monstrous had ripped through the front gates and part of the chain-linked fence. A trough had been cut through the front path, ending with the mangled remains of an SUV. A few scattered guards remained, rearranging cars and piling together bodies. Rachel was here, alright.

"I'd rather be a million miles away," Chloe muttered. "That fucking thing's alive—I can feel it."

Max nodded, sizing up the Theater. Its upper portion was masked in shadow, a giant towering into the night. It was the lighthouse's evil counterpart, scattering darkness and doom, inviting her to step inside.

"So you're going to waltz in there, just like that?" Chloe asked.

"Hopefully, just like that." Max tucked her phone in her pocket. "You have to be ready. I need you to stay out of sight till Rachel and I come out running. We'll jump in the back and you drive like hell. We can win this, Chloe."

"With you on the case, I know it." Chloe nodded, shifting in her seat. "Just—come back safe, you hear?"

"With Rachel. I swear." She paused before giving a shy smile. "Kiss for good luck?"

Chloe grinned. "For starters." And as she leaned to press her lips against hers, Max took a long moment to savor it. It almost felt like a goodbye.

Max hopped out of the truck and took a moment to steady herself. Crossing the open lawn shouldn't be too hard with her powers; as long she evaded all the guards, she'd be fine. The real challenge waited on the steps of the Theater itself.

Before she could shut the door, Chloe's hand grabbed her wrist. "Max, wait!"

Max turned to find Chloe had her head cocked toward her window, ears to the wind. After a second, she said, "Take the tunnel."

"Huh? What tunnel? What are you talking about?"

"I have no idea!" Chloe scowled and let go of her arm. "But you'll know it when you see it, and when you do, take it. Now hurry!"

"But—"

"Max, Rachel needs you! Go!"

The mere mention of Rachel galvanized Max into hurrying toward the Theater. What was that about? she wondered, glancing back at Chloe before focusing on what lay ahead.

With the floodlights shattered, the night gave her partial cover on this leg of the journey. She reached the shattered front gate as one of the men finished covering a fellow guard with a blanket.

"Hey!" he shouted. "The hell are you doing here? This is private property!"

His hand slid to his gun holster, but Max raised her hand and rewound. The guard's hand fell back to his side and he crouched back over the body of his teammate to remove the blanket. Max wasted no time—she pelted toward the closest cover, the up-ended remains of the SUV in the middle of the lawn, then released her rewind as she put her back against its side.

The noise of a slamming car door came from her right. Another man spotted her as he emerged from a parked limo. Max rewound again, then sprinted over to crouch at the back of his car. She watched the guard emerge from the driver's side and walk over to the front gate.

On and on she went, dodging behind barriers and avoiding guards until, at last, she stood on the front steps leading up to the Theater. There, while no one was looking her way, she froze time. Reality held still, vibrating like an old film on pause.

The Theater looked even more intimidating from this angle, a pale sharp tooth jutting up into the night sky. Above the double doors, a bas-relief wood carving depicted a—well, Max wasn't sure. The shadow-riddled wood wound into twisting shapes resembling hideous, contorted faces, all staring at her, all laughing.

She dropped every other thought and focused on what she read in Brooke's file. Most of it was mystical jargon, but a couple of important details stood out: the Theater was designed to trap and detain an Incarnate, no matter how powerful. Three protective wards defended it, the first of which encircled the outer structure. Anyone with supernatural abilities who dared enter the Theater or attempted to destroy it would find their powers suppressed as long as they remained in the area.

The key to it lay in this carving, the container of its protective ward. Here, Max had no choice but to gamble. According to Brooke's file, the ward protected the Theater from all destructive energies. But it said nothing about what protected the ward itself.

Everything has an end, thought Max as she raised her hands. What did Chloe call it? Oh, yeah—entropy.

She focused on the bas-relief and catapulted her mind forward through time. Years, decades slid by in a twinkling—but only for the sculpture. It wasn't easy. Even with her heightened abilities, fast-forwarding one object while holding the rest of the world still—the strain alone made her brain feel like it was swelling out of her skull.

But it worked. When Max finally dropped her hands, the bas-relief had turned white, the wood pocked-marked and crumbling beneath its own weight. She had aged it to the point where the ward had withered down to nothing.

Or so she hoped. There was nothing to do but try.

One backward glance to ensure no one was looking her way, then Max drew in a haggard breath, released her hold on time, and yanked the double doors open.

The Theater remained still as death, and despite her throbbing head, Max didn't feel herself weakening. Her powers were still hers.

Tears of relief in her eyes, she slipped through the doors into the antiseptic light of the Theater's main hall. Two more wards stood between her and Rachel, but now she had hope. Now they had a chance.

Even as she reeled from Frank's death, Rachel was pushed past some heavy curtains and into an enormous dark room. Hidden speakers played Chopin's Raindrop Prelude, and Rachel felt the presence of others surrounding her, could feel the weight of their gazes as the air shuddered from a single collected breath.

There was a clang as steel doors locked behind her, then Morten's voice rang out from above her wheelchair. "Brethren! I give you—the INCARNATE!"

The lights came on, flooding the stage and revealing the house. It was smaller than Rachel had imagined, perhaps a mere 300 seats, of which only about two dozen along the aisle were occupied. Still, Rachel couldn't help a gasp of surprise.

To her immediate left stood Anjou Souji, owner of Apex, one of the largest biotech companies in the world. To her right stood Stefan and Anita Alexopolous, tech billionaires and philanthropists. She could swear the woman in the row before them was the famous author and painter, Inés Mendoza. There were only a few more familiar faces, but the clothes and finery they wore told her they were no less prestigious than the ones she recognized. Prescott had told the truth; Dionysus members were indeed the kings and queens of this world.

Each stared at her with a mixture of awe, reverence, and yes, excitement—the kind derived from knowing you had won a great victory.

Again, Morten raised his voice. "Sic semper deus!"And as he pushed the wheelchair down a concrete ramp that ran down the aisle, the audience followed in his chant.

Sic semper deus

In your presence, we gather

We join our hands

We drink your wine

We feast on your spirit

We thrive with your end

The death that brings life

Sic semper deus!

The words filled Rachel with horror and she avoided all their gazes. Instead, her eyes fell upon the stage they were pushing her towards. It was flooded with light, showcasing two enormous items.

On the left, a three-foot-tall glass vat stood on metal legs and brimming with a deep red wine. Rachel caught a floral scent, more potent than perfume. A motorized pump at its base connected to a long, clear plastic tube that snaked toward the other item to the right.

This was a narrow glass dome, tall as a person, with a wooden circular base carved to resemble the bas-relief that hung over the Theater's entrance. The plastic tube wound around the base in two layers before leading back to the glass vat on the left.

As the crowd continued their chant, Morten wheeled Rachel down the aisle before turning and pushing her up a ramp that led onto the stage. For some reason Rachel couldn't put into words, the sight of that vat filled with mysterious red fluid sent a chill racing down her spine.

Through gritted teeth, she said, "You said you wouldn't harm me."

"I won't." Morten pushed her to the area between the vat and the glass dome and nodded to the right wing. "He will."

Across the stage, the doctor who murdered Frank was approaching them, wheeling in a machine that looked like a heart monitor, complete with electrodes and crimson, twisting wires. The panic truly set in; Rachel struggled against the bonds on her wrist and feet, twisting her body from side to side.

"Ah, ah, careful now." Morten steadied her wheelchair before it could tip over. The doctor left his machine by the dome and hurried over, a syringe in hand.

"Allow me," he said to Morten, and Rachel cried out as the needle pierced her neck. "Don't worry. That's merely a relaxant, something to keep you calm. We'll need you awake for this next part."

Rachel kept fighting, but the drug took its toll quickly. Exhaustion settled on her limbs, ending her thrashing. The lights above shone so bright they blinded her.

The music quieted as Morten addressed the audience. "Brethren, in joy I come before you. I am deeply grateful that you've all come to this tiny American town on such short notice. Thank you for abiding by our laws and keeping your journey secret. It gladdens me that all of Dionysus is present, united. All will partake of our final Bacchanalia."

Applause rang out. Morten nodded once before raising his hands for silence.

"Here we stand, our mission fulfilled, our final enemy defeated. Before us there is only joy, solace for the friends and family we lost, and a reward for our patience. From here on, none of us will fear the yoke of a god. We will live our lives as we see fit. And once we partake of this final drink, that life will be long indeed."

Once more the crowd cheered and clapped, a noise that made Rachel's skin prickle. Morten turned and nodded to the doctor.

The man approached Rachel. He had tan skin and curly hair and spoke with a soothing, Hispanic accent as he wheeled her to the rear of the glass dome. "I beg your pardon, Ms. Amber, I've yet to introduce myself. My name is Dr. Manuel Vargas. I wish we could have met under better circumstances, but at least it will be the only time we'll meet."

Rachel wanted to speak up, to curse him knowing he'd done this to a dozen others, but her jaw had also grown numb and useless. She could barely turn her head as he pressed a button on the dome. A hatch opened in the back, large enough for her to pass through.

"Do you know how a nature spirit can die, Ms. Amber?" Dr. Vargas went on. "It's a fascinating question, one that has preoccupied me for decades. You see, a spirit doesn't know death in any conventional way. Even when an Incarnate dies, the possessing spirit merely selects another host and the cycle begins anew. How then can one kill something untouched by death? So instead, we turned our attention to their Incarnates."

Grunting, he pushed her wheelchair into the dome, the locks on its base securing its wheels. Next, he maneuvered his machine behind her.

"The theory," he said, "was to introduce the idea of death through the spirit's connection with its host. But to do that, the host must sincerely wish to die.

"We needed years of research and bribed an uncountable number of shamans and witches to arrive at this conclusion. It had to be done in a specific place, with specific rules. We also tried various extraction methods, but the one I have developed yields the perfect result with the least, ah, mess afterward."

He attached one of the electrodes to the base of her neck, then more on her arms and her hands; they felt like leeches on her skin. Behind her came the clicking of turning dials as the machine hummed to life.

"This machine is my invention—I call it the Neural Inducer. I designed it after a thorough research on Maja's secondary abilities. But I think its function is better demonstrated than explained."

An electric shock ripped through Rachel's body; her jaw seized up and she shrieked through a mouth that had clamped itself shut. Every muscle in her body twitched and spasmed. She thought she could smell her hair catching fire.

It lasted all of five seconds. It could have been an eternity. When it was over, Rachel slumped forward, her shirt damp with sweat and her ears filled with her own ragged breathing.

The doctor spoke up behind her. "Using a method akin to transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation, I can replicate almost any sensation of pain. All the agony, none of the evidence. That simulated shock was but one of many variations in store.

"So you will suffer, suffer until you long for the release of death. And once you reach that point…"

"Then the aglaophotis will do its work," Morten finished, stepping into her view.

He reached toward the vat and pressed a button. The motor began to pump the red liquid through the tube. As Rachel watched, the liquid swirled around the base of her dome before running back to the vat.

"As I said, I'm not wasteful," Morten told her. "The aglaophotis is a powerful concoction used to exorcise spirits. The instant you wish for death, it will absorb your life, your vitae, and the spirit living within you. Then we shall partake of it. The gifts you will bestow on us will vary—to some, a god-like inspiration that they can bring to their art or trade. To others, long life. I myself am a hundred and eight, you know.

"And so we will shine, your brilliance echoing across the lives of many. Take heart that you will live on through us."

Rachel forced her tongue to work. "I won't…give...in."

"I've heard the same from every version of you. None have lasted more than a handful of minutes against the Inducer. You may be the last, the strongest Incarnate we have ever met." He smiled. "But we have all night."

He stepped away from her, the electrode wires stretching as he slid the hatch shut over them, sealing her into the dome. His muffled voice came through the glass. "On behalf of all Dionysus, thank you for giving us our last Bacchanalia."

The Inducer started up again and Rachel's lungs seized up. She began to drown in open air.

Max found herself in a long hallway, pale walls lined with recessed lights and oddly shaped foam. Everything seemed new—no paintings or sculptures were to be found and the air-conditioned air still smelled of paint and sawdust. The marble-tiled floor stretched from the entrance to the hall's end where stood a pair of sealed blast doors. Two other side doors lay to her left and right, but the faint orchestra music emanating from the metal ones told her where she needed to go.

Steeling herself, Max crept across the open space, hyper-aware of every squeak of her shoes as she eyed the side doors. Thankfully, they remained closed, and she reached the far end of the hall without trouble. One glance above the door told her what she was looking for: the second ward, a bas-relief wood carving similar to the one she'd destroyed.

Applause sounded from the room beyond, a noise that raised the small hairs on Max's neck. Dionysus celebrating couldn't be good. She needed to get inside now.

Praying her luck would hold, she reached her hands up to the bas-relief and moved the ward forward through time.

This one seemed to be stronger than the first—she was aging it through decades, yet it was still holding. Soon her head felt like it was clamped in a tightening vise. And the carved faces—they weren't mocking anymore. This time they were angry, glaring at her with murderous eyes.

It didn't matter; she just needed to push some more. Everything has an end, she told the sculpture. Even you.

A door slammed shut behind her. "You there!" a man bellowed, and Max turned to see a gruff, red-bearded man not six feet away, sprinting toward her. Without thinking, she moved one hand from the ward to freeze him, but he reached out and grabbed her forearm before she could split her concentration.

"Don't!"

It was too late. As he touched her, the man's skin loosened, his eyes turning rheumy and white. The steely grip withered away; his fingers fell from her arm as he collapsed to the ground. Instead of a powerfully built guard, there lay an emaciated, hairless old man, his skull nearly visible through his translucent skin. He gave Max one bewildered, terrified look before he heaved a final breath and his head fell on the marble floor.

"I-I'm sorry," was all Max could say. Swallowing her horror, she pushed the ward the rest of the way until it was only pale, worm-eaten wood. Splaying her hands on the blast doors, she rewound them through time until they opened for her, revealing a short passageway that ended with a heavy curtain.

Without a backward glance, she entered the dimly lit Theater, the doors clanging shut behind her.

Rachel tilted her head back and dragged one breath after another into her lungs. It was no use—no matter how fast or deeply she inhaled, it was like breathing through a pinhole. Every vein stood out on her arms and neck as her body starved for air.

Please.

There was no stopping the panic. Adrenaline flooded into her as her lungs shriveled and her thudding heart fought to pump oxygen to her brain. She kicked, pulled, and tossed against her restraints. It did nothing but increase the pressure on her chest.

Please, somebody.

For an instant, she was a little girl again, crying from a broken arm while her father carried her gently down the slope of Mt. Hood. Even through the agony, she'd felt so safe. And despite everything that happened, she wished she could see his face again.

The vision disappeared with her next gasp. The machine had powered down, giving her respite, and Rachel slumped forward on her tin throne, her face dripping with sweat as she coughed and gulped down one breath after another.

Dimly, she understood this was no mercy—they had stopped merely to keep her from passing out. Once she'd recovered, they'd start over, perhaps with a different form of pain.

Her mind wandered—she was disengaging from her body, floating away to another time. She was fifteen again, and Chloe was half-dragging, half-carrying her to the Emergency Room. She felt numbingly cold, bleeding out from her wounded arm, yet the warm body pressed against her pushed her on and insisted she not give up.

Chloe, oh my Chloe. Just one more time, please.

She raised her bleary eyes to the glass before her as the piano music started again. The guests milled in the front row, talking and laughing while ignoring her torture. Morten set wine glasses on a tray by the front row before mingling among the crowd, shaking hands, exchanging kisses. If they looked her way, it was only to stare greedily at the liquid, red as lifeblood as it pumped through the tube. The aglaophotis waited to drain away her life.

She was going to perish here. Every last bit of her would die and be consumed.

Then a woman's scream rang out followed by complete silence. No, not quite. The stage beneath was rumbling as if from an earthquake. Her eyes shifted to her right to see a part of the floor sliding open.

From the trapdoor emerged three men. The first was Sheriff Skinner, grinning as he leveled his shotgun at the audience. At his heels came Nathan, eyes wide and face pale as he held a pistol in his twitching hands.

Sean Prescott emerged last. He spared Rachel a single icy glare before pointing his gun at Morten.

"All the devils are here," he said.