The barn is a big, brutal place, I realize, dangling upside-down in my wolf shackles, somewhere I don't even recognize.

It smells like shit, piss, blood, and death in here, in fairly equal portions. Reality does not elude me. What goes into this cell, isn't well cared for and doesn't come out.

I've been a wolf throughout this unknown stretch of time. I've been in and out of consciousness. Brock hits me with something wherever he feels like it. Then I bleed and pass out. I don't quite heal before it starts all over again.

There's no light source other than the buzzing fluorescent bulb in the hall across from me. It could be hours, a whole day, or more since I was torn from my reason for living.

I promised that I wouldn't take anyone down with me, and I intend to keep it, but if there is any hope, at least for Sam's sake, then...

Help, 9-1-1, S.O.S., code red, repeat.

I don't know where they brought her or if she's dead already. I'm not aware of anyone's status, allies or otherwise, or if any treachery was discovered besides mine. All I'm getting back is silence. Still, I do my best to keep any incriminating speculation out of the loudest part of my mind just in case Rollin is ever in tune.

My own misery is interrupted by the faint sound of whimpering. At first, I think it might be Sam, being held captive nearby. But then, during one of my slow revolutions past the hallway light source, I see a group of disheveled girls being herded through.

I lose count at eight.

They're young and scared, especially when they see me, the massive, half-dead wolf hanging from the ceiling of a cell that may look something like theirs. As far as potential virgins go, they're not the cream of the crop. They're girls no one would immediately notice if they went missing. But, in a large enough group, you'd think it would warrant an investigation, something Ishmael would do whatever he could to avoid. He'd want to keep the bribable but somewhat well-meaning cops out of his immediate business. With one girl, it's a tragedy. With a group this big, it'd be national news if anyone happens to put two and two together.     

Ivy is getting desperate, and Ishmael is allowing it. There's that December 1st deadline for the Malecek thing, and she clearly hasn't given up on the idea. She still has a couple of weeks, and with this sample size, there's a decent chance she could have this all sorted out in a week, maybe less, if the "cycle" timing is right.

My humanity is in rough shape, and any sense of heroism is dead. Because I fell in love with Sam, I'm the reason these girls are here. Even so, I can't dig up even the faintest glimmer of sympathy for them. Maybe it's because they have better odds of survival than I do, or I'm getting better at assigning blame where it belongs.  

As this thought is coming to mind, Ivy breaks into the scene, something I wasn't fully anticipating. She's at the end of the long line of girls, keeping them in order with malice and verbal abuse.

When she makes a point to glare into my cell, I attempt to "play dead." I have no doubt I look the part.

Things really can't get any worse, but then they find a way. I'm too sluggish and just an instant too late. Our eyes collide. And Ivy is well aware that I was trying, yet again, to deceive her. And with her standards crashing and burning and workload multiplying, she's in absolutely no mood for it.

After the girls are squared away out of my view, Ivy returns with keys and grants herself access to my cell. She's carrying these lopping shears that are half the size of her. I'm no landscaper, but they're the kind you'd use for the big problems, like those wayward tree-branches that are the size of my forearm. She may start with my fingers or toes, but I doubt that's where she'll finish.

"Change. Now," she flares at the wolf-version of me, snapping those shears to let me know she means business. "This could be the last conversation you'll ever have, and we may as well get started."

I have no clothes and no way of putting them on even if I did. There is a source of my betrayal in her eyes. It will do more harm than good to have it all out on display, but I'm in no place to defy her. She resents the wolf with almost the same intensity and can do her share of harm with the shears in either form.

I transform once I'm facing the wall. Occasionally, there can be a slight shift in position or a delay in time. Their torture contraptions account for these glitches, but if I'm not in the shackles just right or gravity and the shift aren't quite aligned, there's a slim chance I'd fall out. Not that I could really escape in these circumstances, but at least I wouldn't be dangling there, completely vulnerable.

No such luck, though. Not this time. There's an abrupt drop, but I'm caught by the human ankles, in the painful grip of shackles that are now too tight. "What more is there to say?" I ask her, swiveling back toward the pointy ends of those shears.

"Perhaps you're right. Your actions have been speaking for you for a long time." She takes a step closer to the body she once enjoyed using like a tool that she now seems bent on destroying. "I'm glad I finally get to reply." Snap, snap.

"Where's Sam?" I demand to know, using every one of my wounded muscles to lift my chest and reach for my feet. "Ishmael!" I cry out, thrashing around after I fail to hang on to my shins for very long. "She's crazy! She's going to kill me!"

If Ivy is in the barn, he can't be far. Sad to say, I'd much prefer his company right now. He only hates my guts, and his ill will is more business than personal. He'd approach it with a leveler head.

And if Sam were dead or on the grounds somewhere, Ivy would be the first to rub it in, and let me know all the ways I've failed her. Just like my actions, Ivy's omission speaks volumes.

Startled by my sudden ferocity, Ivy returns to her original position and then takes an additional step back. "He's not here." 

"Fucking liar. As usual," I spit back. "Ishmael!" I carry on, louder, more determined. "It's about Sam. There's something I need to tell you. Please! It's important!"

I've seen him look at her on camera. I could smell him on her. The cologne. The venom. The saliva and skin contact. I don't want to know what exactly it is that they shared. It could have been just the taste of her blood and the sexual byproduct of the venom. Even that, though, is something to him. Perhaps it's as close as he ever gets to true affection, and that's all I need right now.

I keep calling for him, and sure enough, mere moments after Sam's name was mentioned...

"What is it?" Ishmael grumbles from the frame of the entrance that Ivy didn't bother to close. With just a pointed glance at the lopping shears, she lowers them with a look of utter annoyance. "We've talked about this," he reminds her. "We can't make up for lost time, but we can make up for lost funds. I'm sure they'd prefer him relatively intact for their own machinations."

I'm worth more dead than alive, shockingly enough. Doesn't mean I'll live for long. I can guess who they're trading with—an even angrier ex—and the depressing reality is, I'm still better off here.

She huffs like a brat and storms toward his position. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

"I think we're all well past like, my dear," he responds as she brushes past him, abruptly and ungratefully, which is, of course, her style, and not one he bothers to correct.

Ishmael's right. This is a hateful salvage mission for everyone involved. I'm just slated to lose the most, and that's how they make their peace with it.

"Brock," Ishmael calls out, making his distaste for my existence known with a disparaging flutter to the eyes. "Get him some clothes and bring him to the Room of Inquiry."

This is the civilized way of saying "interrogation room" or "torture chamber." Ishmael doesn't really need a "room" for this. He can do it anywhere at any time, and there are devices to enable this process all over the barn. But this particular room makes it official, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't terrified. The fact that I've only heard about it says something. I've screwed up by his standards on more than one occasion, but this brings my blameworthiness to a whole other level.

Ishmael steps out and then Brock comes in with some old clothes clutched in one fist. He smashes down the lever on the wall with the other. I duck my chin and let my shoulders absorb the impact of my crash to the ground. It's not a painless endeavor, but after everything else I've been through, I hardly take notice. My hands are shaking and it's a challenge to get up for other reasons.

In a blur of nervous motion, I put on the tattered t-shirt and sweatpants, Brock staring down at me the whole time, and I'm marched down the hall with his hand clutching onto my shoulder.

The room has a heavy, institutional-looking door. The walls have padded soundproofing. There's a metal table with a loop for shackles and two folding chairs. The LED work light hanging from the ceiling is the only light source, but it's painfully bright.

It looks like a typical interrogation room except for the tools of their craft. From medieval to modern day, there's everything from a war hammer to a battle ax and old, ugly contraptions I can't even name, to stun guns and shock prods, and everything in between, all neatly organized on wall shelves by era of invention, from left to right. From Spanish Inquisition to War on Terror...

Brock pushes me into the chair and cuffs me to the table. The short chain forces me to hunch over.

Ishmael takes the seat across from me, casually crossing his legs at the ankle and setting them to the side. Brock lingers ominously behind me, just inside my peripheral vision.

"Where's Sam?" I ask Ishmael before anything sharp or electrical is procured.

"That's up to her to decide." He checks his expensive watch, always on a schedule and on life-mission to prove how much he's worth. "Now, what is it you wanted to tell me?"

"What do you mean it's 'up to her to decide'?" I dwell on his answer and not the question he posed. "Where's she gonna go? Ivy ruined her semester and scholarship. She wouldn't have a job anymore. There's no place for her to stay..."

"She has her life and her freedom. She'll figure it out," he replies. "Since you're obviously willing to die for this girl and she won't be dying with you, I assumed I'd get less flak. Maybe a thank you is in order?" 

"She'll just end up at her parent's house," I blurt back, slumping in my chair, no gratitude available to muster. "She's not safe there, especially now."

He stares at me, expression blank, but then some amusement bubbles up. "It seems you two did get close. You penetrated those ironclad defenses, too. And I thought you were just fucking her." And faster than it came on, all humor fizzles out and a jealous rage seems to take its place. 

"I-I love her," I stammer back, cowering. "And I would never put her back in that situation with the mark of the devil on her side."

It's the truth, finally, and hearing it, I thought he'd blow his top and obliterate any outside "deal" he's made for me with the first deadly object he could get his hands on.

Of course, he seemed aware of my weakness for Sam all along, and this must not come as any kind of surprise. "Well, all right." He shrugs one shoulder. "You don't have to ask me twice. Does she love you?"

Uh, well, no, not in so many words. She did say she loved her new reality after we closed some of the final loops, those preventing us from moving forward. We didn't get a chance to discuss it in any detail, but she didn't seem to have any qualms about going west with me and living with me, being with me in every sense of the word for the foreseeable future. It's not a yes to Ishmael's question, but I wouldn't call it a no either. There was a lot to share and absorb in a time that was cut so cruelly short. It just didn't work its way into the conversation.

I shake my head, wondering why he's asking. "Why does that matter?"

"I'm just wondering how long I should wait until I swoop in and save the day." Ishmael's arm is on the table, and he thrums his smaller fingers, every so often, like we're friends chatting about sports or the weather. "What's the going rate for a girl in love these days?" he inquires, another little flip and thrum, his ruby ring clacking against the table. "To get over it, I mean. Would it take a few weeks? A month? If she doesn't love you, well, then..." Pat, flip, tap. "I could whisk her away and have the good pastor's head on a pike by daybreak. And then have her tied up in my bed, smooth and bare and begging for it, before the day's end," he says, now with a fist and unyielding eye contact. "It certainly wouldn't be the first time."

"You're a cold-hearted bastard, you know that?" I push to my feet and kick my chair at Brock, and Ishmael experiences only the tiniest jolt. "I'd rather die than live knowing that you got your way," I shout over the clatter of the metal chair. "What you planned for..." I tug against my restraints, try to knock the table over, but it must be bolted to the floor. "What you probably had in mind all along. Ishmael's final play. The winning move."

I come up shy in all ways. I don't even slow Brock down very much.

While I'm about to be pummeled or tased or whatever, Ishmael's slight smirk and the knowing glint in his eye tell me everything I need to know.

"This talk is over." He gives Brock the nod and my muscles collapse. "Thanks for your insight," Ishmael stands up to say, looking down at me in every sense of the word. He was always in command, and I'm just a gurgling, twitching mess on the floor. "Brock will now see you to the car."