This chapter has mentions of suicidal thoughts, which may be triggering to some individuals. Reader discretion is advised. I do not encourage or support suicide or thoughts of it, and if you or anyone you know is having suicidal thoughts, please seek help immediately.

Culver wondered if things could get any worse.

Getting yelled at by two people in one day had only been the beginning. The very next day, the media had exploded with headlines about the increased military budget, all referring to Prime Minister Echart's rants about the Crown Prince's rash decision to pump taxpayer money into a campaign he'd started because of his bruised nationalistic pride. He'd been called a naive, patriotic youth obsessed with taking matters into his own hands since his terrible loss as a child. His father had rugby-tackled him so he wouldn't go beat Echart up.

Culver had spent a week attending meetings, press conferences and rallies to control the fallout of Echart's explosive comments, but the people were still angry. As if that wasn't worry enough, reports reached him of a steady rise in domestic terror attacks, and he was informed of the possibility of a plan to assassinate his father at the New Year parade. He had lost sleep night after night worrying, playing mind games with the suspected conspirators and arranging for extra security.

In the middle of it all, a diplomatic entourage from a highly respected English noble family had arrived in Emmer, courtesy of his father who had grown persistent about getting him married. Elisa, the young Duchess, was prideful, spoiled and rather handsy, and it was all Culver could do to protect his staff from her clutches. Matters had finally come to a head today when he'd finally snapped at Elisa, got into a huge fight with his father and stormed out of the keep without caring for the weather.

He had been doing furious laps on the ice when one of the castle staff had come down to bring him back. Blinded by rage at his father and Echart, by longing for his brother and most of all by his broken relations with Orion, he'd whipped around and zoomed across the ice.

The wind and snow had socked him in the face, disorienting him completely. It hadn't taken half a minute to lose his bearings. It wasn't until the servant had caught up to him that he had realized that they were on thin ice - literally.

And then the ice had given way.

In the split second it took for his body to plunge into the water, he'd already replayed the events of the past two weeks. Then the cold slammed into him, intense, excruciating cold that went straight to his bones. Everything around him was a dull grey. His heart gave a deafening ba-dump before beginning to fire like a machine gun. His eyes, wide with shock, screamed in pain as the icy water hit them. Unable to control the cold shock response, he gasped.

But he'd never resurfaced. His panic made him flail as water entered his lungs, burning his airways like acid. His heavy jacket and skates weighed him down, and he couldn't get to the surface no matter how much he kicked.

It was odd how, even as he felt like the water was tearing his lungs from the inside out, he could feel so many other sensations. His insides were freezing. He was sinking. It made his ears hurt. His vision was flickering. He was scared. He was sad. He was angry. He was desperate. He was alone. He could see the light filtering through the hole in the ice. He wanted to go there. He was incinerating. His limbs wouldn't move anymore.

He didn't want to die.

He saw, with cruel clarity, the very last bubble of air leave his throat.

Then he saw nothing.

*

Eight miles away, in Central Emmer

Emilia Brixton knew she was going straight to Hell.

She tried hard not to hyperventilate. Fortunately for her, she had a bag - it was right over her head. She couldn't pull it off though. For one, she knew the occupant of the room to have an easily triggered temper. For another, she couldn't afford to let go of the vial in her hands unless she wanted to have the Grim Reaper work overtime.

"You're a better thief than you think," said the voice, a male voice she had decided to call Garth. "Is that the stuff?"

"It's extremely virulent," Emilia answered. "It isn't safe to keep it out of the lab. If you'd just let me bring it when you need it -"

"Yeah, yeah, we'll stick it in a freezer. Emmett, take it from her, please."

Rough, callused hands wrenched the vial from Emilia's trembling grip. She'd done too much wrong for her prayers to mean anything now, but she still begged her God for forgiveness.

"I...I've done everything asked of me," she ventured. Immediately, the silence in the room turned hostile. She broke into a cold sweat.

"Luckily for you, you have," Garth agreed.

"I've never failed you once."

"Do you have a point, Dr. Brixton?"

"Please. Let my children go. I won't quit working for you. Just let my children go home."

"Fine. Emmett, throw those kids out, will you? Turn them out right this instant."

"No!" Emilia lurched off her chair. A fist drove itself into her gut and she crashed to the floor, coughing and groaning. "No," she whimpered. "The storm..."

"If I cannot use my bargaining chips, Dr. Brixton, I throw them out. I'm not stupid enough to hand them over."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry...please..."

"I decide when you're done. Don't even think about betraying me, or you will find yourself in a very unpleasant prison for your horrible, horrible past crimes."

Emilia wished her thoughts could manifest physically. She would have killed the monster before her ten times over if they could. He was the one who had forced her to commit those crimes and then held them over her head to make her do more of his dirty work. As an added failsafe, he had kidnapped her two little toddlers, whom she hadn't seen in two years.

A great clamor arose from somewhere to her right - men shouting, struggling, slamming into the door. Garth sighed in annoyance and asked someone, probably Emmett, to open the door. The sound of the metal door grating over an uneven floor was followed by that of a scuffle. A body fell to the floor with a heavy thump and a voice growled incoherently, straining against whatever was restraining him.

A ripping sound and a pain groan told Emilia that tape had been removed from the man's mouth. "Who are you!" he shouted. "Where have you brought me - argh! Get the bag off me, you cowards!"

Welcome to the club, Emilia thought. She knew better than to struggle, and sure enough, a sickening crunch turned her stomach before a howl of agony pierced the stale air. "Now that I have your attention," said Garth, his soft, detached voice audible even over the man's screams, "let me explain what I want from you."

"Who the heck are you!"

"It's really nothing to be concerned about if you follow my words to the letter. All I want, my dear fellow, is for you to administer bogus medicines when the time comes."

So this guy was a doctor. Emilia herself was a researcher at the National Association for Prevention and Control of Disease, and had just provided Garth a particularly nasty pathogen. Slowly, she began to get an idea of Garth's plot, and it made her sick to her very soul.

"You think it's that easy?!" Her fellow captor shouted. "Why should I put my neck on the line for an asshole like you?"

"You'll see soon enough. I'm a benevolent boss, you know. I plan to make the job easy for you."

"What the hell are you saying?"

"I'll arrange for the bogus medicines. Just use your clout to make sure that the doctors in your region use them."

A doctor in some sort of administrative position, Emilia guessed. That greatly narrowed the number of people that furious man could be. She wondered why Garth was talking about this in front of her. Either he had cockily decided that she was just too frightened to dig any deeper, or he had some other sinister motive behind making her privy to this conversation.

"You think you can get away with this?" the captive growled. "You think I can't find out who you are? I'll hunt you down and kill you!"

There was the sound of an impact, as if something heavy had been used to hit the man. Another crunch followed, and the man literally screamed himself hoarse. Emilia wondered how many buildings there were in Emmer where such tortured shrieks couldn't reach the outside.

"Even if you do find out who I am," Garth crooned, "what can you do? The person you would need help from to get to me...well, that would be me."

"My knees! You broke my knees!"

"Only your knees. Misbehave any more and I will wipe out every patient in your hospital."

The threat was absolutely not empty. It made Emilia's skin crawl. Unconsciously, she shrank back in her chair too, turning her face away as if she was about to be struck.

"Get him out of here," Garth ordered. "Tell the blokes in the emergency room that he fell from a ladder and landed on his knees." He paused. "You know what, let's be sure. There's a ladder outside in the alley. Get him upstairs, put him on the ladder and then throw him off, would you?"

"No! NO!" The man screamed, terrified. "I'll say I got hit by a car! No! Aaargh!" He was roughly pulled to his feet, and the movement had clearly hurt his fractured bones. "Please! Mercy! I'll do anything! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

His screams faded away. Emilia felt dread pool in her stomach and expand like heated has. Garth opened a window, but the cold rush of air only made her feel even more sick. Faint screams reached her, and suddenly she realized what was about to happen.

"No," she begged, her body frozen in horror. "Please...shut the window..."

"Oh, come on. The room was so stuffy I thought I was going to die."

If that were possible, you demon, I would happily die in here with you, Emilia snarled mentally. "Poor man," she mumbled, her voice shaking. "He should have just listened..."

"NO!"

An instant later, a dull thud reached her ears.

She couldn't help it. She threw up, right in the bag, the vomit splashing against her own face and dribbling down her chin.

"Oh, come on," Garth groaned, and Emilia could almost hear him rolling his eyes. "After everything you've done, one would think you'd become a little immune."

Emilia wasn't listening. She couldn't listen, for the thud of falling bodies was pulsing in her ears like a punishing drum. She was drowning, drowning in the blood that was on her hands. She could feel it pouring on her like a thick, morbid waterfall. She couldn't breathe because of the liquid streaming down her face. She wanted to scream, but it was pointless - it would be inaudible over the screams of her victims. Faceless people had crowded around her, watching her suffering. She could feel their vengeance. She could feel their satisfaction. She threw up again, and, too weak to stay upright anymore, fell sideways off her chair.

Garth's voice penetrated right through her horrors, and that was the most terrifying thing of all. "Get that bag off," he was saying. "Emilia, my dear, keep your eyes closed if you know what's good for you."

She was more than willing to obey. She felt the bag taken off and drew in a welcome breath of fresh, non-smelly air. Someone went out the door and returned with a bucket and a mop - she could hear the mop's wet squelch on the floor. Two people helped her up and led her away from the door to a bathroom, where one of them rinsed the vomit off her face and neck. Hands cleaned whatever had dribbled onto her blouse and her thighs, after which another bag was put on her head, she was turned right around and marched out the door.

In the car, she evaluated the new facts she had learned. Garth was a powerful man, probably someone high up in law enforcement. He seemed to be plotting a disease outbreak. He had a henchman named Emmett, who had callused hands. The building she had been in had at least two floors, and some sort of maintenance or construction was ongoing on the upper floor (hence the ladder). She was always brought to the basement, judging by the musty air and the height from which the sound of the man's body hitting the pavement had come. There was a flight of eleven stairs leading to the metal door of a room with an uneven floor. Directly opposite the floor was the passage leading to the bathroom, and against the wall at right angles to both was Garth's seat with a window behind him at an accessible height.

And that gets me nowhere, she told herself. Even if I did go to the cops, what would I tell them? That a man whom I don't know asked me to steal something I can't name, put me in the basement of a building I can't locate, and then tossed another man I don't know through a window? Oh, if they ever venture into a basement that smells like throw-up, that's the one.

But she was tired. She was tired of committing sin after terrible sin. She could no longer face her children, and sooner or later she was going to get caught. Moreover, the destruction Garth's plan would unleash would be worse than any damage she had ever done before. And when she would witness the death she had brought about, she would no longer have the courage to live some more and sin some more.

So if everything was going to go to shit anyway, why not make one last attempt to set herself free?