Ben backed up, retreating as far as he could into the darkness of his holding cell. There was a snick of a key turning the lock, then the door swung open and the two huge guards who'd brought him here came inside.
"He's ready for you now," one of the thugs growled.
Both men took Ben by the arms and wrenched him hard before shoving him forward, out the door and into a dim hallway outside. Ben had suspected he was being held in some kind of warehouse, based on the crude quarters he'd been stowed in until now. But his captors led him up a flight of stairs and into what looked to be an opulent, nineteenth-century estate. Polished wood gleamed in elegant, low lighting. Beneath his muddied shoes, a soft Persian rug spread out in an ornate pattern of deep red, purple, and gold. Above his head in the foyer his captors pushed him through, a large crystal chandelier twinkled.
For an instant, some of Ben's alarm eased. Maybe everything would be okay, after all. He was deep into the shit lately, but this wasn't the nightmare he'd expected it to be. Not some torture chamber of horrors as he'd feared.
Ahead of him, a set of open double doors framed yet another impressive room. Ben was guided there by his handlers, who then held him securely in the middle of the large formal sitting room. The furniture, the rugs, the original oil paintings on the walls--all of it reeked of extensive wealth. Old wealth, the kind you didn't get without a few hundred years of practice.
Surrounded by all that opulence, seated like a dark king behind a massive, carved mahogany desk, was a man in an expensive black suit and dark sunglasses.
Ben's palms started to sweat the instant his eyes lit on the guy. He was immense, broad shoulders straining beneath the impeccable fall of his jacket. The pressed white shirt he wore was unbuttoned at the neck, but Ben didn't think it was a sign of casualness so much as an indication of impatience. Menace permeated the air like a thick cloud, and some of Ben's hope strangled on the spot.
He cleared his throat. "I, uh... I'm glad to finally have the chance to meet with you," he said, hating the tremor in his voice. "We need to talk... about Crimson--"
"Indeed, we do." The deep, airless reply cut Ben off with its appearance of calm. But from behind those dark glasses trained on him, fury seethed. "It looks as though I'm not the only one you've annoyed recently, Mr. Sullivan. That's quite a nasty gash on your neck."
"I was attacked. Son of a bitch tried to tear my throat out."
Ben's shadowy employer grunted with obvious disinterest. "Who would do a thing like that?"
"A vampire," Ben said, knowing how crazy it had to sound. But what had happened to him down by the riverfront was only the tip of a very disturbing iceberg. "That's what I need to talk to you about. Like I said when I called the other night, something's gone really wrong with Crimson. It's... doing things to people. Bad things. It's turning them into bloodthirsty lunatics."
"Of course it is, Mr. Sullivan. That's precisely what it was meant to do."
"What?" Disbelief made Ben's stomach drop in his gut. "What are you talking about? I created Crimson. I know what it's supposed to do. It's just a mild amphetamine--"
"For humans, yes." The dark-haired man stood up slowly, then came around the side of the enormous desk. "For others, as you've discovered, it is something much more."
As he spoke, he glanced toward the open doors of the room. Another pair of heavily armed guards stood at the threshold, their hair shaggy and unkempt, fierce eyes seeming to burn like embers under their heavy brows. In the dim light from the candles in the room, Ben thought he saw the gleam of fangs behind the guards' lips. He flicked a nervous glance back at his employer.
"Unfortunately, I have discovered something troubling myself, Mr. Sullivan. After your call the other night, a few of my associates visited your laboratory in Boston. They searched your computer and records, but imagine my dismay to hear that they could not find the formula for Crimson. How do you explain that?"
Ben held the sunglass-shaded gaze that pinned him from only an arm's length away. "I never keep the true formula in the lab. I thought it would be safer kept offsite, with me."
"You need to give it to me." There was little inflection in the words, no movement in the powerful body that stood before him like an impassable wall. "Now, Mr. Sullivan."
"I don't have it. That's the God's honest truth." "Where is it?"
Ben's tongue froze. He needed a bargaining chip, and the formula was all he had. Besides, he wasn't about to sic these thugs on Tess by telling them he'd hidden the Crimson recipe in her clinic. He hadn't meant to leave it there for long, only until he'd sorted out his options in this mess. Too late to call back that misstep, unfortunately. Even though saving his own ass was his primary concern at the moment, putting Tess in the middle of this was out of the question.
"I can get it for you," Ben said, "but you'll have to let me go. Let's agree on this like gentlemen. We sever all ties right here and now and go our separate ways. Forget we know anything about each other."
A tight smile curved his employer's mouth. "Don't try to negotiate with me. You are beneath me... human."
Ben swallowed hard. He wanted to believe that the guy was just some kind of demented vampire fantasist. A nut job who was heavy on cash but light on sanity. Except he'd seen what Crimson had done to the kid he'd dealt it to the other night. That horrific transformation had been real, hard as it was to accept. And the ragged, searing gash in his neck was real too.
Panic started hammering hard in his chest.
"Look, I don't know what's going on here. Frankly, I don't wanna know. I just want to get the hell out of here in one piece."