“The lab, sir? Don’t you want to finish her off here?”
I blinked again. That was Silvio’s bland tone. He might have wanted me to kill Benson, but no doubt, he’d be all too happy to hand his boss a gun so Benson could shoot me now.
“And waste this rare research opportunity? Absolutely not,” Benson purred. “I have something far more interesting in mind for her. Give her a sedative, and get her in the car.”
Silvio crouched down beside me, a syringe in his hand. He gave me an almost apologetic look, but he followed his boss’s orders and leaned forward. The needle pricked my arm.
Lights out again.
•
The world didn’t go completely black this time. But a fog enveloped my mind that made it hard for me to do more than just slowly blink, much less fight back. And every time I opened my eyes, something different was happening.
Blink.
Two of the vamps rolled me over onto my back, and Silvio patted me down, slipping off the spider rune ring on my right index finger. He also removed all of my knives, including the extra ones in my vest, then went over and retrieved the weapon I’d been holding when I’d been roadkilled by the SUV.
Blink.
The two vamps scooped me up off the pavement and shoved me into the back of an SUV. My arms and legs flopped every which way, as though they were made out of gelatin instead of flesh and bone. Silvio slid in next to me, carefully propping me up, straightening my legs, and folding my hands in my lap, making me comfortable. He even took the time to buckle my seat belt. I snickered at the irony of that, although the sound was barely louder than a croak.
Blink.
The SUV stopped in the circular driveway that fronted Benson’s mansion. The vamps undid my seat belt, grabbed hold of my arms, and dragged me out of the vehicle, up a set of stairs, and into the building. Benson strode along in front of us, his sneakers squeak-squeak-squeaking like they had the hiccups. My own boots skidded along the floor, the toes catching on the rugs and smearing blood, dirt, and bits of garbage all over the fine fabrics and glossy hardwood that peeped out between them. Silvio brought up the rear, moving as silently as a ghost.
Blink.
The vamps dragged me down a set of steps and into a large basement, one filled with people.
Most of them were probably in their late teens and early twenties, but their dull, glazed eyes, slack, wrinkled features, and thin, almost emaciated bodies made them seem much, much older, as though they’d already used up most of the life inside them and were waiting for the rest to be slowly extinguished.
These were the faces of addicts.
People sprawled across couches, curled up on futons, and lay facedown on pillows that had been strewn across the floor, their knobby knees and bony elbows making them look like toy sticks that a child had scattered everywhere in a tantrum. Their clothes ranged from typical street rags and tattered T-shirts layered one on top of another to khakis and cargo pants to high-end silk business suits. Plastic bags full of tin cans, expensive backpacks bulging with books, and silverstone briefcases stuffed with paperwork lay at the feet of their respective owners. Bums, college kids, office workers. All brought here by their need for something to drown out the voices in their heads, give them a thrilling high, or take away the dull monotony of their lives. All laid low by that need, circling the drain toward that final, utter oblivion.
Drugs were truly a terrible equalizer.
Incense burned in thick bunches in the corners, while fat sachet bags of potpourri dangled from the ceiling like mirror balls between several swirling ceiling fans. But the heavy perfumes, swirls of sweet smoke, and constant rush of air couldn’t hide the foul, bitter stench of the blood, vomit, and urine that had soaked into the couches, futons, and pillows. And absolutely nothing could drown out the sound of the cinder-block walls, as the stone alternately screamed, shrieked, and spewed out nonsensical dark dreams, darker demons, and other desperate, dangerous desires.
Blink.
It was the wail of the stone walls that finally penetrated my own sedative-induced fog, and I focused on that desperate, mournful noise, letting it pull me up out of the tunnel vision I’d been trapped in. Slowly, my mind cleared. I tried to summon up the energy to wrench free of the men holding on to me, or at least get my arms and legs to move of their own accord. But no matter how hard I concentrated, I couldn’t get anything to work, not even my tongue, which was as thick and dry as a wad of cotton stuffed into the bottom of my mouth.
I also reached for my magic, for all that Ice and Stone power flowing through my veins. But just like my limbs, my magic lay numb and heavy inside me, as though it were a two-ton boulder I was trying to lift. Sweat beaded on my temples from heaving, straining, pushing, and clawing at my power, but whatever drug Silvio had given me kept me from getting a grip on my magic, much less creating an Ice knife with it.
The people stirred as Benson moved through the basement, lifting their heads up out of the cold cradles of their spindly arms, their gazes suddenly sharp, alert, and completely focused on him. One man stretched out a skeletal hand and clutched at the vampire kingpin’s pant leg as he passed, a helpless, pleading note in his incoherent cries. Benson stopped, pulled out his pen and pad, and made a few notes about the man’s condition. Then he patted the man on the head like a dog and walked on.
Benson snapped his fingers, and the vamps dragged me through the drug den, with Silvio still following along behind us. A mirror covered most of the back wall, giving me a glimpse of my own reflection—dirty, beaten, bloody.
But not broken. Never that.
Benson opened a door set into the wall next to the mirror, and the vamps dragged me through it. I was expecting another drug den, but where the basement had the thinnest veneer of opulence, this area had the clinical, sterile, in-your-face feel of a doctor’s office. A faint tang of alcohol hung in the air, mixed with some lemony cleaner. Everything was white, from the tile floor and ceiling to several industrial-size refrigerators along the back wall. Even the cinder blocks had been painted white, although dull stains marred the slick finish in spots. A long metal table hugged another wall, the top bristling with mortars, pestles, beakers, burners, and wooden racks full of small glass vials filled with brightly colored powders.
But my eyes locked onto the centerpiece of the room: a large white padded dentist’s chair outfitted with silverstone arm, leg, and neck shackles.
And I realized that this wasn’t anything like a doctor’s office.
It was a lab, and I was the rat.
“Strip her,” Benson ordered, going over to one of the sinks along the wall and washing his hands.