“The fire has damaged the town’s water system, so the firefighters can no longer use the hydrants. Mr. Jahed doesn’t know this, but nonetheless, he’s spooked. On the way here, he and his entourage saw home sprinklers running, saw more than one person standing on their roofs with hoses. The embers can travel for miles, you know—and there are reports of monstrous winds moving in. Mr. Jahed heard that tidbit on the radio. That and chatter about a mandatory evacuation possibly happening in the next couple of hours.”

Am I trapped in a blood farm?

Are they going to drain me?

“The presentation won’t take long,” Paul said.

“Good. He’s very anxious to see the results. How is his mistress?”

“Can you stop talking like someone out of an old movie? His side piece of ass is doing just fine—wonderful, in fact.”

“I hope so, for both our sakes. I’d hate to be victims of a qisas.”

“A what?”

“The Islamic term for revenge. An eye-for-an-eye retribution.”

Why did he clean me up? Put this dress on me?

“I’ll remind you again not to speak crudely in front of him,” the old man said. “Miss Sawyer is a very important person in his life.”

“I’m sure.” Paul grinned. “He does understand that we’re not in Tehran, right? That needs to be presented a certain way.”

“Yes, he understands.”

“And his men—”

“They’ll stay upstairs. Now, what about side effects?”

“Just the ones we discussed,” Paul said.

Grace felt a bolt of panic. It swiftly died, buried underneath the molly. Her thoughts, however, were running rampant, like they’d caught fire. I’m trapped in here they’re going to take my blood but for how long oh my God help me I’m never leaving this place alive—

“I’d like to see her beforehand,” the old man said, “to make sure—”

“Enough. Everything is fine. And look a bit more excited, will you? You’re going to be a very wealthy man.”

“I’m already a very wealthy man.”

“Then you’re about to be an immortal one.”

“I hope your claim about your blood having the same wonderful transformative effects of Pandora turns out to be correct.”

“The results are impressive. Mr. Jahed is going to be blown away. You, too.”

“I hope so. This little showroom you insisted on having me build cost me a rather pretty penny.” The old man sighed, looked around the cells, his gaze drifting past Grace as though he didn’t see her. “My poor wine cellar,” he said.

“Go collect Mr. Jahed. I’ll have Bradley collect his . . . concubine. Is that an appropriate word?”

The old man made a face—not at the word concubine, Grace thought, but at the person named Bradley.

“After this is over, we’re leaving,” the old man said to Paul, “you and I, to celebrate properly. Alone. Mr. Guidry won’t be joining us this time.”

The old man walked away. Paul turned back to Grace, his smile at full wattage.

“There are some shoes under your cot, a pair of nice heels. Would you mind putting them on for me?”