Danner’s expression changed in midsentence. His eyes widened, and the pupils, like dark empty holes, suddenly flashed with rims of silver. His breathing increased, panting, and his lips quivered with expectation. His nostrils flared at the scent of . . . oh, Christ. Stiles suddenly realized. Blood. The vampire leaned closer and muttered something soft and excited under his breath, and a pale, raspy tongue licked out at the cut in the prisoner’s lip. Stiles spat at him in disgust and pushed himself deeper into the mattress but the thing followed, tracing a path along his cheek to the gash above his eye. Danner started to purr in his throat as he sucked at the wound, and his breathing grew faster and the purr became a growl and he grabbed the soldier’s hair and wrenched his head to one side. “NO!” Stiles yelled in disbelief, his tone becoming frantic when he felt the clammy lips fasten to his throat.

But suddenly Danner threw himself back from the bed. He stood there, tensed and glaring, struggling for control, and in that instant, in the flickering cast of the TV, he looked starkly different. He was no longer the fresh-faced young man from the picture in the newspaper; it was as if that image had become transparent, and Stiles could stare through it to the creature beneath. It was the same creature he’d faced two nights earlier. Its frame was rigid, its shoulders hunched, and the head jutted forward at an unnatural angle. Its eyes were wide and livid, and the long teeth bared in a feral smile. “No,” the creature hissed, more to itself than Stiles. It stalked toward the window and looked away, and slowly its composure returned. When Danner looked back, his youthful facade was reinstated. “No,” he sighed, calmer now. “Not yet. There’s time enough for that.” He stepped closer to the bed, paused to lick a smear of blood from his fingertip. “It won’t be that easy, Stiles. Not by a mile.” He went back to his chair and settled himself. Gomer Pyle had been replaced by Hogan’s Heroes, but it didn’t seem to bother him.

Stiles lay shivering and finally managed to swallow the knot in his throat so he could breath again. That image, that devil’s face still lingered before his mind’s eye, the feel of that mouth on him . . . Dammit, man. Think! There has to be a way out of this! He surged against his bonds again, hoping in desperation that this time, somehow, they would give. But a new, stinging pain brought him up short. He found his wrists torn and bleeding; during the struggle the ropes had slipped halfway over his hands, taking a layer of skin with them. Despite further burns and the pain to his broken fingers, he was sure he could pull free. But what then, he wondered. His legs were still held fast. What would he do?