Danner wore a viper’s smile. “We shall see. For that’s the purpose of my little confession.” His expression became malevolent as he came to the bed and sat down on its edge. “You. Hurt. Me. Mister. Stiles,” he hissed, punctuating each word with a finger jabbed into the soldier’s ribs. One of them gave an audible crack, and the soldier winced. Danner continued talking. “I thought imprisonment was the most grievous wrong done me but you went one better. It took all I had to recover from your attack, to regain my strength, to heal myself. You will suffer for that. You will rue the day you raised your hand against me.”

He reached over and smeared his finger with blood from Stiles’s lip and licked it off with rapturous delight. “I could take you now. I could bleed you dry and leave you a mindless husk like those out there. But that seems so . . . simple. You wouldn’t be able to comprehend your plight, would you? No, I want you as I am: fully conscious and able, with all of your faculties and wits intact. You will need them.” He leaned over him. “For this fate can be many things—blessing to some, curse to others. Imagine an unquenchable thirst, and the vile acts you must commit to appease it. Could you bear the shame, the guilt? A moral man, a righteous man, would be tormented throughout eternity.” Then he smiled. “Or at least until he learned to enjoy it. And you will, Mr. Stiles. We are that much alike.”

Stiles strained at his ropes openly. If only I can get to the Uzi . . . “You’re screwing up, Danner,” he stalled. “Making me like you would be your biggest mistake. Then I’d have your powers, and I’d use them against you. I’d can your ass, so help me God.”

Danner laughed. “No vampire can use his powers against his master. Never.”

Stiles managed a disturbing grin. “Just wait and see.”

The vampire’s smirk vanished. “Enough talk,” he snapped. “It’s time.” He stood and stretched like a cat before its meal. “You know, traditionally, the apostle would drink from a wound in the Master’s neck or breast. But for you . . . I’ve another vessel in mind.” He unbuttoned his pants and reached inside. The thing he took in hand was pale and bulbous, like a slug born to darkness. When he ran a fingernail across his penis’s sallow head, it left a ragged scar as if in wax, and, slowly, stolen blood began to seep through the laceration. Stiles squirmed frantically, jerking and tugging at his bonds, but they wouldn’t come loose, not fast enough. Danner seized him by the face and pressed at the jaw hinge, squeezed hard until the soldier had to unclench his teeth and open wide or hear yet another bone crack. “Drink, Mr. Stiles. Drink deep.”