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“They told me not to say anything to anyone,” he said, words rushing out of him.

“Who’s they?”

“I don’t know—whoever’s been paying me to manufacture the shit.”

Dante scowled. “You make Crimson yourself?”

The human attempted a nod, his movement restricted by the cold steel still hovering near his throat. “I’m a scientist—at least, I was. I used to work as a chemist for a cosmetics firm until I got fired a few years ago.”

“Skip the unemployment record and tell me about Crimson.”

Sullivan swallowed carefully. “I created it for the nightclub scene, just to make some extra cash. Last summer, not too long after I started dealing it, this dude approached me about stepping up production. He said he had contacts who wanted to get in with me, and they were willing to pay big for it.”

“But you don’t know who your business partners are?”

“No. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Never mattered to me, really. Whoever it is, they pay in cash, lots of it. They leave my payments in a safe-deposit box at the bank.”

Dante and Chase exchanged a look, both of them knowing what the human was probably ignorant of—that he was dealing with Rogues, most likely tied in with the leader of the new faction of suckheads who, as of a few months ago, had been organizing, preparing for a war their leader intended to ignite among the vampire race. Dante and the rest of the Order had put a serious kink in those plans when they blew up the asylum headquarters, but they hadn’t eliminated the threat completely. So long as the Rogues could recruit and increase their numbers—particularly with the aid of a drug like Crimson—the possibility of war was more a question of when than if.

“What’s the big fucking deal anyway? Crimson’s not hardcore. I’ve even taken it myself in my own trials. It’s just a mild stimulant, not much different from X or GHB.”

Standing next to Dante, Chase scoffed. “Not much different. The hell it isn’t. You saw what happened the other night.”

Dante pressed the blade a bit closer. “You got a front-row seat to that little freak show, didn’t you?”

Sullivan’s jaw clamped tight, his eyes latched on to Dante in uncertainty. “I…I’m not sure what I saw. I swear.”

Dante pinned him with a narrow, measuring glare. He could tell the human was anxious, but was he lying? Damn, he wished Tegan had come along. No one, human or Breed, could hide the truth from that warrior. Of course, knowing Tegan, he’d be just as liable as Dante to want to take the human out for bringing this misery to the vampire population.

“Listen.” Sullivan tried to stand up but got Dante’s palm in the center of his chest, planting his ass right back down on the chair. “Hear me out, please. I never wanted to hurt anyone. Things have gotten…Christ, everything’s messed up now, dangerous. I’m in over my head, and I’m getting out. Tonight, in fact. I called my contact, and I’m going to meet with them to let them know I’m finished. They’re coming to get me in a couple of minutes.”

At the window, Chase put a finger between the aluminum miniblinds and peered out to the street below. “Dark sedan idling at the curb,” he advised, then glanced at the human. “Looks like your ride’s here.”

“Shit.” Ben Sullivan shrank back in the chair, his hands moving nervously on the ratty arms of the La-Z-Boy. He flicked a wary glance up at Dante. “I have to go. Damn it, I need my gun back.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Dante sheathed his malebranche blade and went over to the window. He peered out at the waiting vehicle. Although it was impossible to tell much about the driver from overhead, he was willing to bet it was either a Rogue or a Minion at the wheel, and another one sat on the passenger side. He turned back to the human. “If you get in that car, you’re as good as dead. How do you get in touch with your contact—you got a number to reach him?”

“No. They gave me a disposable cell phone. It’s got a single number programmed into speed dial, but they encrypted it, so I don’t know where I’m actually calling.”

“Let me see it.