6. Blood On The Wall

A staring contest, for the lack of better word. That's all that's happened between Mr. Winchester and the man he calls Elijah. Fifties, nasty scar along his jaw line, dead dark eyes, thin lips pulled in a tight line, an expensive tuxedo that screams power and style.

Several rings adorn his fingers and they glint in the light as he pulls the pipe from his lips and releases the vile smoke that has me holding my breath.

Oh, but the tension goes all the way to the roof. Behind Mr. Winchester and I, there are half a dozen guards. All armed. Elijah has his too, hands resting on their guns, ready to unload the bullets.

I try as much as possible to shrink back in the chair. I am not prepared to find out if I can outrun a bullet. I do hope my pay check is worth this danger.

"Perhaps, she could be the subject," Elijah says, voice cold like ice as he regards me.

I feel Mr. Winchester stiffen beside me, though his expression remains blank. "Your last sample had my secretary bedridden for months.