His head hurt. The pounding was so intense his stomach rolled threateningly. His mind in a fog, he clenched his already closed eyes and brought a hand up to check the head. Or attempted to. His hand held fast. He tugged at the other, but it, too, was immobile. Realizing he was restrained, the fog gave way to panicked confusion. Even though the light was low, it still sent shards of pain through his eyes and into his brain when he glanced down, he could make out black straps with silver buckles holding his wrists to the arms of a chair. Not a chair, a wheelchair. A wave of familiar dread washed over him.

The Black Panthers? It was on his list of threats he'd been working through, and he'd planned to talk to Peter about it. But he'd held back. He hadn't wanted to open that old, rotten can of worms between them. Now it was too late to warn his friend he might be in danger. Despite his best efforts, he'd still brought danger to those he cared about. He'd been a fool to let sentiment bring him back to New York, to think he could have a life here untainted by his past. He was poison to those he cared about, a death sentence to anyone-

He flinched as blinding light flooded the room, cutting through his thoughts. Instinctively, he clenched his eyes until a familiar voice sounded.

"Good. You're awake."

He opened his eyes to face his captor.

"Creed?" He croaked in disbelief, the mental whiplash making his head pound all the harder. Not the Black Panthers. Not the Cordero family or one of their enemies. Not someone from his more distant past. Creedance Branson. The somewhat disillusioned, Wanna-be artist who had been recently harassing his staff. "What the hell is going on?"

The man's arm swept to indicate his now visible surroundings. A dozen easels with paintings stood around the room. Having already seen a good number of them, Neal recognized the man's work. "We are going to do art, Mr. Clay."

"I'm not doing a damn thing with you," Neal thundered, his rage rising at the gall of the man. "Did you drug me?" He demanded, pulling on the straps that held his wrists to the chair. "Let me out of this chair right now!"

"You are not in charge here, Mr. Clay," Creed snapped, his eyes flashing. "This is my gallery. Unlike you," his eyes narrowed. "I am not a sell-out, a traitor who commercializes my craft."

Creed had vandalized his car. Had thrown the rock through the window. Had splashed paint on the buildings on the block. And he thought this would make him buy his work?

The man wasn't just disillusioned; he was delusional. Neal barked a laugh.

"You've been trying to peddle your craft at every gallery in the area," he reminded. "Don't lecture me on commercializing art. I've explained our stance on unsolicited artwork and tried to support your efforts, but this...this is insane." The sudden change in Creed's expression gave him pause. Perhaps he should tread a bit more carefully. "You can't just kidnap people off the street, Creed," he added, softening his voice. "That's not the way to gain success in the art world."

Creed stared at him, his odd, almost thoughtful look still evident. When he spoke, his tone was softer as well.

"Remember when you told me all good artists leave a part of themselves on the canvas?" Before Neal could answer, the man pulled up his sleeve, revealing small, thin lines of scars along his forearm. "I began doing exactly that years ago." He dropped his gaze to his arm. "But cuts only provided small amounts to work with." Again he looked at Neal. "Did you know blood is only usable for half an hour?"

An uneasy tingle began to creep up Neal's neck at the overbright, fanatical shine in the man's eyes. His mouth dry, Neal shook his head.

"It's true. It gets thick," Creed explained, "and there is no good way to thin it." He waved to the painting surrounding them. "To do larger works, I have to have more substantial amounts, and I have to work fast." He again met Neal's eyes. "I've left myself on each of these, Mr. Clay, and you still rejected them."

Neal opened his mouth to say he'd meant it metaphorically, not literally but realized logic wasn't going to work in this situation. He'd written off the man's pallor and unkempt appearance an effort to be some idealized version of a young, tortured, starving artist. And it had grown more pronounced each time Creed had shown up at the gallery, new work in tow. Now he realized it wasn't that, or at least not just that; it was something much worse.

"Creed," he began, trying to determine how best to connect with the obviously unstable young man before him. "I'm sorry, I didn't understand."

"But you will," Creed replied, stepping out of Neal's line of sight. He returned a moment later with a small, portable table which he unfolded and placed beside Neal. Again, he moved behind Neal and, this time, returned with a small duffle bag. Placing the bag on the table, he began to unpack what appeared to be medical items. It only took a moment for Neal to realize what the things were used for and that Creed meant to use them on him.

"You can't do this," he bit out as Creed organized his tools on the table, then assembled the needle he planned to use. "You can't just take my blood."

"But I can," Creed replied, sitting a small white plastic bucket on the floor by Neal's chair. "I've had lots of practice," he continued, unrolling a coil of tubing, "and it will be much easier to take your blood than it is to take my own." Creed wasn't delusional; he was deranged.

Creed gave the blue rubber tourniquet a quick snap before securing it around Neal's arm. Neal struggled, ineffectively, against the straps holding him fast to the chair.

"Perfect," Creed mused, tapping the now visible vein in Neal's arm. "You have great veins, Mr. Clay."

Neal immediately stilled. He licked his lips. "Please don't do this, Creed. We can work something out. Just let me go."

"I'm sorry," Creed replied, tearing open an alcohol prep pad, "Can't do that." He rubbed the chosen site vigorously. At least he was sterile. "Don't worry, Mr. Clay," he continued, discarding the pad and taking the needle in hand. "It won't hurt; just a little pinch."

Creed grabbed his lower arm firmly, drawing the skin taut. Neal hissed as the needle broke the skin and blood flashed into the catheter. Creed attached the tube, and blood began to flow from Neal's arm down the line into the bucket. He looked at Neal triumphantly. "See? Simple. It won't take long to get what we will need to start."

Neal watched the blood level rise in the bucket, a wave of nausea washing over him. "Start what?"

"Our collaboration, of course."