“Okay, thanks.” I try to take the book from his hand, but he holds on to it. “You can collect this tomorrow when you come to see me. We will talk, you and I.” His gaze meets mine, and I catch a flash of jade green.

Be careful. Quinton’s voice seeps into my mind. You cannot trust anyone but me. Not even the commander.

I glance Laasya’s way, but she’s tugging out another one of the massive grimoires. I give Quinton a slight nod, though I’m not convinced by his words.

Quinton gives me the faintest return nod. Out loud, he says, “Run along now, Michael. You don’t want to keep the commander waiting.”

Chapter 20

20

Flanagan marches me to a training room in the north wing of the mansion, a large dojo-type space with a springy wooden floor, white curtains covering the windows, and a wall plastered in weapons. Midday sunshine floods down from skylights in the high ceiling, streaking the floor with a patchwork of gold. I’m more used to a boxing ring, but I’ve spent enough hours rolling around shiny wooden slats to feel at home in a room like this.

“So, you’ve brought me here to whoop your ass, have you?” I’m hoping light humor might break through the concrete-level tension in Flanagan’s demeanor. I can guess he’s pissed at Alexei. Or the Belanger at Headquarters. Or himself.

He cuts me a look. “I need to assess your training requirements.”

“With weapons?”

“With your new skills.”

“Meaning my new vamp strength with all its jazz?” I walk across the room to check out the weapons. Multiple blades dress the wall, from daggers to longswords and everything in between. Beyond the line of swords, neat rows of hooks hold axes, spears, tridents, and even whips.

Flanagan locks the door, dumps the manacles on the floor, then comes to stand beside me. “Your new abilities may surprise you even more than they have already.”

I am curious about the changes my awakened DNA has brought. Back home, my new strength and speed would render me a Class A competitor. I’d win every competition. Here, it only equalizes the field. Not with Flanagan, though. I get the impression his insane strength is rare, even by supernatural standards.

“Better prepare for an ass-kicking then, wolfman.” I step back to flourish some nunchucks, whipping the batons in circles as if I know what I’m doing. “I’m gonna show you how this shit’s done.”

Flanagan chuckles, eyes crinkling. I like seeing some of that stoic rigidity he carries drop away. When I woke chained to his bed this morning, I’d have given anything to come at the guy with a sharp edge. Especially knowing he’d “helped” me through two nights and a day of a sexual trance I don’t remember. But somehow the overbearing bastard has sunk beneath my skin.