When we come to a stop, Flanagan gives out his orders. “Seonu, call base and tell them to send backup. Mason, walk a perimeter. Laasya, you know what to do.”

They all bark a “yes, sir.”

Seonu slips out and strides off. Mason throws the back doors open, jumps down, and marches the other way. Laasya bounces to her feet and follows but remains close, her eyes scanning the area.

I note her lack of soldier leathers. She wears a brown linen dress, long enough to touch her ankles, and a matching woolen cardigan. Pouches dangle from the leather belt that cinches her waist. The way the plain clothes hang off her thin frame gives her a frumpy look. I get the impression practicality trumps beauty in Laasya’s world.

Feeble moonlight makes it difficult to see much of what’s outside the doors, but judging by the white parking lines crisscrossing the ground and the dark mass looming beyond, we’ve pulled in at the back of a factory on the north side of the industrial estate. I used to pass it every day on my way to the hospital when I worked there as a porter. Had to leave that job on account of my electric fingers—a lot of vulnerable people depend on electronics in a hospital, and anything with wires doesn’t seem to last long with me around.

At this time of night, these buildings will be empty, the surrounding area free of pedestrians.

Laasya walks a few feet from the van and settles on the ground cross-legged. She bends her head and, resting her hands palm up on her knees, begins chanting.

“She’s forming a glamour around the vehicle,” Flanagan explains. “If anyone passes, they will see an empty space. Guardian teams always travel with a witch. They keep us hidden from questioning eyes.”

“Is that how you got past the bouncers at the bar with those knives on your belt?”

He studies my face, his mouth curving. “That’s right. And you shouldn’t be able to see anything but a business suit either.” His tone turns dry. “I realized you could when you accused me of looking cool in my Viking warrior gear.”

Without giving me a chance to respond, he gets up, his movements smooth for a man of his size, and I take it as my cue to move too. I shuffle to the door, and I’m about to step out, but he turns and plants his hand on my chest.

“Don’t leave the van, Michael. Sit here. I will continue to Ground you while we wait for the car.”

I don’t appreciate him ordering me around. I’m not one of his bloody soldiers. I need to stretch, breathe some air.

“I’m just gonna walk around a bit. Okay?”

He steps sideways into my space. He doesn’t push, but he doesn’t move his hand either. I knew I wasn’t free to leave. I’m sick of him touching me like he has the right.

I grip the pressure point by his thumb to twist his hand off my chest. The move should induce excruciating pain, forcing him to jerk away. I’ve executed the defense countless times. His hand doesn’t budge. Not an inch. His arm holds like a steel girder. Tiny sparks crackle between us, but he just looks down at me, watching my struggle with interest.