Voices fill my ears, whispers, groaning, wailing. A bustle of activity vibrates my senses. The stringent scent of alcohol hits my nostrils, closely followed by the copper smell of blood.

“Yes, I think he’s waking.” Quinton’s nasal tones. Michael. Michael, can you hear me?

I blink open my eyes. The last echoes of the Faelands with its green lake and dark cave flutter away like a distant dream. The woman’s flaming face. The voice from the cave. My attention snaps back to my throbbing head.

Bright light prickles my vision. I’m lying on my back, a white ceiling with candle chandeliers above me, a circle of worried faces crowding around. Laasya leans close, her hands laid on my body. A bandage wraps her head. She looks exhausted, dark rings showing beneath eyes that glimmer with a wet sheen. Thank God she’s okay. Quinton stands over the bed, brow crumpled with concern. A woman in the traditional nurse’s outfit of a white dress with apron and cap stands at my feet, holding my ankles. Warmth trickles into my muscles from her touch.

“Where am I? Is Flanagan back?” My voice comes out a croaky whisper.

“No need to concern yourself over the commander,” Quinton answers. “You are in the infirmary. How do you feel?”

I scan my body, stretching fingers and wiggling toes. There’s a weakness in my limbs, though I can move them, form a tight fist, and lift my legs. The absence of the Flame’s heat sizzling through my spine and nerves feels peculiar, but the painful pins and needles sensation is more a soft tingle.

“I’m good. Is Flanagan okay?”

Laasya’s shoulders slump. The nurse expels a breath.

Quinton sighs. “Well, that is a relief. We were very worried about you, my boy.” He looks as tired as Laasya. Deep lines web his cheeks. His usually neat hair curls against his forehead in dark, sweaty strands, and a dirt-splattered shirt with muddy trousers has replaced his tweed elegance. His words sound genuine, but now I know what he did, I see him in a new light. I don’t know if he’s friend or foe.

The nurse turns to the clustering onlookers and shoos them away. “Clear the space, please. Nothing to see here.” She tugs the curtains around the bed closed.

“What about the vampires? The Blood Servants?”

“All gone. Thanks to you, my boy,” Quinton says. “Try moving your limbs.”

I’m aware they didn’t answer my question about Flanagan. I swing my legs around and sit up on the edge of the bed. Stiffness hinders my movements, and my joints ache, but I feel okay. When I rise to stand, my knees give out. Quinton catches my fall with an arm around my waist and guides me back to the bed. I grip his elbows while a wave of dizziness sweeps over me.