Flanagan’s car arrives, a high-end Mercedes V class with darkened windows and off-road tires, more of a van than a car. The first hazy rays of dawn burn an umber glow across its shiny black doors. The driver parks it beside the van, so I assume he can see through Laasya’s glamour.

Mason and Seonu stalk over and open the rear, exposing a weapons cache fit for a world war. Swords, knives, axes, and various sizes of crossbows line the trunk in neat rows. No guns, though. The Flame must interfere with firearms.

The two soldiers get busy dressing their belts, legs, and wrists with an assortment of mean-looking options. They’re clearly preparing for serious battle. Makes me wonder how many of these Blood Servants will be there. A lot by the looks of it.

I’ve never been a weapons man myself, always relied on my fists, but knowing we’re going up against immortal bloodsuckers leaves even my fingers itching for something long and sharp.

Flanagan slides open the side door and motions for me to get in. He steers me onto the middle of the back seat with a hand on my shoulder. Laasya enters from the other side, and the pair sandwich me, thighs and shoulders touching. Close enough for me to feel tingles with Flanagan. A few minutes later, metal clatters as Mason and Seonu plant themselves opposite, both watchful, eyes constantly scanning the parking lot. Odors of leather and sweat and Laasya’s flowery perfume soon swamp the new-car smell.

The Merc’s cream interior could house a small family. The leather seating is ample, but my chest tightens when Flanagan shuts the door. I take in a long, deep breath and exhale slowly. Riding inside a car isn’t the issue it once was, but I’ll always prefer a motorbike and the wind in my face.

Flanagan shouts to the driver, and we pull away. He catches my eye and hovers his hand over my leg. I sigh and jerk a nod—we won’t be going far if he doesn’t do his Grounding thing.

Once he settles his huge palm across my quad, the Flame energy rushes through my body to meet his touch. It takes my breath. My head lolls back against the headrest. I have to shift in my seat to adjust myself.

“Breathe,” he suggests.

His strong fingers curl into my thigh, pushing my leg against his. A gesture of reassurance, I think. Yeah, not helpful. It leaves me wanting his hand in a very different place. Which is bloody confusing.

I decide firing off questions is my best coping tactic.

“I don’t think I really get what this Flame is. You called it a supernatural energy. What does that mean?”

As I am squashed against him, Flanagan’s baritone vibrates my chest. “The Flame sustains supernatural life. Without it, any creature like the Anlu’kyr will die. Ordinary humans cannot see it or feel it, but they are vulnerable to its effect. Channelers can both see it and use it.”