I can’t tell which of the black throng are the vampires. How do you tell the difference between vampires and Blood Servants? All the brutes in black look the same: big, rough, and mean.

At the far side of the grounds, on top of a grassy rise, four dark-haired women sit in the same pose as Laasya and her colleagues. Alyona is one of them, eyes closed, mouth moving. The morning breeze tousles her long hair. Are the witches in some private battle of their own? Invisible to everyone around them but as deadly as a sword fight.

When I look back at Seonu, I take in a sharp breath. She’s not doing well. Her previous opponent lies dead beside her, his own mace buried in his head, but another grisly brute flattens her to the concrete. Silver flames lick along the blade soon to be buried in her throat. She’s grimacing with the effort of keeping it at bay, and he’s grinning with the triumph of a victor.

She needs help. I clasp the door handle with my sweat-slicked fingers, eyes darting around to spot any potential aid. There’s plenty of action around her, but nobody free. Mason stands with his back to her, firing at a group of Blood Servants storming toward the witches. The witches are lost to their chanting. Seonu is on her own. Flanagan asked me to stay in the car, but I either sit here like a candy-ass chicken and watch her die, or I do something.

I throw open the door and rush across the rubble-strewn ground. I may not have a weapon, but if I only distract the bastard, it’ll help.

I don’t make it.

There’s a blur of black from my right, and I almost swallow my tongue as my throat slams into a large open hand. I claw at the offending wrist, but the Blood Servant squeezes until my eyes bulge in their sockets. My toes scrape the ground as I dangle from the end of the man’s beefy arm.

I deliver a quick, hard jab to the soft skin on either side of his elbow with my knuckles, forcing him to jerk his hand away.

He snarls at me. “Aah, ya fucker.”

As he straightens, I spring forward to punch his exposed throat, but the giant moves freakishly fast. He clamps my wrist, pulls hard to lift me through the air, and crashes me down onto the concrete. Air explodes from my lungs. A rib cracks. And crapping bitch balls, it hurts. I barely manage to block the fist headed for my face. I suck in a lungful and kick out, aiming for his nuts. The heel of my boot sinks with satisfying accuracy into soft flesh, and the man doubles over, grabbing his groin with a curse.

It doesn’t stop him.

With a smug grin, he thumps a foot onto my chest, pinning me to the ground. I jab at the man’s calf and squirm beneath the vise-like hold, but it’s useless. I might as well have a van parked on my chest.