“We look…different. The werewolf is not a natural creature. The mark of the Goddess is the only reason the Council allows a Lycan to command Blackriver. Retribution from the temple for harm to its chosen is instant and ruthless. If it weren’t for that blessing, I would have been exterminated years ago.”

“Seriously? Because werewolves are so hated?”

“Because werewolves are monsters. When the moon is high, we know only slaughter.”

His words make me think of the metal rings plated to the wall above his bed. “Is that why you chain yourself to your bedroom wall?”

He smiles. It’s a sad smile. “Yes. The Goddess granted me the freedom to change at will, but the moon still affects me deeply. I prefer not to take chances.”

The image of Flanagan in chains blazes into my mind. Fastened in a star shape to his bed, muscles rippling as he strains against his bonds. For some reason he’s completely naked.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Huh? Yeah. Fine.”

He lifts a hand to my shoulder. “Show me your placid side in the test today, hmm? No matter what Councilor Belanger says, stay calm. Can you do that for me?”

Probably not. “Yeah. Course.”

He raises a dubious eyebrow but says no more, leading me to the double doors at the far end of the corridor. We descend two flights of stairs to a basement. At the other end of yet another corridor, this one plain with tiled floors and gray walls, we pass through a heavy wooden door and enter a red-brick, bunker-style room with a low ceiling.

My breath stalls. The space is small, like a police interview room, only without furniture, and the one window looks out onto darkness. Two-way glass?

Flanagan notices my reaction. He clutches the back of my neck and pulls me closer. “This won’t take long. I promise we’ll leave the basement as soon as this is over.”

My heart pounds. It’s the type of enclosed space that would have guaranteed a panic attack ten years ago. He waits while I take in deep lungfuls of stale air. When the tingling in my fingers settles, I nod, and he leads me across to the far side. Two lines of eight wooden rings with leather straps attached run parallel along the wall.

Flanagan pulls the manacle key from his pocket. He releases the irons on my ankles and wrists, letting them drop to the floor with a clunk, then unfastens the collar. As the metal ring hinges open, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s good to have that thing off. That bitch is itchy.

While I rub my neck, a light comes on through the glass window, exposing a smaller room with four people watching. Not two-way glass. I’ve obviously watched too many cop shows.