Mason and Seonu stand at the side with folded arms and sour faces. Laasya finger waves with a warm smile. Quinton, wearing a deep blue version of his tweed three-piece, silver-topped cane in hand, greets me with a doff of his hat.

“How are you, Michael?” he shouts. He doesn’t need to—with my supersenses I can hear a gnat scratch its ass through a brick wall. “How are you feeling?”

As though my life has been exchanged for someone else’s. Someone who was very, very bad in a past life. “Surviving.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

The door opens, and a giant of a man steps into the room. He’s nearly as tall as Flanagan and even wider, with copper skin and a mass of dreadlocks falling to below his shoulders. He wears the garbs of a Guardian soldier, dark suede trousers and hard leather vest.

The two men greet each other with an elbow grasp, genuine pleasure in their smiles.

“Good to have you back, Zahir,” Flanagan says.

“Thank you, Commander. It’s good to be back.” The big man’s baritone sounds like crashing rocks. He turns to me. “So this is Michael, our new Wielder?”

“Yes,” Flanagan says. “Michael, this is Major Zahir. Blackriver’s head trainer.”

The major pins me with his golden eyes. He smells of spice and oranges and cat fur. He must surely be a Shifter.

“Very pleased to meet you, Michael.”

“Thanks. Same.” I offer my hand, and he engulfs it with his firm grip.

His gaze flickers over my collar as he gives my biceps a friendly pinch. “Cub’s got some meat on him. What’s your background?”

I shrug. “Some krav maga, some jujitsu. Mostly kickboxing.”

He grins, teeth bright against dark skin. “Good skills for a new Channeler. I look forward to training you. No need to be nervous about this test, Michael. It’s routine. Every new Channeler is tested this way.”

He motions to the straps, about to speak when the door bangs open. In marches a tall stick of a woman with white-gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, wearing a vintage-style wine-red skirt suit. Chin in the air, shoulders rigid, her imperious demeanor suggests she owns any room she enters. Unwavering gray eyes—the same color as the bastard who nearly raped me—narrow in on my face.

“Is this the creature?”

Flanagan speaks without turning. “Good morning, Councilor Belanger.”

“Good morning, Councilor,” Zahir says. He points to the window. “It will be safer for you to watch from next door.”

Quinton swans into the room behind her, urgency in his step. “Gloria, how good of you to join us. We’ll be witnessing the test from the observation room.” He motions to the door, attempting to ferry her away, but she continues to glare at me, her lips a tight slash of crimson. I’m surprised ice doesn’t form on the walls.