The councilor straightens to full height. She’s much shorter than Flanagan but manages to peer down her nose at him. “My grandson was Hazed by a raving vampire mongrel. He has probably had his memory interfered with too. His actions in that cage were justified. I’m Vice President of the High Council and outrank you, Lycan. If I want the creature moved to Headquarters, where Commander Belanger can more adequately contain it, you cannot prevent that.”

“You do not outrank me in Blackriver,” Flanagan says, remaining composed. “And as far as I am aware, the High Council is still a democratic body. Commander Belanger may be in charge of Headquarters, but he does not have full jurisdiction over new Channelers. I do. Michael stays here. Councilor Quinton will interview him at the first opportunity.” He motions for her to leave.

Quinton places his hand on her shoulder, but she shakes him off. Stiff as a rock face, lips like a shriveled grape, she strides to the door.

Before leaving, she says, “I will secure a vote from the Council and have your authority on this overridden, Werewolf. It’s quite obvious this half-breed monster has you wrapped around its little finger.” Drawing her chin high, she marches from the room.

Flanagan shuts the door and raises his brow at Quinton.

The councilor tilts his head and shrugs. “Gregory has always been the apple of Gloria’s eye. Her fires may cool if he recovers. I would follow after her, try to change her mind, but I think it best if I stay with Michael.”

Nothing’s going to change that woman’s mind. She knows what she wants. Me locked down in a lab.

My veins boil with rage, but cold nausea creeps through my insides. Her threat might scare the living shit out of me, but Quinton’s impending interview sends a deeper terror seeping through my limbs. Flanagan and Quinton might be protecting me now, but when they find out what happened in the cage, with Alexei’s intervention, and me calling Flame from those Shifters, they’ll be the ones throwing away the key.

Chapter 18

18

“Please begin, Major,” Flanagan orders.

He stands at the back of the room in his statue of Thor pose—arms folded, expression unreadable. Quinton watches through the glass window with Laasya and the two soldiers.

Zahir places a steadying hand on my shoulder. I appreciate his solid presence. He reminds me of my jijitsu trainer—a colossal African-American with a physique Conan would be proud of. My trainer didn’t have golden eyes, though. He didn’t smell of cats either.