I examine the nearest shelf of peculiarities. I have to surreptitiously adjust my pants again, still suffering a mild Haze after the test room. Not enough to turn me into a memory-disabled sex maniac, but my semi keeps threatening to swell, and Flanagan’s words you’ll know when I fuck you, Michael are playing on a loop in my head.

It’s funny. The heightened sexual awareness gives me no interest in anyone else. No matter how pretty the women I met today, nobody piqued my interest. All I can see are silver eyes. I’m fixated—on a man. On a six-foot-seven Scandinavian werewolf man with King Kong pecs. Either I’m not as straight as I always assumed, or the Flame has it bad for True Grounders.

I study the skull of some humanoid creature with protruding tusks and try for distraction. “Does Quinton ever use this office? How come you have a key?”

“He lets me have access to his grimoires. He doesn’t really use it anymore. This was his office when he was head of Blackriver.”

Careful to avoid knocking things over with the chain between my wrists, I pick up one of the odd-looking tribal masks—an ugly demon face with its tongue hanging out.

Laasya picks up a different mask, this one with blue horns, and places it in front of her face.

“Yup,” I confirm. “Definite improvement.”

She peeks from behind it and sticks out her tongue. “Liar.”

“Quinton was head of Blackriver?” I ask, vaguely remembering him mentioning that fact when we last met. I find it difficult to imagine the debonair witch commanding soldiers.

“Yes, for forty years.” Laasya hangs the mask on a hook and wanders to one of the other shelves. “About twenty years ago, the Council offered the commander any position he wanted. They asked him to be Guardian General, but he turned it down and requested Blackriver instead. So they promoted Councilor Quinton to the High Council.”

I examine a feathered wand wedged behind a massive quartz pyramid. The wand is one of many, all brightly colored, and beside them hang copper incense holders and various sized bells.

“This place is like one of those hippie shops.”

“Councilor Quinton tends to collect things.”

She pulls a fat tome of a book—leather bound with gold lettering—from a nearby shelf and begins to read the contents page.

I survey the rows of multicolored options. “So, which books should I start with?”

Without looking up, she says, “Well, what do you want to know? What has you the most curious?”

I think about that. There’s really only one answer. “The Warlock dude seems an interesting character.”

Laasya’s offers a bright smile. “Yes, that would be a good place to start. The Warlock wars shaped the modern supernatural world.” She waves a hand at the shelves in the far corner. “I think that section is the history of the Warlock years.”