I believe her. My little witch. I hug her closer and enjoy a breath of her rose scent. “I’m just relieved you’re okay,” I say.

She flicks her hand, her nose wrinkling. “You were lucky. I’ll kick your butt next time.”

I smile, not quite able to raise a chuckle. Worry swells again. “Flanagan. You haven’t told me if he’s okay. Is he back?”

Quinton shakes his head. “Not yet. I am quite sure he is not in need of rescue. You have no reason to worry.”

No reason to worry? Alexei and the witches could have killed him. Kidnapped him. Left him trapped on the cliff to die. Why has nobody gone to help him?

I stand again on shaky legs, heart racing. “Alexei trapped Flanagan behind a forcefield thing. I need to go back.”

“A witchnet,” Laasya says. “Well, at least they didn’t use silver this time.” Silver? This time? What if they did?

Quinton tries to encourage me back down with a hand on my shoulder.

“Mr. Blakeley,” the nurse says, stepping forward to persuade me back to the bed. “I must insist you lie down. Your body needs to recuperate.” She’s a squat woman with a big chest and stern face. I’m sure not many people would dare argue with her, but I’ve got shit to do. Rest will have to wait. Why is nobody else worried about Flanagan? He’s not invincible.

I push against Quinton’s hold, new strength filling my limbs. “I’ll lie down later. I can’t believe he’s been there all night while I’ve been bloody sleeping.”

“Dead, Michael,” Quinton corrects, tone sharp. “You were dead. You need time to recover.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not dead now. I’m going back. You can come with me or not. It’s up to you.”

Laasya takes my hand. “The commander would be furious with us if we left Blackriver to rescue him. He’ll want us here, Michael.”

I pull away and, circling past Quinton and the nurse, shove through the curtain.

I’m met by eight men in black.

Prison guards, carrying loops of thick chain. My heart leaps into my throat, and blood sinks to my feet. Blackriver plans to lock me down.

The droning bustle of the infirmary trails off. Every eye in the Nightingale ward turns to watch, patients sitting up on their beds and stretchers. Nurses in white hustle the onlookers to step farther back. A mess of disheveled, injured soldiers, bandaged and bloodstained, fills the room, two to a bed, and others in between. Students in blood-splattered gray mill around, clutching themselves, miserable and scared. The place looks like a war zone hospital camp. I suppose it is. Remorse blooms in my chest, metallic and heavy.