“Any material preventing the Flame from flowing freely irritates the skin. Only leather and thin natural materials are comfortable for Channelers. The Flame is highly concentrated at Blackriver, which makes it even worse. We have a specially made linen Channelers can wear. Otherwise, it’s leather for everything.”

“Right. Sounds great,” I say without enthusiasm.

“You’ll get used to all these changes. New Channelers usually adjust to the Flame within six months or so.”

Six months? I was hoping more like six days.

Laasya gives me a friendly poke with her elbow. “Yeah, don’t worry. You’ll soon be a dab hand. Once you get used to constant discomfort, that is.” She offers a comical grimace that makes me smile.

At least there’s one friendly person in this group. Seonu and Mason are write-offs. Flanagan, I haven’t worked out yet. The intense pull between us confuses me, and his friendliness is laced with suspicion. The shadow warned me not to give him the name on the parchment. The name that is possibly my true surname. I’m not going to trust a creepy shadow, but I can’t trust Flanagan either.

The car takes a left, and we pull off the side road into the abandoned industrial site Flanagan mentioned. An old steelworks by the looks of it. The lifeless bones of Lancaster’s industrial era.

“Is this Blackriver?” I ask, peering out the window to spot the half-realm dimension thingy. I can see a distant high wall with a roof and castle turret jutting behind. Is that supposed to be hidden? In the foreground, broken windows stare back at me from hollow red-brick buildings. The eerie shells loom above crumbled concrete grounds and piles of discarded rubble. The old steelworks resembles a spooky ghost town from a zombie apocalypse.

I don’t get an answer to my question. A deeper tension fills the car. Laasya stills beside me, Mason and Seonu curse, and Flanagan’s hand grips my thigh. My stomach flips over—I’m pretty sure I know what’s going down.

“How many, Laasya?” Flanagan asks.

“A lot,” she answers. “Anlu’kyr too.”

“Fuck,” Mason says, checking his knives. Seonu does the same.

Flanagan shouts at the driver to stop the Mercedes, and I’m thrown against the seat belt as the van screeches to a halt.

“Is Nelson’s unit here?” Seonu asks.

Laasya shuts her eyes. “There are, I think, three units of Guardians and three witches, Captain.”

Flanagan unfastens his seat belt and throws it aside. “Seonu, Mason, get yourselves ready. Peters,” he shouts to the driver, “follow Seonu. Laasya, call the witches together.” All the doors fly open, and the team shoots off to follow his orders.

Flanagan turns to me as the doors thump shut again. “Michael, you must stay inside the car.”

My gut’s a clenched fist, but I’m not sitting this out like a damsel in distress. “Let me help.”

“You’re not trained. And it’s you they’re here for. I’m not about to make their task easier. Stay in the car until it’s over.”