He straightens and folds his arms again, towering over me. “We took a sample the first day you were here. Over forty percent of the blood in your veins is Anlu’kyr. A human has to drink for decades to incur that amount of change. You’re on the verge of a turn, Channeler. And it will take very little blood to push you over.”

I frantically try to sort through his words to understand. “That’s…that’s got to be wrong. Your results are wrong.”

Flanagan takes a slow breath. “We took three vials of blood. The lab ran numerous tests. We are not wrong.” He raises his finger and thumb, a small gap between them. “You are this close. Another year with your master and you would have started the transformation. Or did you already know that?”

“I haven’t got a master,” I bite out, but I can tell by his stony expression he doesn’t believe me. “There has to be another explanation for those results. I’ve never even seen a vampire before that psycho bitch in the alley. And anyway, what do you mean, change? I thought you said they were a different species?”

“They are. But enough of their blood causes a biological shift in Channelers. It’s a way the Anlu’kyr procreate. I’m surprised you’re not already showing symptoms.” He pauses, then shakes his head. “There is no other explanation. You can’t have been born that way. Anlu’kyr and human couplings are infertile. You have to be lying or the victim of a memory assault.”

Shit. This is messed up. I’ve woken into a world as bent out of shape as those silver bars. The thought I could be a bloodsucker leaves me sick. How the hell have I gotten vampire blood in my system? Maybe my head really has been messed with by one of those creatures. As far as I’m concerned, I’m one hundred percent home-grown human.

I’m about to have another go at convincing him I’m telling the truth—they need to do those tests again—but the oak doors open, and Laasya walks through them.

“Yes, Laasya?” Flanagan asks without taking his eyes off me.

The waif-sized witch looks the same as she did the last time I saw her—frumpy brown linen dress and cardigan, wild dark hair, thick glasses in place. She’s carrying a bottle of water, a flask, and a paper bag. My stomach gurgles with the hope it’s lunch.

She glances over me with pity in her big brown eyes before speaking. “Councilor Quinton has arrived, Commander. He wants to see Michael in his office as soon as possible.”

“Good, good. Send one of the guards to tell the councilor you’ll escort him over as soon as he’s had something to eat.”

“Yes, sir.”

Laasya leaves, and my attention shifts back to Flanagan. “Councilor Quinton?”