Laasya stands with both hands buried in her cardigan pockets. Apart from the concentrated stare, she seems relaxed. I begin to wonder if she’s going to let me go.

The office door opens and a rich English accent cuts through the room. “You can put the boy down now, Laasya dear. I think that you have made your point.”

Laasya flusters. “Councilor.” She lets go, and I tumble to the wooden floor with a clattering thump, gasping for air. “Sorry, Councilor Quinton. Michael wanted to know if I was safe with him alone.”

Yeah, and now I know.

Chapter 10

10

“What happened?” Flanagan’s Scandinavian growl fills the room as he enters.

I lie slumped against the bookshelf, rubbing my chest. My back’s smarting where my trip across the floor scraped the skin, but I’m seriously impressed with Laasya’s witchy mojo.

“Sorry, sir,” she says. “Michael wondered if I was safe left on my own with him.”

“No need for concern, Gabriel. They were playing, nothing more,” the new voice says in perfect Queen’s English. He steps farther into the room, and I get my first gander of the High Council’s most powerful witch. If Laasya can throw me across a room without touching me, what the hell can this guy do?

He’s not what I expected. Not that I knew what to expect—long black robes and a pointy hat, maybe. I don’t know. But the man presents himself more like a fashionable Oxford gentleman. He’s somewhere in his fifties, tall and thin, and wears a green tweed three-piece suit with leather waistcoat. His immaculate finish gives the impression of an older model from a men’s magazine—including a silver cane and brown fedora, the hat tipped to a rakish angle.

When his gaze fixes on me, an emotion I might peg as triumph crosses his face. His eyes are odd, shadowed, and difficult to meet, but the potency of his stare leaves me uneasy.

Flanagan strides across the room and reaches down to help me stand. “Are you injured, Michael?”

I jerk my arm away from his reach and stumble to my feet, using the bookshelf instead. “Nah. I’m fine. Taken a lot worse.”

“Thank you, Laasya dear,” Quinton says, “for your sterling care of our precious new Channeler. You may leave us now.” He comes closer to peer at me, and I smell mothballs and ink and that chlorine scent.

Laasya gives the councilor what can only be described as an adoring glance. She stammers her words, and her cheeks flush. “Th-thank you, Councilor Quinton. I’ll go, shall I, Commander?”

Flanagan gives her a vague nod. “Thank you, Laasya.”

With a quick wave to me, the young witch leaves the room, shutting the door behind her.

“Michael, this is Councilor Quinton,” Flanagan says. “Head witch of the High Council and their lead interrogator.”

Interrogator?