I feel a dark intrusion, as sharp as a knife, slice into my mind, and I can’t escape the searing pain. It goes straight for the parchment.

Get out, I shout.

It’s futile. I watch with horror as a swish of that cold blade severs the memory from its anchor and the image falls. Down into darkness, into nothing. A blinking star ripped from its place in the sky and sent to the bottom of a black lake. And as the light falls, my heart breaking for something I knew was essential but is now lost to me, a slender hand snatches it from the dark and disappears. As fast as a shaft of sunlight and so smooth, the move goes unnoticed by the witch, who now wears a satisfied smile.

“I am your friend, Michael. Your only true ally here at Blackriver.”

Quinton releases my hands, and I’m left blinking in the afternoon sunlight. I grasp the bookshelf, breathless and soaked with sweat. I can’t remember why.

The man standing beside me smiles.

Chapter 11

11

The door bangs open, and Flanagan strides in with a grim face. “You’ll have to bring the interview to a close, Councilor. We may have a situation brewing at Longreach.”

“Aaah,” Quinton says. “The prince is making a move, no doubt?”

Flanagan doesn’t reply. His eyes are fixed on me. “Michael?” He stalks across the room to me.

I’m staring at my hands, still trying to make sense of my rapid heartbeat and the sweat soaking my skin. My fingers lack the familiar tingle of a panic attack, so it can’t be that, but I feel as if I’ve been pumping iron or fighting some unseen opponent.

When I turn to look up at Flanagan, his stern face is out of focus, but my heart gives a little kick when his pale eyes meet mine.

“I’m—I’m okay. I think.”

Flanagan cups my chin to raise my face. I let him draw me into his space. Even when he cradles my head between his hands to examine me, I don’t resist. I grip his wrists and rest into his touch, my lips parting as I take in a deep breath of that luscious rain-washed-forest scent. A stirring begins in my groin, but mostly I’m reassured by the solid strength of Flanagan’s presence.

“Look at me, Michael.”

I raise my eyes. His masculine features come into focus: the dark blond curl of his clipped beard; his full lips; his thick brows, drawn tightly together. But my thoughts are sluggish, and I can’t quite make sense of the fury in his eyes.

“What the hell did you do, Quinton?”

The councilor throws open his hands. “There is no need for concern, Gabriel. Michael will return to his bright self in only a few moments.”