Around General Belanger, a mass of grim-looking men and women fight in black leathers. A zoo’s worth of wild animals stream around their legs—wolves, lions, tigers. Large birds fly overhead. Shifters, I presume. His troops press against a mass of tattered humans with ripped clothes and ruined bloodless faces. They almost look like…

I point and turn to Flanagan with a frown. “Are they…?”

The solemn weight in his eyes says it all. “Animated corpses. The Risen.”

“Zombies! No. Fucking. Way.”

“Valentin Sabel was a Flame Whisperer. A rare type of Channeler able to call the Flame. The Anlu’kyr interbred one of the Whisperer bloodlines with a witch line, then fed them powerful water from a magical lake in the Faelands, and this gave them unusual abilities.” Flanagan points at the horned madman. “In his case, it gave him power over the dead.”

“Shit a brick. That’s heavy. The army won in the end, though? I mean the dude is dead, right?”

“At the cost of many lives, they won in the end. Though some in the supernatural community considered him an overking, the Sabel bloodline was outlawed and ended when Valentin’s daughters were executed. A shame, but for obvious reasons, his line had to be terminated. The Fae believe the reason we haven’t known a Whisperer since is that the Goddess was displeased with that choice.”

Sabel. Sabel. Why does that name sound familiar? Like a distant memory I can taste but can’t find.

I study the ancient figure again, dark flames licking along his arms to the shoulder. A Flame-wielding witch who could raise the dead. Great stinking fuck balls. I’m beginning to understand why the Guardians are so suspicious. I “called” the Flame. That’s how Alexei put it. “Call the Flame, Michael.” Does that make me a Whisperer? I’m a mixed-breed Channeler too, just like this Warlock guy. I can’t be like him, though. That was five hundred years ago, and he was the result of a Frankenstein breeding plan. Plus, his offspring were killed, so his unique version of fucked up is now over.

Flanagan watches me. I feel an urge to confide in him about what happened in the cage. Alexei’s voice in my head. Calling the Flame. But I can’t. He’d give me to Councilor Belanger to lock away for sure.

To the left of the painting, a navy-blue banner dresses the wall. The glittering silver symbol of the Guardians embroidered on its surface—the circle of runes filled with a howling wolf, a growling cat, and outstretched wings.

“The Guardian motif,” Flanagan says.

“No werewolf in there, I notice. Or do you look just like a wolf Shifter?”