Paladin Mychael Eiliesor, the commander of the Conclave Guardians, was standing across the room, his eyes on me, his face a calm, professional mask. I knew better. When Mychael didn’t show emotion, it meant he was experiencing some strong ones. I’d felt them the moment he’d walked through that door. Or more to the point, I’d felt him. Mychael was a master spellsinger and healer, but first and foremost, he was a warrior. The aura of danger and controlled power surrounding him had nothing to do with healing and everything to do with his lethal skill in battlefield magic. The air around him virtually crackled with it, and I knew what stirred the hair on the nape of my neck was just the leftovers. I’d be willing to bet that demons had crossed Mychael’s path on the way here, and they probably weren’t alive anymore to regret it.

I’d been expecting him. From a law-enforcement standpoint, Mychael had ultimate control over the Isle of Mid and everyone on it. As paladin, protecting the Saghred was his responsibility-and since the Saghred and I were a package deal, all that protecting extended to me.

The noise level in the squad room abruptly decreased, and it wasn’t because Mychael had walked through those doors. As paladin, he’d been here many times. I hadn’t. The watchers shut up because they wanted to hear what happened next.

I didn’t.

I stayed right where I was. Mychael cut through the squad room with long strides to where we sat, a man on a mission. I was that mission.

Talon swore again; Piaras made his own contribution, and Phaelan nonchalantly sat up straighter.

“Think we should make a run for it?” my cousin asked.

“I think that’d be a bad idea.”

He shrugged and sat back. “Had to ask.”

When Mychael was within ten feet of me, I stood up. Call it a primitive dominance response. I was a head shorter than Mychael, but I wasn’t about to keep my butt in a chair while he loomed over me.