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Sloan asked, trying to inject as much insolence into his tone as possible.
    “I will prevent you from using any magic for a week.”
    Sloan’s jaw dropped and he nearly lost control of the funnel. It wavered dangerously above Raven’s head before Sloan sent it out the open window. As the MacAlister clan leader, Raven was the only witch who had the power to prevent him from using his magic. If he thought not being able to dissipate his magic was uncomfortable now, it would be excruciating after seven days. “Geez,” he muttered. “I’m just trying to lighten things up.”
    Anna, who had been watching the whole thing through wide eyes, shook her head. “You’re out of control, Sloan.”
    He opened his mouth to shoot back a verbal dagger when he saw the look in her eyes. She seemed horrified by Raven’s threat. Then again, as the air handler, she would know exactly what he was going through. Hell, she was probably as uncomfortable as he was.
    Shoving a piece of meat in his mouth, he chewed and swallowed, determined to ignore the way it melted on his tongue or how the rich gravy felt like velvet sliding down his throat. He wasn’t in the mood to find anything remotely pleasant.
    He turned to Raven instead, trying to redirect the conversation to something a little less volatile. “Why do you want to get back into contact with the dragons, anyway?”
    Ever the gentleman, Raven wiped his mouth with a linen napkin before answering. “You know the prophecy, Sloan. The war to end all wars is coming. It behooves us to have as many people on our side when it happens. The dragons aligned with us the last time, so it stands to reason that they may wish to ally with us again. We can’t take any chances since the last time, the Takahashis were allied with the werewolves and the Keitas with the vampires.”
    This time, Sloan didn’t even bother to hide his snort of derision. “Do you still believe in that prophecy?”
    Raven raised his eyebrows again and looked at him with curiosity. “You don’t?”
    Summoning a stream of water from the pitcher in the middle of the table and directing it into his goblet, Sloan thought about the best way to word his answer. Despite Sloan’s current mood, Raven was a good man and deserved a good amount of respect. “No, I don’t believe in the prophecy.”
    “Why?” Leith’s deep voice cut through the awkward silence his declaration had caused.
    Surprised, Sloan turned to Leith. The man rarely spoke unless he was asked a direct question. Leith gazed at him with interest, almost like he was some science experiment gone wrong.
    Sloan squirmed in his chair a little, uncomfortable with the stares he was getting from the three other witches. “Well, the prophecy also says each handler will go to battle with their soul mate by their side. How is it possible for me to go into that battle with my soul mate when Dara died in the last battle twenty-five years ago?”
    He focused on his plate, unable to look anyone in the face. He couldn’t stand to see the pity he knew would be there.
    The silence that settled over the room was smothering and he took a sip of water to try and ease his throat.
    Finally, Anna spoke in her gentlest voice. The one she usually reserved for children and scared kittens. “Is it possible that Dara wasn’t your soul mate?”
    Rage swamped him and he shot up from his chair, pointing at Anna. “How dare you?” he accused. “How dare you question my love for my dead wife? How would you feel if I questioned your feelings for Addison?”
    Somehow Raven had made it across the room before Sloan even noticed he’d moved. One of Raven’s arms came across his chest and the other draped around his middle, like a father hugging his child from behind. “That’s not what she meant and you know it,” he whispered in Sloan’s ear.
    The anger drained out of him as fast as it had boiled over, leaving him feeling guiltier than hell. “I know. I’m sorry, Anna. What I said was