“Is that even possible?”

Frankie waved her hands in the air, frustrated, and began pacing. “Of course, it’s not possible. We have no evidence gods exist, though scholars-- However, great cosmic power would look pretty godly to most people. Too bad she’ll be absolutely fucking bonkers with that much death corruption running through her! Hopefully her training made that abundantly clear and she’s only trying to make a whole host of little rabid death mages rather than a single megalomaniacal demigod.”

“Can you stop her, Frankie?” Vera asked, visibly disturbed by the scenarios the shaman was presenting.

“Not my specialty, though I’m good for a fight and would do my damnedest. You’ll have to call those ‘doom’ guys. Death mages fall under their threat management.”

“Department of Magic, not doom.”

“Bureaucracy will be the doom of us all. I stand by what I said.”

Riordan interrupted. “Since when do we have a department at all?”

“It’s recent. Modern technology has made hiding magic and its side effects difficult. We keep needing to get new IDs when people start getting curious about how slow we age. The mages need help covering up anything caught on video. All the groups can use help preserving the places of power. It was the mages’ idea to work with the government, of course, since they love their hierarchies, but it has been beneficial in a modern, global society.”

Vera looked like she’d swallowed a live frog by the time she finished and Frankie laughed at her, before cackling out, “Oh, dearest, I bet that hurt to say.”

“I hate the catch-phrases the mages and humans toss about to sound smart. Half of it is just nonsense and the other half has specific meanings but they use it wrong more than half the time.”

Riordan brought them back on task. “So, the government has people who help with death mages now?”

“And any other major magical threat or situation,” Vera sighed and looked up at the rising moon. “I’ll call them in the morning. For now, let’s take this someplace more appropriate, where I can either get more sleep or more coffee.”

Given how Riordan was running on adrenaline from nearly dying and residual spirit exposure, that sounded lovely. He wasn’t entirely sure that the offer of rest or coffee applied to him as well, except they had offered the pack hospitality. They weren’t likely to let him starve after all that effort in saving him, even if Riordan knew he’d have to either fend for himself or contribute to the pack within the week.

The first obstacle to any of that was standing back up. Riordan didn’t feel completely boneless and his shifter magic was starting to strengthen his body again, but he still had the coordination of an overcooked noodle. He pushed off the ground and couldn’t get stable, merely digging his heels into the sand and sliding a foot down the dune before his butt hit the ground again. A quick glance showed Vera and Frankie absorbed in a quick discussion of their own, either not noticing his difficulties or, more likely given shifter senses, ignoring him. He couldn’t decide if they would ignore him because they didn’t care about him, because there were more important things to focus on, or for his own privacy.

It hardly mattered, of course, given the other shifters from down the hill were approaching and they weren’t ignoring him. Great. Their first impressions of him would be as a magical idiot who couldn’t even stand up without stumbling like a drunk old man. Hell, one of them was an old man, moving stiffly as he picked his way up the hill, but even he looked more steady than Riordan felt. The two young women looked to be in their twenties and the last man looked like he was barely a legal adult, though that still left a wide range of ages for shifters.

That youngest man saw Riordan struggling and rushed up the dune towards him with that kind of ease that the young and magically athletic had. Riordan had been like that once, before life kicked him around for a while. When the kid offered Riordan a hand up, he couldn’t help but growl at him, sending the kid scrambling back, startled. He didn’t want pity, damn it.

He immediately felt like a dick when the kid hunched in on himself, turning his back slightly towards Riordan in a clearly defensive posture. He had to wonder what the young man’s shifter animal was because that reaction spoke of animal instincts rising to the surface.

The silence around him made Riordan realize everyone was staring at him. A blush of shame and embarrassment crossed his cheeks, fortunately subtle in the moonlight on his darker skin.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, nodding towards the teen and gentling his posture, “I’m… not used to people.”

After a breath, the kid relaxed and nodded back. “It’s okay.”

“Fuck, don’t do that,” Riordan sighed, “Don’t let me off for being a dickhead to you. I swear I used to be passable in polite company.”

“Impulsiveness is the privilege of the young,” rasped the old man calmly. He planted his feet solidly in the sand and offered Riordan a hand with a raised eyebrow. “You learn to handle things as you age, like knowing when someone doesn’t want help. And when you are being a stubborn ass and should take the help anyway.”

Well, that made Riordan feel like a scolded child, which he supposed he was to these elders. Vera, Frankie and now this man were some of the oldest shifters he’d personally met. The elder shifters were often part of established packs, which didn’t mesh well with Riordan’s rebellious, nomadic youth and then exile. Shifters might age slower and be generally healthier than average humans or even mages, but they still died of injuries, diseases, and genetic conditions. They weren’t immortal and the ones who made it to their full potential age showed an endurance that couldn’t be overlooked. A lot happened in a single century, much less two, and shifters were relatively healthy adults for most of those years. History looked different when you lived it.

The old man waited patiently while Riordan thought, but there was really only one choice he could make. He took the offered hand, gnarled and dry but strong, and let the man pull him to his feet. Even if the man was starting to get worn down by age, he was a shifter and far stronger than he looked. He kept Riordan steady until he found his own footing.

“Thanks,” Riordan said quietly, unable to bring himself to say more.

The other man seemed to get it, acknowledging the thanks with a word and then looking around at the group around them. “You’ll get there, kid. Now, I heard your name when Vera did the welcome, but I’m Norris Hunt. Those are Lucinda Hunt and Mark Parkins, Frankie’s apprentices, and Maudy Smith, one of the pack security.”

Riordan could see a family resemblance between Lucinda and both Vera and Norris, though he wasn’t sure about the family dynamic there. As with everything else, long lives also made for more complicated family trees. Mark must be at least a few years older than he looked to be a full apprentice shaman, but he was still clearly painfully young and starting on mastering a difficult craft, one he’d been born into instead of choosing. Riordan understood Maudy far more, since he’d been inclined towards the physical pack roles as well, both in his birth pack and his old team.

Norris clapped Riordan on the back, nearly knocking him back down into the sand and pulling him out of his thoughts. He’d been verging on awkward staring, he realized, which wasn’t surprising given the combination of his less than lucid state and his stellar personality.

“Let’s get going. It’s a short walk back to the parking lot and then we can go back to the pack house for an early breakfast.”

Even the pack leader and shaman weren’t inclined to argue against Norris’ good suggestion and the whole lot of them picked their way down the dune to a beach trail leading to what looked like a small private parking lot with an SUV and a pickup parked there. Before Riordan could ask where to go, Norris had him bundled into the SUV with him and the three youngsters while the two older women took the pickup, Frankie driving. Given the extensions strapped to the pedals to make up for her short height, Riordan figured it had to be her pickup. He had a sneaking suspicion that he’d made the trip to the dune tossed into the bed of that pickup.

At least they were kind enough to let him have the passenger seat this time. Riordan was rough enough with having to deal with people right up in his personal space at the moment. It was going to take time for him to stop growling and snapping at people near him, if it ever happened. He could be physically affectionate with those he truly trusted, but that kind of bond took years to build. Anyone else could fuck off or lose a hand.

Riordan looked out the window, taking in the softly lit sand and lakes, giving way to more forest. Daniel sat near him still, hovering over the center console with his legs stuck into the dashboard despite how it clearly made the radio station crackle with static. He hadn’t seen Duane since he’d woken up, but the pack bond let Riordan know that the other man was around somewhere, whether on the physical plane or the spirit one. The silence between the two of them was surprisingly comfortable, a stark counterpoint to the awkward way the others in the car either watched him silently or talked around him.

Riordan just didn’t have the energy to fake politeness for people right now and let it wash off him like rain. He didn’t need these people. He didn’t need this pack. He had one of his own, even if they were ghosts and mostly strangers, and he was here because he wanted to do right by them. He’d give this pack all the information he had, he’d do his part in stopping the death mage, and then he would be on his way again, to find somewhere to belong because there clearly wasn’t space for him here.

That was okay. Riordan would be okay. He always was.

Maybe someday he’d even believe that. Riordan let himself zone out for the rest of the car trip back to the pack lands proper.