After the strange day, Riordan had been glad for a chance to take it easy that evening, helping Norris in the kitchen and then doing a bit of light meditation. Daniel had chosen to stick with Mark for now, partly for the novelty and partly for the experiment since none of them were sure how long that effect would last. Riordan hadn’t minded, especially when his sleep had been fitful and Riordan found himself up early, nightmares lingering just out of memory, and unable to sleep again.

He’d taken the opportunity to exercise his body. Getting regular meals with the pack meant that Riordan was slowly bulking up again, his shifter metabolism making use of the large quantities of food to boost his physical fitness. Exercising helped stretch his body, keeping Riordan comfortable with himself, and to make sure he bulked up in a way that made sense for his needs.

He started with basic cardio as a warm-up and then moved into a Krav Maga routine, practicing the various attacks and footwork as he slowly warmed back up to the practice. The combat style focused on continuous attack, trying to make an opportunity for either escape or takedown. The attacks could be brutal, aimed at vulnerable areas meant to cause the most pain or damage to an opponent. It drew from other styles for different elements, such as boxing punches and jiu jitsu groundwork, which made it an early mixed martial arts.

The inventor had been a Jewish boxer trying to teach practical self defense to his community during the Holocaust. He had focused on attacks that could be used by normal people to buy enough time to run for their lives. No holds barred, because it was life or death. The inventor and his combat style both escaped to Israel during the war, though it was a difficult journey.

The evolved philosophy for Krav Maga was, in truth, one of peace. Its first elements were situational awareness and visualization of appropriate response, because the end goal of the practice was to escape harm, for both the user and others. Sometimes the confidence of knowing one can win a fight is all it takes to prevent the fight itself from playing out.

Riordan had certainly found that true when dealing with most sane humans. He carried himself as a fighter who would go down fighting, more trouble than it was worth to engage him, and few engaged as a result. Only, he’d let his awareness and practice slack over the years, to the point that he’d gotten jumped and been unable to defend himself. With his shifter senses, Riordan shouldn’t have been caught unaware if he had been paying proper attention to his surroundings.

That memory reminded Riordan fiercely that even if he sought peace and healing as his future path, danger wouldn’t avoid him. And, indeed, he wouldn’t avoid danger either. If he was truly some unique death mage, then that gift came with responsibilities. And those responsibilities would often require conflict.

He sweated in the summer heat, even this early in the morning. Riordan breathed in even patterns as he pushed his body to go through the retzev, that continuous motion practice that was the dance of linking one attack or defense into the next and the next. He used to be able to do this for prolonged periods of time. Now he felt his body begin to strain after five minutes, ache after ten, and he had to stop at fifteen to make sure he didn’t do harm to himself. His shifter healing would correct such harm, but healing damage drew away from making gains.

Even with his body shaking from the exercise, Riordan made himself go through a proper cooldown routine, letting the muscles wind down into tiredness instead of stiffness. He pushed his black curls, damp with sweat, off his forehead and turned to discover he had an audience.

So much for his situational awareness. Riordan took that as another reminder to get back into better combat preparedness.

Maudy was eyeing Riordan with a look that was somewhere between respectful and leering. Riordan immediately became aware of the way his black t-shirt clung to his body, skin flush with exertion. He looked away, uncomfortable, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

Quinn’s gaze was perhaps even hungrier than Maudy’s, but it bothered Riordan less, those half-lidded silvery eyes dark with his lust-widen pupils. The want was there, but it felt less intrusive, as if Quinn owned his desire entirely, not expecting anything from the person who inspired it beyond a moment to appreciate them. Being a death mage had to really make dating difficult, or even casual sex. Riordan wondered what the physical effects of Quinn’s corruption did to his sex drive.

Only Ahlgren seemed uninterested in Riordan’s appearance, though his eyes were calm and assessing. The handler agent was a consummate observer. There was a good model for Riordan on proper situational awareness.

“Can I help you?” Riordan asked the trio, speaking first to reclaim his sense of control over the situation.

“Vera said these two are here to grovel and play nice after what their boss did yesterday,” Maudy reported irreverently, which told Riordan how much respect the Department had lost to Heeren’s actions of the day before in the eyes of the local shifters. “Don’t make it too easy on them. The only reason Vera and Frankie aren’t raking them over the coals more for the breach of hospitality is because they really have been helpful in dealing with the death mages. By which we mean, mostly these two.”

Preferential treatment and subtle insults and forgiving major issues just not to rock the boat too much when there’s still something to be gained. He wondered how far either side would push it, given his precarious status as death mage or shaman. Fuck politics.

Riordan sighed, but he couldn’t be too angry. He liked Quinn. Ahlgren was growing on him too, in the manner of someone worthy of respect if not easy to know.

“It wasn’t Quinn or Ahlgren’s fault that Heeren acted that way,” Riordan told Maudy. Then he flicked his gaze at the two agents. “Unless you knew about it in advance. I wasn’t sure whether she planned to do that or if I frustrated her into it.”

To Riordan’s surprise, it was Ahlgren who snorted a short laugh and answered, “Special Agent Heeren is accustomed to expediency, I believe. She’s been dealing with either prisoners or humans too long. Not that the Heeren family isn’t above prying into the privacy of their fellow mages either, as if they are entitled to our surface thoughts.”

Ahlgren, Riordan was reminded, also grew up in mage society, though he’d gathered that the man was from a branch family rather than a main family. He was probably well versed in the inter-house rivalries and gossip, those rivalries having carried over into the Department despite them having to operate largely as the same team there.

For a moment, Riordan wondered what Ahlgren’s story was. Who volunteered for the position of handler? From what Riordan could see, the job involved working closely with someone you would have to kill, a very intimate execution. Then again, the daily aspects of the job were mostly surveillance and saving people from death mages, so maybe he just didn’t think about the other part too hard. Ahlgren was a very self-contained man, though Riordan couldn’t tell if that was due to personality, upbringing, or training.

Maudy scoffed loudly, pulling Riordan’s attention back to the conversation. “Mages. All about the rules unless it applies to them. Bah.” She paused, looked at Quinn and Ahlgre, sighed, and added, “Present company excepted, of course.”

Ahlgren shook his head. “No exception needed. I’ve bent rules in the name of expediency before and am self-aware enough to admit it.”

“I just don’t like rules in the first place,” Quinn quipped, though Riordan knew that wasn’t really true, “Saves so much on the mental gymnastics to justify bending or breaking them. After all, society, human or mage, has a ton of rules that are legacy nonsense. My very existence breaks several.”

Okay, that part was true. Quinn grew up as an intelligent and geeky gay man before he’d ever become a death mage. Even now, he flaunted social convention with his goth style. He might claim it was entirely a practical choice, to cover his poor health and physical changes, but Riordan could tell how much more comfortable the man was to dress like that rather than wearing a suit.

Riordan would have to get used to that sentiment. His existence broke rules now too.

Quinn continued, more genuinely upbeat. “Still, the upside of this mess is that I have leave to work with you, Riordan. And to involve you in more of the clean-up and resolution activities if you are interested, likely so we can better observe or recruit you. I’ll understand if you skip those in favor of your shaman training.”

Quinn might say he understood, but his expression was mildly disappointed. Accompanying Quinn and Ahlgren on their works intrigued Riordan, especially since he would likely do a variation of such work some day. How many opportunities would Riordan truly get to learn from Quinn, especially when he was guarded so fiercely by his Department?

“What’s on your docket for the day?” Riordan asked, equal parts engaging Quinn and indulging his own curiosity.

“Clearing the main compound of the cult,” Quinn sighed. “Xavier has been doing some of that, in between other tasks and based on the information we got from Helena and Gloria. He got the main defenses down yesterday. That means we’re doing a closer sweep for hidden secrets and small magics.”

“And mundane evidence,” Ahlgren put in with a sigh. “The case is shaping up in the local law enforcement, but there’s still a lot of confusion over which cult members were victims and which were criminals. Heeren managed to spin the supernatural elements of the story as heavy drug use mixed with a talented con artist charlatan using mysticism for emotional leverage. The downside of that is that the members who talked more about the magical side of things are treated as utterly unreliable as witnesses.”

It felt strange to hear Phenalope reduced to those words, her magic and madness turned into con artist tricks and drugs. So many stories covered secret truths. Riordan knew it was necessary but he couldn’t shake the image of her ghost fracturing and fading away, all her life’s work come to…

Not nothing, exactly. She had saved people. She’d also killed people. One way or another, Phenalope had touched a lot of lives. And because of the importance of secrecy, the Department would shove as much of that under the rug as they could.

Or maybe not. Quinn piped up, “Heeren worked out a deal with Helena to make Phenalope more sympathetic in the narrative in exchange for her current and possibly future cooperation.”

“Future-- Like, doing what you do?” Riordan asked, surprised.

Quinn shrugged, glancing over at Ahlgren. “Maybe. Way too early to tell how it would work yet.”

Maudy was clearly listening raptly with the air of someone memorizing things for either salacious gossip or a formal report. Quinn didn’t seem too concerned, but Ahlgren had gone all stiff again.

Helena was the death mage that Riordan understood the best in some ways. She fought, physically and magically, more like a soldier. She hadn’t been the leader, just loyal. He’d seen her desperation and how personal her protection was when she stopped Riordan from murdering Phenalope before the ritual. If the Department could earn her loyalty and give her a job worth doing, Riordan could actually see it working. But that was a big and important ‘if.’

Ahlgren checked his watch. “We need to be going if we’re to make our rendezvous with De la Fuente at the compound.” He looked up at Riordan. “Do you and your supervisors wish to accompany us? We won’t take offense either way.”

Riordan considered that. “I’d like to see the compound, I think. It would… fill in some blanks in my experience. Get some closure, maybe. Assuming the pack leaders authorize the excursion, of course.”

Maudy grinned. “I’m detailed to either escort these two while they are here or you when you are out with them, so yeah, we can do that.”

“Well, let’s go look at a cult then.”