Drika tapped her fingers against the table again, pulling everyone back to the task at hand. “We will address Mr. Kincaid’s situation during the meeting. Is everyone prepared? We must depart soon to arrive on time.”

Vergil held up his briefcase, neatly packed full of paperwork, as evidence of his own preparedness. Xavier gave a wave of a hand that might have been part salute, softened by the gentle smile on his full lips. Adam gave a slight sharp nod, his stiffness turned up to maximum in the presence of these high-profile reinforcements.

Quinn sighed. He actually liked Adam most of the time, even if Adam was professionally determined not to like him. He could hardly blame the man when Adam’s job description literally included “oh yeah, if Quinn goes crazy, kill him” but Quinn had liked the more cooperative version of Adam he got to see when it was just the two of them and they actually had to act like partners and not dangerous animal and handler. Whatever. He could deal with this.

“Agent Morrish?” Drika’s dry voice cut through Quinn’s introspection and he realized the other agents were waiting on him. 

He blushed, the blood rushing to his sharp cheeks, turning them dark rather than rosy. Quinn didn’t like thinking about the fact that his blood was slowly turning into black sludge. It seemed like that transformation should have been instantly fatal, so the fact that he was adapting to live like that was distinctly unsettling.

“Yeah, sorry,” Quinn said, prying himself out of his chair. “I’m ready. Let’s go meet with the shifters.”

Traveling with a rental SUV full of dour federal agents was a barrel of fun. Quinn squeezed in the back with Adam and Xavier. He was just as glad he didn’t need to sit next to either Vergil or Drika. And that he was rail thin, which honestly left plenty of space for everyone, even if it made Quinn feel like a really tall twelve-year-old instead of a totally professional law enforcement agent.

That mental rambling carried Quinn through the ride from their rental property to the pack house. As they turned down the dirt lane leading back into the “Christian Camp” that was the cover identity for the Sleeping Bear pack lands, Quinn started craning his neck, looking out the windows. It was mostly beautiful wild forest here, very scenic, but he realized it wasn’t the scenery he was really looking for.

Quinn wasn’t sure if he was looking for Riordan because he wanted to see him or because he didn’t. On one hand, he really liked Riordan. The man was smoking hot, competent, gruffly caring, and an absolute badass when he let himself. Riordan looked at Quinn and saw a person and gods, when was the last time Quinn had felt so seen? Especially since Riordan respected Quinn for his skills and knowledge too. Like, legitimately, non-judgmentally respected him.

But seeing Riordan would mean all the rest of the agents would see Riordan too. And Quinn wasn’t ready for that yet. He quashed the irrational image of Adam and Drika pouncing on Riordan while Xavier shackled him and Vergil slapped an arrest warrant on a table dramatically. It wouldn’t go like that, but Quinn really had no faith in the priorities of the department when it came to a resource like Riordan.

Because it was really easy for bureaucracy to reduce a person to their elements, all skills and potential gains or threats. A resource or threat is a thing to be handled or dealt with or used. Those things didn’t need respect and care the way a person did.

Dehumanizing people was dangerous. Quinn might not have been military, but he’d worked with police and fought death mages for years now. He’d seen how death mages justified their actions. Most people aren’t actually sociopaths, but if they could reduce their victims to less than a person, then killing them became easy. And police often ran into the problem of treating half the citizens they were supposed to protect as just irredeemable threats to be guarded against, rather than people in need of help and protection themselves.

Gods, society was a mess. For all his magic, Quinn felt very helpless.

The pack leader Vera Hunt and her head shaman Frankie Joyfield waited at the end of the drive, near the pack house. Both of those elderly women were intimidating enough on their own, but they had a synergy that made Quinn impressed and terrified all at once. Especially since being surrounded by this many agents made him suddenly feel like an enemy to the pack instead of an allied specialist. 

Or well, maybe enemy was too harsh. But it made Quinn feel like a mage on shifter land. A barely tolerated outsider.

Still, both Leader Hunt and Agent Heeren were consummate professionals. The rosy-cheeked grandmotherly shifter greeted them formally with all the words from Morgan’s Code, that archaic treaty that kept the magical community from shrinking itself even further by warring openly with their neighbors. Quinn knew enough to do standard greetings, basically the “yes, I’m part of the community, don’t kill me” speech, but both Vera and Drika grew up in that community. They were seeped in it and Quinn had no doubt they were doing everything in painstakingly exact form.

Vergil must be thrilled to see such attention to detail.

Meanwhile, Quinn’s own attention wandered, his eyes flitting from their surroundings to the people and to any fucking thing like a kid caught staring out the window during class. That feeling of being caught only increased when his eyes lit on Norris standing just inside the open door leading into the kitchen area and the old man met his eyes. Totally busted.

It was nice to see a friendly face though. Quinn smiled and waved. And then realized his whole team was staring at him.

“What?” he asked, trying not to feel defensive.

“It’s nothing,” Xavier quickly said before anyone else could say anything. The tight line of Adam’s lips and Drika’s raised brow told Quinn that other members on his team probably preferred he act more professional, but wouldn’t call him on it publicly because that would be bad optics.

Well, screw that. Quinn knew he got more leverage from being underestimated than from trying to get respect from the born magic types on their terms. In the end, he’d always be someone who was born mundane, after all. He was always going to be an outsider, no matter how much of his life he gave to magic and the service of the magical community. Especially as a death mage. So he might as well live how he liked.

Quinn let a wide dumb smile cross his face. “I’m just happy to see Norris. He makes the best food and is always feeding me.” 

And before anyone could stop him, Quinn skipped right over to Norris. The old man’s eyes twinkled with amusement. Norris spoke as Quinn approached, “That’s because you are too skinny, boy. I’ll manage to fatten you up yet.”

“Ha, good luck,” Quinn replied, “I certainly don’t mind the attempt. Especially if it gets me cookies. Please tell me you made cookies for our very important meeting.”

Norris laughed. “I did make refreshments, but I can give you extra cookies.”

“Excellent.” Quinn’s smile became genuine. “Then, shall we? Lead me to the food.”

Behind him, he could hear the rest of the meeting members walking towards him, but Quinn refused to turn and acknowledge them. They wanted him to participate. Well, this was how Quinn operated. It worked for him. No one could deny his success rate.

Drika came up beside him and offered a hand towards Norris, smiling in a way that made her seem sincerely friendly, “Hello, I am Special Agent Heeren, the ranking member of the departmental agents here. Agent Morrish clearly thinks highly of you.”

“Norris Hunt,” the shifter said, shaking her hand firmly but not aggressively, “Please, come in. I run the kitchens here, which is enough to earn Quinn’s respect.”

Drika stared at him, her blue eyes becoming more intense for a sharp moment that made Quinn suspect she was doing some sort of basic mental scan. Not anything as concrete or organized as a spell. More of a flexing of mental mana to draw insights on a first impression. Quinn had seen her do that before and only his knack for noticing subtle magic had let him detect the effect. It had taken him even longer to figure out what she was doing specifically.

Whatever she read from Norris made her twitch slightly, one brow rising. Which was practically shouting as far as a reaction from her when she did stuff like that. Norris just smiled at her without a care in the world, stepping aside to let everyone enter the house.

“Are you joining us, Mr… Hunt?” Drika asked sociably.

Norris offered an equally polite and opaque smile. “I’m just a cook and babysitter these days, ma’am. Our pack leader has everything well in hand.”

Frankie snorted loudly as she entered the pack house at Norris’ assessment, but refrained from comment in front of guests. Quinn couldn’t blame her. He’d seen Norris slit a death mage’s throat in one neat, deadly move. Nothing would convince him that Norris wasn’t important or dangerous after that.

Drika had read their reports, no doubt, and was putting together that fact with whatever she’d read. Her wary gaze towards Frankie was likewise motivated, Quinn thought, given Frankie had demonstrated the highest level of spirit magic Quinn had ever seen during that fight, physically manifesting a spirit to fight for her. Vera hadn’t participated in the battle, having been convinced to stay behind to hold down the fort and protect her pack in case of further attacks or issues. 

Quinn trusted Drika was experienced enough not to underestimate Vera just because of that. It was hard making the safe choice as a leader when you really wanted to go and physically claw your enemies to pieces, which Vera most certainly had desired.

There was no choice but to follow the mob into one of the conference rooms in the administrative part of the pack house. Pack houses were basically the heart of running a pack. They were part administration, part community center, part house for the pack leader, and part diplomatic embassy. This one also looked like a sprawling farm house, though the conference room was decorated more neutrally.

Quinn settled into his assigned corner and waited for Vera to give her presentation on the current state of affairs, nibbling on his plate of cookies.