Riordan managed to get back into a sitting position, elbows braced on his crossed knees as he leaned forward and observed the interplay. The new woman was also old, though she looked a bit younger than the shaman and both were spry. Given how shifters aged, that meant both of these women were likely over a hundred and fifty years old and possessed both power and the experience to use it well. Riordan was reminded of how quickly the shaman suppressed him when he went aggressive. The woman had thick dark hair streaked heavily with gray braided down her back and was dressed in an overcoat over what was clearly a nightgown.

He blinked. Right, he’d hit the border after midnight. These people had likely been sleeping before being roused to deal with him. In fact, if the pack shaman was tossing him to this woman, she was likely the pack leader. Despite improving prejudices, women usually only ended up as pack leader if they were both highly competent and magically powerful on a personal level. What he could read from her fit that bill.

As Riordan examined her, she examined him just as brazenly right back. Finally she nodded and closed the distance between them, her hands in her coat pockets and her stance strong as she stopped in front of where Riordan sat in the sand. She wasn’t tiny the way the shaman was, having more of the air of a rosy-cheeked grandmother, assuming that grandmother ruled the roost with an ironclad spoon.

“I’m Vera Hunt. Pack leader for the Sleeping Bear Pack. You are in my territory. We have rendered aid. Per the code, that means you either must accept hospitality and my authority while you are here or you must pay the debt and leave.”

It had been many years since Riordan had heard a formal pack ruling, and the last one had been a particularly traumatizing incident indeed, but he felt his old knowledge and instincts there under a layer of rust and dust. Morgan’s Code was more of a guideline, a code of polite conduct for magic types in North America that arose after it became clear how much damage the magical communities had taken in the various wars during the European colonization of this continent. As a definite minority of the human population, they seldom had enough weight to shift things on a national scale, but the code meant they banded together to put their prejudice of magic over mundanes above all the other dividing prejudices and bigotry. It had preserved several endangered magical traditions but done too little to preserve cultures or populations.

“I am Riordan Kincaid, exile--”

“Not anymore,” Vera interrupted.

Riordan faltered, having lost his cadence for the greeting. He stared at her, confused, and Vera continued with a wave towards his head. Towards the lack of burning pain and glowing brand there.

“We fed you to our pack totem when your magical injuries proved too tangled to heal in time. Mother Bear spat you back out in one piece and without your exile brand. You have been judged and washed clean. You aren’t an exile anymore.”

That felt strangely like a punch to the gut. His exile and penance had been the core of Riordan’s existence for almost two decades and their absence left him reeling in a way he couldn’t explain. He didn’t feel any different. He didn’t feel worthy or forgiven or any of the things he thought were supposed to go with the fantasy of ending his exile. He bent forward and buried his face in his palms, curled around this strange emotional pain, just too much in the wake of his already unstable state.

Vera waited in silence, seemingly content to let him process for as long as he needed. She was probably curious about what his reaction would be, judging him all over again, mark or no mark. The shaman had gone to collect her satchel and dish, moving down the dune towards a small cluster of people visible down there now. Riordan wasn’t so foolish as to think she was actually ignoring him though.

To his surprise, Daniel moved closer to him again and sat besides him, floating a few inches off of the ground. The young man looked at him with eyes absent of the judgment Riordan felt from absolutely everywhere else.

“If you aren’t an exile, what are you now, then?” Daniel asked.

Riordan barked a laugh, not caring who was listening, and answered quietly, “Gods, ain’t that the question. I hardly know who I am anymore, but at least I had that. Now…”

He could sense Vera moving her weight forward, leaning in closer with interest as he talked to empty air. Well, fuck her.

Daniel ignored her too, his attention on Riordan, “You’ll figure it out. You don’t need an answer to what you want for the future to know what you want for now, after all. And right now, we all want that death mage stopped, right?”

“Right.”

Riordan was reminded of the decision that had driven Daniel to run away, setting his feet on the path that led to him sitting here as a ghost. Well, he definitely wasn’t going to be miserable as a doctor now, even if this death wasn’t what the young man wanted either. With a deep breath, Riordan groped for some sense of balance, shoving away the past and the future to deal with the present.

“I am Riordan Kincaid,” he began again in accordance with the code, “Free shifter of a pack of ghosts. My pack and I accept the hospitality of the Sleeping Bear Pack and the authority of their leaders and shaman. I submit a formal plea from my pack to yours for assistance against a death mage. I offer the death ritual we are under as proof of the death mage and their ill intentions. Per the code, you and your pack must render all possible assistance to end this threat.”

He glanced beside him at where Daniel was still sitting and added far less formally, “And this is Daniel-- What is your last name, anyway?”

“Campbell,” Daniel supplied, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips as he turned his gaze towards Vera who was regarding Riordan in turn. Her expression definitely seemed skeptical at best.

“This is Daniel Campbell, member of my pack, ghost, and generally all-around good guy. It seemed rude to ignore him when he’s sitting right here and can hear both of us.”

Vera scowled, “So you really do see ghosts.”

“No,”Riordan clarified, “I see the other victims of the killing tree ritual, who happen to all be ghosts, having been murdered by a death mage and what not. Fortunately there seems to be a distinction, unless you saw corruption on my soul that I wasn’t aware of?”

If anything, Vera’s scowl deepened, but she shook her head. “My head shaman claims that despite the death magic on you and entangled with you, your soul shows no signs of corruption yourself. We wouldn’t have let you near our pack totem otherwise.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Riordan sighed and dropped his defensive tone with actual effort and a glance at Daniel. This was larger than him. “Look, I didn’t come here for my benefit. I honestly expected to give you what information I had and then get kicked to the curb to fend for myself, which would have made me giddy if it meant you and your pack were equipped to do something about the death mage. I’m still not sure how I feel about being allowed to stay here, even temporarily, but this isn’t about my feelings. It’s about helping the victims of the killing tree and stopping the mage before there end up being more of them.”

The shaman popped back up next to Vera and Riordan jumped at the suddenness of her appearance. He couldn’t tell if she’d just been that stealthy or if she was cheating with spirit magic somehow, but either was terrifying.

“How many victims?” the shaman demanded. “If you can see the victims, how many? Be specific. Numbers matter in rituals, for power and intent.”

Riordan didn’t appreciate being dictated to, but he had no room to argue when her demand was reasonable. He closed his eyes, touching his pack bond to count how many were linked to the pack well, and then he added the seven who had refused and, well, himself. “Fifty-four victims, including me. Plus the tree spirit anchoring the damn thing.”

Even the unshakeable duo of old ladies paled at that number. Riordan couldn’t blame them. A single death was enough power for a death mage to cause noticeable damage. Each additional death harvested compounded the issue. Fifty-four, held in an incomplete ritual, spoke of the sort of death magic that would propel them from threat to catastrophe.

The shaman turned away, muttering, “Two digits already. Higher than most of the common ones, lower than the three digit ones. Better not be a three digit ritual. Could be prime.”

“Frankie?” Vera prompted, “Tell me you got something for this.”

The shaman, Frankie, whirled back to Riordan, apparently ignoring Vera. “Quick. Tell me anything you know about the death mage.”

Riordan knew better than to argue with a shaman. “Female. The goons who did the kidnapping and murder called her boss. Has an extensive network of people established in the area around the killing tree site. Possible religious or cult connections, involving the feminine divine or a four-aspected woman. Knows rituals, spells, and enchanting, but doesn’t have other affinity traces in her spells aside from death and blood.”

Vera didn’t seem pleased to hear any of that. Riordan couldn’t blame her, since it meant the mage had physical and people assets as well as a huge well of death energy from the ritual and more knowledge than the average death mage. Frankie, meanwhile, was counting on her fingers and staring off into space.

“Oh, that’s bad,” Frankie said finally.

“Words, love,” Vera sighed, her tone making it clear that was a common prompting.

“Best guesses. She is trying to work a miracle. She is trying to empower a whole group. Or she is trying to become a god herself.”