The pack house both was and wasn’t what Riordan expected. Every pack house was large, since it would provide temporary housing and often meeting spaces for the pack, a central location for the administrative practicalities of running a pack. They also usually were more formal and opulent than this one. This house was a sprawling complex that looked like it had been added onto repeatedly throughout the years until it formed a loose horseshoe shape around a garden with some shade trees and a frog pond. It looked held together with shoestring, hope, and magical preservation spells, but also strangely homey and relaxing in a way the showy pack houses he’d seen before never were.

To Riordan’s surprise, Norris took charge again once they were parked, even Vera and Frankie following his lead. Why became evident after he’d led them into a large kitchen/dining room and made them all sit at the table while he began making coffee and breakfast foods. The kitchen was clearly his space, right down to the apron emblazoned with “Best flippin’ Grandpa ever” and a picture of a spatula. A corner of the dining room had been sectioned off as a playpen and filled with kid toys, currently empty.

After he’d distributed the first cups of coffee and Mark had come back with a couple of pads of paper and pens, Vera got to work getting all the details of his experience out of Riordan while it was still fresh. She focused on the mundane practicalities, including names and how the victims were grabbed and any resources or landmarks he’d seen. Frankie would chime in with equally detailed questions about the magical side of things, showing astounding patience in walking him through what the magic looked and felt like when he didn’t have the technical terms to answer her questions clearly. He was still pretty sure she was plotting his murder for the safety of the world in the background though, especially from the way the corner of her eye or mouth would twitch with some of his answers.

Throughout it all, Mark and Lucinda both took notes on everything, with Vera and Frankie sharing a pad that they used to make short notes on what seemed like random things to Riordan. Daniel had stuck around for a while, but Riordan could tell the retelling was stressing him and had encouraged him to rest when it clearly got too much. The ghost had shot him a grateful look and vanished. Riordan could tell he’d gone to the glade and hoped Daniel could get some peace there, even as crowded as it was now.

Maudy the guard had only stayed long enough to get a cup of coffee from Norris before heading back out to do what sounded like an extra patrol along the territory border to make sure there weren’t any unexpected breaches, especially since the death mage had human underlings. The territory border didn’t make a fuss about normal humans, even when they came in with torches and pitchforks or, in modern days, hunting rifles. Riordan always considered that a prejudiced oversight, especially after having seen what perfectly mundane military and mercenaries could do, but the territory spells were old and still had the issues of their times baked in.

As he approached the end of his story, amazed at how much he’d packed into a day and a half, Riordan realized he had a concern to express about his presence there.

“So, that tracking spell I mentioned,” he started into the silence that had descended after he got through passing out at the border and a confused recounting of his encounter with Mother Bear, “It got a location on me before I stopped it, which was only a mile from your border, near Honor. She’s probably going to send people after me. Plus try more magic, which, I have no idea if what I did will actually stop her from targeting me. I don’t want to bring trouble right to your front door.”

“Bit late for that, son,” Frankie snorted, not even bothering to take her eyes off her notes, “Even if we tossed you to her as bait to buy time, she’ll wonder why you headed this way. Paranoia is one of the effects of worsening corruption. As for the spells, you are magically obfuscated, since that was part of your intention, and a fucking mess. Might not save you entirely, but certainly makes it more complicated for her.”

“Still…” Riordan objected, unsure how to put his issues into words.

“Look,” Vera cut in, “I believe you about the death mage, but I don’t trust you. Whatever skills or experience you have, you were an exile for a reason. I was on the east coast when the incident at Harper’s Ferry went down. I don’t have details, but you’ll have to excuse me if I’m not willing to put you to work unless there’s no other choice.”

Riordan visibly winced at that. Emotionally, he waffled between surprised Vera was treating him as well as she was if she knew any of that story and being angry at how he would always be reduced to that moment, no longer how much time passed. The surprise won out since honestly, he still hadn’t forgiven himself for his past, so no one else should either.

Her comment also killed the conversation at the table. Riordan would deal with what they gave him until the death mage was dealt with and then he’d get out of their hair for good. A morbidly cheerful corner of his mind reminded him that he could always end up dead and damned before things got that far.

The silence grew awkward at the table before Vera stood up and gathered her notes. “I’m going to check in with our security team and then call the Department of Magic. Norris…”

The old man waved her off from the kitchen. “I’ll see our guest settled. You have work to do.”

She nodded and started to leave the room. At the door that led further into the pack house, she paused, shooting Frankie a look that communicated something silently, whether via pack telepathy or just familiarity. The old shaman sighed and got up leisurely, stretching before moving to join Vera at the door. Looking back over her shoulder, Frankie called out an order to her apprentices before they exited, “Type up the notes for the damn feds. Make a list of whatever information we still need. If I’m not back by then, check over our supplies. We don’t want to get caught in a magic fight without enough vervain or some shit.”

The apprentices wasted no time in jumping up to follow the shaman’s orders. If Riordan reported to that formidable woman, he could see himself making that same choice. She didn’t seem the sort to accept bullshit from herself or others, especially her students.

In short order, that left Riordan alone at the table and Norris in the kitchen, chopping something. The old man didn’t rush to shuffle Riordan off to some corner, which he wasn’t sure if he appreciated or not. He was finally fed, watered, warm, and not running for his life, all after coming closer to dying tonight than he cared to admit. His well was low again and felt a little funky. Whatever spirit patch the Mother Bear had used on him almost felt like it was leaking into him, which did not inspire confidence for its longevity.

Riordan did not let himself fall to that worry. He could die at any moment, for any dumb reason. That was always true in life. He didn’t have the tools to do better than this currently, so it was what it was.

Norris finally broke the silence after a few minutes. “So, which would you prefer, son? Sleep or a distraction?”

Riordan huffed an exhausted laugh at that. “Sleep, but I’m not sure it’s going to happen yet. Tonight has left me a bit… shaken, I guess? My mind won’t shut up.”

“Mmm. Not surprising. I know you’ve seen combat, same as I have. Surviving something that should have killed you always has that kind of impact, much less the relief after an intense situation or the whole spirit thing.”

Wasn’t that the truth. Riordan knew he was in for a couple rough days of mental recovery as soon as he dropped out of crisis mode and let himself process any of these events. His very human psyche wasn’t as resilient as his shifter’s body, especially since leaning on his animal for a mental buffer left its own set of sequelae.

All he said though was, “Yeah. Exactly that.”

Fortunately, Norris seemed to understand. He was old enough to have been through shit himself, especially if it included combat like he implied. It was hard to reconcile with the tall, thin elderly man before him, dressed as a comfortable grandpa and bustling about the kitchen happily, yet wasn’t that how life went? A constant series of reinventing yourself to adapt to changing circumstances and to search for happiness or purpose?

“Come over here then,” Norris waved Riordan over and then pointed to the cutting board and its attendant piles of veggies and cooked ham to be sliced. “You know how to chop well enough not to lose a finger? There’s always a lot of prepwork to be done. I make meals for all the folks that work directly for the pack as a whole and keep ready-meals in the freezers for anyone else to grab if they need.”

“Yeah.” Riordan blinked down at the vegetables, trying to remember the last time he’d cooked using a real kitchen and fresh produce. It had been a while. “Yeah, I should be able to do that much. Might not look pretty though.”

“That’s fine. Just need them small enough to mix into omelettes and no extra body bits or blood added in. The ravening hordes aren’t picky.”

Remembering how to cut vegetables came back to Riordan quicker than he anticipated and he had a strange nostalgic flash of memory of being in the military and cooking on this scale during mess rotations. Simpler times. He fell into a rhythm and was surprised when he reached for something more to cut and came up empty. He glanced up at Norris, who took the knife from him and handed him a huge bowl of raw eggs and a whisk.

“Until it is mostly even and there is a light foam on the surface.”

They continued like that for a while, Norris replacing Riordan’s task with another as soon as he finished. Riordan was sure that they were cooking more than the old man typically did for this time of day, especially when the omelette ingredients had to be put in the fridge until closer to normal breakfast, but that didn’t make him any less grateful for the distraction. Finally, he put the last pan of cinnamon rolls into the large oven to bake and turned to Norris, who didn’t hand him another task.

The old man assessed him with a quiet, measuring gaze. Riordan felt drained to the point of numbness and exhaustion, which must have shown on his face or perhaps the way he wavered now that he’d stopped moving. Norris nodded, hung up his apron, double checked the oven timer and then led the way out of the kitchen.

“Come on, kid,” the kindly old man said, ushering Riordan down a side hall that had a bunch of closed doors. He opened one near the end and led him inside with a gentle hand on his shoulder. It turned out to be a small room with a bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. “Your room for now. I had someone grab a few things from the pack stores.”

He opened the top dresser drawer to show two sets of clean clothes and a small bag of toiletries. He grabbed one of the sets of clothes and the bag and thrust it into Riordan’s arms. He took it by reflex more than conscious thought, barely processing what was happening before Norris led him to the door at the very end of the hall, which turned out to be a multi-person bathroom with several shower stalls. Norris grabbed a clean towel off a shelf just inside the door and added it to Riordan’s stack before practically shoving Riordan into one of the shower stalls.

“Clean up and go to bed,” Norris ordered. “Everything else can wait.”

And then he was gone, leaving Riordan alone in a strange shower room, feeling so lost.