Quinn was bored out of his mind. He really shouldn’t be, given how serious the situation being discussed in this meeting was, but every time Agent Vergil Creighton opened his mouth, all that poured out was an endless amount of paperwork. Seriously. The dude had clearly pissed off a fairy and gotten cursed or something, except instead of jewels or frogs falling out when he spoke, it was just stacks of forms, all of which needed to be filled out in triplicate and sent to the correct locations by certain post dates.

And yes, it was good that the additional personnel that came from the Department of Magic were prepared for all the stupid tedious efforts of clean-up, but it made Quinn all the more grateful that he was usually too much in demand to have to deal with this part of the assignments. Usually he was sent in and untangled some death magic crap or captured a fledgling death mage and then they pulled him off to another assignment or back to base. If Quinn wasn’t absolutely determined to stick with this assignment as long as possible, he would have been begging for a new mission already.

As it was, Quinn had to keep repeating a mantra about how he was grateful that one of the other agents was all over the necessary paperwork, which meant he just had to fill out the forms and reports in front of him and trust Vergil to make sure it was correct and went to the right place.

He clearly was failing to keep all of his fatigue and exasperation off his face because one of the other agents in the reinforcements shot him a sympathetic look. Quinn almost never got to work with Xavier De la Fuente, but that was because the enchanter was literally the top specialist in anti-magic restraints in the country and in even more demand than Quinn.

Also, Xavier was smoking hot. How was that fair? Quinn was this sickly pale goth stick of a man. And sure, a lot of that was because funneling death corruption into one’s body had some seriously nasty side effects--Quinn never seemed able to eat enough to gain weight and was getting downright skeletal--but it didn’t mean he couldn’t be jealous of Xavier’s model-like good looks.

Xavier was one of those African American men who looked absolutely god-like. His warm brown skin glowed in the sun, his long hair fell in a thick ponytail of neat braids, and his whole body was long lean lines, filling out his impeccable suit perfectly. Xavier was a De la Fuente, though Quinn had heard that he was originally from one of the branches of that family before being adopted into the main branch, which meant he was rich. And able to manipulate objects to such an extent that he didn’t even need a tailor to adjust his suit.

That suit was also probably bullet proof and reflected magic, because Xavier was a Material and Essence mage, a perfect combination for enchanting.

The third of the additional personnel tapped an imperious finger against the table, interrupting Vergil’s mind-numbing data dump with just that small gesture. Hendrika Heeren was intimidating in that manner of sheer excellence. If Xavier managed to be laid-back but impeccable from being adopted into mage’s great house, it was no wonder that Drika ended up perfect in every visible way, having been raised as a representative of her own great house from birth. She wasn’t the heir; there were some number of people way closer to that title under some really obscure, feudal ranking. But she was literally a born diplomat.

“Thank you, Agent Creighton,” Drika spoke into the silence following her gesture. “I appreciate the work you have put forth to prepare these documents before our meeting with the local shifter pack. I will ensure that all team members fill out the appropriate forms and return them in a timely manner, especially since I have another meeting set up with the local law enforcement tomorrow morning. We need to be ready to take over the rest of the magically contaminated locations by that point. De la Fuente, I assume you are ready to do a sweep for stray curses or other magical effects on any personnel that interacted with the crime scenes?”

“Of course, Special Agent Heeren,” Xavier replied, his voice smooth as silk and lilting with that accent of his. Quinn had no idea what accent it was, but it sounded hot to him. “I have a full clean kit prepared, which includes spot cleaning. However, I understand there are some complications regarding access to the main ritual site?”

That question was aimed at Adam, Quinn’s handler agent, rather than Quinn. He wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or insulted. He might be a dirty death mage, but Quinn was good at magic stuff, darn it.

Adam answered without missing a beat, his stiff I-have-no-emotions attitude giving a clear and clipped report. “The original ritual was anchored on a natural spirit, in this case, the spirit of an old blackgum tree. As result of the magical cross-contamination of stopping the death mages from completing their ritual, it ascended to greater spirit status. Afterwards, it seems to have cloaked the area around its physical tree. The police are utterly unable to find it, which has resulted in them treating the related cabin nearby as the primary crime scene, but even I have a hard time approaching using spatial magic to guide me.”

Xavier’s eyebrows flew up at that. “I am not a spirit specialist, but that seems incredibly active for a spirit.”

Adam grimaced. “There was a shaman heavily involved. It’s in the reports.”

Drika nodded. “Yes, which makes our meeting with the local shifters all the more important. Fortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to liaison with shifter packs.”

Vergil grumbled, even as he parcelled out the immediately relevant paperwork that went to each of the agents and packed up the rest. “I don’t like shifters,” Vergil said snootily, “They are so… unorganized. They do everything by touchy-feely spirituality and have no respect for proper procedure and documentation. I could have avoided a quarter of these forms if they hadn’t made such a mess of stopping those death mages. Agent Morrish is at least efficient when he stops these sorts of threats. I assume that the shifters are the reason this ended up being such a rushed mess.”

Quinn blinked. That was the most backhanded compliment he’d ever received. Was Vergil impressed with his usual methods, blaming him for not stopping the shifters from doing an all-out assault, or just looking for an excuse to be prejudiced? Vergil wasn’t even a mage himself. The department was constantly short on personnel and magic wasn’t required for doing all the administrative tasks. He wasn’t entirely sure what Vergil’s background was, aside from the fact that he’d known about magic before joining the department, but it had to be either really interesting or really dull to create a perfectionist like Vergil.

It wasn’t like the man was even complaining about shifters due to the usual political reasons, the ones where the mages always seemed to treat the shifters as lesser just because they didn’t codify every element of their magic, all while being jealous of the powers that came naturally to shifters. And being afraid of the most skilled shaman.

Quinn certainly understood that last part better after this last assignment. The head shaman of the Sleeping Bear pack was a badass old woman. Spirits seemed to scare most mages, aside from those of the great house of Spirit mages, because they broke the rules that the mages had made for their magic. Heck, even the spirit mages seemed to be afraid of spirits and approached it with all the enthusiasm of making a deal with old-school faeries, trying to make sure they weren’t promising their firstborn child or something for the spells they were casting.

“You will keep such opinions to yourself when acting in a professional capacity,” Drika commanded Vergil, “It is our job to work with the situation as it is, not as we wish it was.”

Vergil nodded, though his expression looked like he’d swallowed a lemon for a moment before he returned to his usual neutrally constipated look. Quinn wondered how much of what Drika said was strictly true, since part of her job as magical-mundane liaison was to use her mental magic to clean up any issues that a PR campaign didn’t catch. Granted, she also did manage those PR campaigns and also did liaison between groups to make sure everyone was on the same page. She just also was the one dictating what the pages said.

“The Sleeping Bear pack may not be a major pack,” Adam added slowly, “but I would caution everyone to walk carefully. Their leadership is not to be underestimated and they have one full shaman and two apprentice shaman.” He frowned. “Possibly three apprentice shaman. I’m not sure how Riordan Kincaid is legally classified.”

Quinn’s heart skipped a beat at that last comment. He really didn’t want anyone thinking too deeply about how Riordan should be classified. The Department of Magic put all known death mages under their control, in one way or another. In the case of the weakest, most minor cases, they sometimes got away with just being under close supervision, with the understanding that they were to never use their magic for anything or they would be brought in. Usually the options were execution, imprisonment, or recruitment though.

And as much as Quinn didn’t regret his own recruitment and the work he’d done, knowing damn well that he’d saved lives in the years since the department had picked him up, he also didn’t wish that life on Riordan. For one thing, Riordan didn’t need that treatment. The whole point of the department’s hardline approach to death mages was to keep them from hurting people because they were going to go homicidally crazy if left to their own devices. And Riordan wasn’t corrupted. Quinn wasn’t sure if Riordan couldn’t become corrupted or if that had been a one-time miracle, but it still meant that he side-stepped the main reason for the department to legally be able to claim him.

For another thing, Quinn could totally imagine how Riordan would react if someone tried to claim ownership of him “for the greater good.” Riordan was a stubborn wild animal. If someone backed him into a corner, they were going to have a fight on their hands.

And honestly, Quinn would bet on Riordan if it came to a fight. He would win or go down swinging.