Frankie swallowed down some truly impressive expletives. Not because she cared about keeping her language clean, mind you, but because the mage agent did not deserve to see how worried Frankie was. No, Special Agent Hendrika Heeren was going to see how annoyed she was instead, because both emotions competed heavily for attention.

“Fool,” Frankie said, turning towards Hendrika, the young mage still recomposing herself after this mess. “Do you know what you have done?”

It was a measure of the woman’s skill that she squared her shoulders and took a moment to think before speaking. Frankie had gotten good at judging human ages over her long life, a useful skill when trying to remember how to blend in, and thought the woman to be in her early to mid thirties. Old enough to have messed up a few times and learned from it. Young enough to still have a lot more to learn.

Compared to Frankie’s own age--one hundred and sixty something, perhaps one hundred seventy by now--the mage was ridiculously young.

“I was speaking with Mr. Kincaid to assess his personality and to establish a working relationship for this investigation. During the course of the conversation, he became upset about my line of inquiry and stonewalled me. Then he launched a death magic attack against me, one that stunned me and has done who knows what else to my head,” Hendrika reported, swiping a hand over the lingering smear of blood from her minor nose bleed for emphasis.

“You mean you cornered a traumatized and temperamental apprentice shaman and got impatient when he didn’t answer all your nosy questions, so you used unauthorized mind magic to try to get the answers he was unwilling to give,” Frankie countered this incomplete spin on the situation. “And that traumatized mage, still not in complete control of his magic and feeling magically attacked again, lashed out. You are lucky to be alive, Agent, after such a foolish choice.”

Hendrika’s mouth set stubbornly. Frankie couldn’t entirely blame her. After what she did, the agent had to keep as much blame from sticking as possible. She wouldn’t be going for honesty. She’d be doing damage control.

“You should have him under better supervision,” Hendrika said haughtily, “Or, if he’s so dangerous, then perhaps he should be magically restrained.”

“You’re partially right,” Frankie said amicably, clearly startling Hendrika. “I should have watched him closer when you were around. He needs someone to keep him safe while he deals with the upheaval of his life and identity. I won’t make the same mistake again. You are no longer welcome to speak to Riordan.”

Hendrika sputtered, rising to her feet. She didn’t so much as wobble now, proving Frankie’s assessment that the physical effects of Riordan’s spell had faded already. “I need access to Mr. Kincaid. We have an empowered spirit of death to assess and three death mages to clean up after, all of which he is closely tied to. If you obstruct our investigation--”

Frankie held up a hand, forestalling her. “I didn’t say all of the agents would be banned from talking to Riordan. I said that you would be. If you require contact with or assistance from Riordan for your investigation, send Quinn.”

Hendrika stared for a moment before pulling herself back together, slipping into negotiation mode. “Specialist Agent Morrish is not authorized to work independently. Another agent would need to accompany him on all assignments.”

“Yeah, yeah, Adam is fine. He knows when to stick to watching.” Frankie waved this objection away and then redirected the conversation back to her earlier points. “Which is a skill you seem to be lacking. Your department clearly skimped on training related to traumatized victims.”

Hendrika raised a brow, casting a glance towards the door Riordan had so recently bolted out of. “That man is a death mage. That hardly screams victim. Besides, he admits to being a soldier and a criminal. This sort of situation is probably routine for him.”

Anger bubbled in Frankie at the dismissal of Riordan’s pain. The young man was a mess and an aggravation, but he was currently Frankie’s mess. She took her responsibilities as teacher and guide very seriously, despite her laid back attitude. She didn’t think particularly highly of the necessity of soldiers or the efficacy of war, but Riordan had already taken her to task for dismissing them as well meaning people individually.

“Have you ever been kidnapped, girl?” Frankie snapped. “How about nearly dying? Not just being in a dangerous situation, but lying there bleeding out and knowing that could be the end. Have you ever been in a crisis where you are truly desperate and everything you are feeling has to wait because there is just no time for it when you are trying to survive?”

“I’ve never been kidnapped,” Hendrika said, sounding insulted that Frankie could even think she’d be so sloppy. “My job is dangerous and I have been trained--”

“No amount of training makes you immune to trauma.”

“Be that as it may, Mr. Kincaid volunteered for that final confrontation against the death mages. Against the recommendation of your pack leader, if I’m not mistaken.”

“And he got into this entirely by accident, minding his own business near a gas station,” Frankie fired right back. “After which, he managed to escape--despite deep injuries that would have killed anyone but a shifter--and make the travel to pack territory--where he would not be welcomed since he was an exile--all because he stuck by his duty as a member of the magical community to oppose the abuses of death magic.”

“Yes, those convenient ‘injuries.’ All healed up before he even reached any witnesses since he is a shifter. And then he comes stumbling in with soul damage and a story about death mages. Awfully convenient, that. I can’t imagine those three women would have shared power with a man.”

That was the wildest piece of implication and bullshit yet. Frankie was reminded that Hendrika had been assigned to this case not only as a liaison with the local law enforcement, but as the spin doctor for covering up the magical elements of the incident. The facts meant little to a woman used to twisting words and implications into drastically different stories.

The idea that Riordan would have ever been some sort of disaffected cult member, turning on his death mage leaders because they wouldn’t share the power with him, was ridiculous to anyone who knew him. The idea of him as some sort of superhuman badass soldier, immune to all trauma under crisis and capable of spontaneous feats of grandeur, was a little more believable since Riordan tried to sell the ‘stoic and capable’ image himself.

The truth of the man wasn’t singular. No person could truly be reduced to a single thing, though singular things could be all that was relevant sometimes. People tended to work in aspects. Frankie herself acted differently if she was acting as a shaman, as a pack member, as an individual, as any number of specialized roles she’d created for herself over the years.

Hendrika was choosing to view Riordan in his aspects of soldier and criminal, even though those were some of the parts of the man which were least relevant to his current self. Frankie had seen the way Riordan had blossomed with hope about his future when they had talked earlier.

Riordan wasn’t a particularly hopeful man. His past combined with his personality and his crushed idealism to make for a man who viewed the world through jaded eyes, afraid to believe he deserved anything good in this life. Frankie was far more of the belief that life wasn’t about what anyone deserved, but about what meaning each person could bring to what they had. And maybe the gods had their hands in it, shaping lives in this world for some alien purpose.

The end result of all that was that it was clear Hendrika would not care about the truth of Riordan so long as the lies suited her own goals. What he hoped for and what he deserved didn’t matter. This was business to the agent. If Hendrika had written Riordan off as a sub-human death mage, unworthy of rights or empathy, then convincing her of anything else was pointless.

“You insult my intelligence,” Frankie told Hendrika dryly. “You might spin a story with hints and implications, but the facts don’t change. Today, you entered my workshop, where Riordan was under my supervision as my apprentice, and engaged him in conversation, which I allowed under the goodwill of our alliance with your Department in this investigation. Then you used mind magic on him, which I as his supervisor did not authorize, and he lashed out to stop your spell before shielding himself more tightly and disengaging from the situation. This is not the actions of some wanton murderer and you are in breach of hospitality.”

The term “breach of hospitality” made Hendrika wince, spin doctor or not. She had been raised in the magical community and Morgan’s Code made it very clear that hospitality was to be honored carefully since it was the basis for all peaceful interactions between the isolated magical settlements. Frankie accused Hendrika of a serious offense against the pack, not just a presumption against the rights, or lack thereof, of a death mage.

“You keep accusing me of unauthorized mind magic,” Hendrika complained, “yet you weren’t even here to see the initial conflict. How do you know he didn’t lash out at me first?”

“Because Riordan used death magic to kill your spell, which couldn’t have happened if you hadn’t cast first.”

Okay, Hendrika hadn’t been expecting that. She stared at Frankie. “That’s what he did? I couldn’t figure it out. It felt--” She cut off with a shiver.

It was moments like these that really reminded Frankie about the difference in experience. Hendrika might be a professional who cleaned up after magical incidents of various sorts, but she likely saw very little death magic in action. Frankie had seen it a few times throughout her long life, sometimes at closer proximity than others.

The use of death magic as a counterspell was not the most common application since it was usually only invented or used by death mages who had already possessed magic beforehand. Normal humans, even after gaining magic themselves, tended not to think much about countermeasures against other mages, having likely never met one.

Frankie had experienced it once, ages ago. An essence mage’s counterspell unwove the magic of a spell, dissipating it back into ambient magic. A death mage’s counterspell just stopped the spell in its track, converting all of the magic involved into something inert and dead before letting the ambient magic reabsorb the base energy, like plants digging roots into rotting wood. The alien sensation of one’s magic being killed caused backlash unless the mage was prepared for it.

“He could have just as easily tried to kill you instead, you know,” Frankie replied. “Especially since he’s inclined to conditional casting but untrained.”

Hendrika blanched. “Conditional casting is an advanced paradigm.”

“Riordan needs a lot of training then, doesn’t he. He has the talent for it.”

The two women regarded each other levelly across the workroom. Lucinda, Frankie noted, had moved quietly into position behind Hendrika, perfectly poised to take the agent down if necessary. No one messed with shaman in their own territory.

“Agents Ahlgren and Morrish will handle our interactions with Riordan Kincaid,” Hendrika finally conceded. “They already have a rapport established. All incidents involving him shall be carefully documented and shared between our organizations. He may be a traumatized victim, as you say, but he is also a death mage. He can not be left unsupervised, perhaps for his own safety as much as anyone else’s.”

This change secretly pleased Frankie, even if she would have preferred to avoid this situation entirely. She disliked the hassle of keeping all the agents from poking at Riordan while she was trying to get some real work done with him.

“Riordan is the responsibility of my pack. We will take care of him.”

“Do you know where he is right now?” Hendrika challenged.

Frankie grinned, baring her teeth. Her animal might be a bird, not a sharp-toothed carnivore, but she was just as wild and dangerous as any of the bears in the pack. “I am the head shaman of the Sleeping Bear pack. We are inside my territory, linked to my place of power. I know exactly where he is.”

“I see.” Hendrika paused, likely assessing her actions. Her body language remained professionally neutral, but Frankie saw the resolution in her eyes. “I apologize for any offense or perceived breach of hospitality, shaman. I shall see myself off your immediate lands. My approved agents shall be by later to follow up.”

“Yes, I look forward to it. Have a nice day, Special Agent Heeren.”