Annie studied Riordan, her eyes sweeping him from head to foot. He wondered how he looked to her. His shifter healing meant that he looked healthy and bore no scars or injuries from his recent rough treatment. Malnutrition and living rough still left its mark. Muscles a bit too thin for his frame. No spare body fat. A certain lethargy that takes a long time to fully shake, even now that he was getting proper meals.

His dark skin made his fatigue less noticeable, but he was still both a scruffy mess and a whipcord danger. He sat with awareness and a readiness to spring into motion, hypervigilant from both training and mental trauma. His comfortable outfit of t-shirt, cargo pants, and combat boots left an impression of a certain type of man, an impression that wasn’t entirely wrong.

Even more, his tattoos peeked out from the edges of his shirt. The black rope marks went from wrist to shoulder, stark black against his dusky skin. The silver curls of leaves and vines tracing down his right bicep and up the edge of his neck were a strange contrast. Light and dark. Delicate and harsh.

Perhaps Riordan bore some scars after all, if one was wise enough to see them for what they were.

Annie took a moment to marshal her own thoughts, fetching the tea from the kitchen and placing the mismatched cups in front of her guests. She let the steam rise around her face even if it was still too hot to drink. Riordan thought it smelled herbal, flowery and calming. He wondered if he’d get to the point he could identify the herbs involved by smell and list all their magical and medicinal qualities. Frankie probably could.

Mark looked more alive at the offer of tea and he perked up to blow on it, taking tiny happy sips. He was both more and less of a mess than Riordan. He lacked the long term physical symptoms of Riordan’s past, but his recent lack of sleep, both from last night’s antics and as a cost of his trauma-driven nightmares, left him looking mildly deranged. His hair stuck out in random directions since he’d showered and then immediately napped in a car, letting it dry in funny directions. Riordan saw bits of Mark’s own new magical tattoo sticking out from his shirt at the back of his neck, though most of it was covered by his neat clothing.

Setting her tea cup down, Annie began. “There’s been some fuss in the news lately about some sort of cult having murdered someone, possibly multiple people, out near Interlochen. I didn’t think much of it since it was still in the unconfirmed rumors stage and the gossips are prone to exaggeration. Then the police arrived yesterday.”

Pain and grief crossed her face again at the memory. She composed herself with another fortifying breath and a sip of too hot tea. “They informed me that my nephew was possibly a victim of that group. They had me come down to the morgue to identify his body.”

Tears leaked from her shining eyes. Riordan stifled yet another urge to apologize to her, though he wasn’t even sure for what this time. For not saving Daniel? For having retrieved the body so she had to do that gruesome task? Just in damned sympathy at the loss, a loss he thought he might understand but couldn’t truly because every loss, every grief, was different?

“It was definitely Daniel. I confirmed it and the police notified his parents. They wouldn’t release the body to us yet. The investigation and all. I hadn’t…,” her voice trailed off and Annie shook her head before she finished quietly. “I hadn’t even known he was coming here. I thought he was safe at home.”

“He had a fight with his parents,” Riordan offered, his eyes once again straying to Daniel. “They took his phone and car and weren’t listening to what he wanted for his life. He was coming to you because you listened and respected him. That’s what he wanted to be sure I told you. That he was always grateful for the choices you let him make.”

For a moment, Riordan was afraid his words had been the last straw and he’d broken her and she’d be a sobbing mess. Instead, Annie closed her eyes and let those words sink into her like water into parched soil, easing the pain of that still raw wound slightly.

“He was dying and he wanted to be sure I knew that?” she whispered, eyes still closed.

Riordan wasn’t sure she was actually talking to him or expecting an answer. He glanced over at Daniel again. The ghost had settled on the edge of his aunt’s chair, completely transfixed in this mutual but separated grief. Mark simply sipped his tea, letting Annie have time. Riordan copied him awkwardly.

She opened her eyes, studying Riordan and Mark again before settling on Riordan. “You said you were there when he died. That you were travelling together and attacked together. Does that mean you were almost killed as well?”

Of all the questions he’d expected her to ask, that was not one of them. Riordan coughed, choking slightly on his tea. He carefully set his cup back on the table. He couldn’t quite meet her eyes before nodding. “Yes, ma’am.”

Then, to Riordan’s eternal surprise, Annie rose from her seat, edged around the table, and wrapped Riordan up in a tight hug. He froze with a soft mew of confusion.

From the couch, Mark snickered, especially when Daniel smiled at his aunt.

“She gives the best hugs, doesn’t she?” Daniel said softly.

Riordan honestly didn’t feel qualified to judge hug quality. The contact felt… nice. Warm and familial. He endured it stiffly even while soaking in the shared moment of pain and comfort.

She pulled away, wiping quickly at her eyes, before returning to her seat. Once settled, Annie said, “I realized I never got your names.”

“Riordan Kincaid,” he rumbled, tension slowly easing back out of him.

“Mark Parkins,” came the reply from the couch.

“Annabelle Joy, though most call me Annie, as I’m sure you already knew.” Annie paused before turning to Mark. “What is your role in all of this?”

Mark blinked, clearly not expecting to be addressed so directly. Combined with his sleepy demeanor, it made him look particularly owlish. “Moral support,” he said, “and babysitter.”

Annie looked between them again. Riordan was clearly older than Mark by at least a decade just from appearance (and closer to four decades in reality), more physically threatening, and doing most of the talking. Mark looked barely out of high school and fresh-faced all American boy-next-door.

With a shrug, Riordan explained. “Mark’s family is hosting me in the aftermath of everything. And he’s invested in making sure Daniel’s message was passed along properly.”

Audible to everyone but Annie, Daniel put in, “Plus Riordan is a damned trouble magnet and needs an adult around.”

Mark snorted a laugh and even Riordan smiled. Annie watched them, sharp and thoughtful, her gaze flickering to the empty air they had both glanced at.

Her attention settled back on Riordan. “Can you tell me what happened? How did Daniel die? Were the people who did it stopped?”

The smile slipped from Riordan’s lips but he nodded. “I won’t tell all of it. Some things are better not being in your head. The short of it was that there was a group of three women. They had started out wanting to stop domestic abuse and help give the victims somewhere safe to go. They got a nonprofit and a commune all set up. That part was fine.”

He took a sip of his tea, trying to find words to explain the rest without mentioning magic. “They were… hands-on activists. At some point, one of them got the idea that the best way to make sure the abuse stopped and stayed stopped was to kill the abuser. They were picky at first, going after the worst of the worst and being heroes in the eyes of those they saved, but over time…”

Riordan looked Annie dead in the eyes and said, “I used to be a soldier. When you kill someone, consciously take another sentient life, it changes you. The good ones never stop being horrified by killing, even if they keep doing it when necessary. The bad ones, well, those stop thinking human lives have value. Maybe it’s just some group of people that doesn’t have value, compartmentalized to stomach horrors, or maybe it’s everyone who isn’t them. And then the worst ones start to delight in the power that comes from controlling the life and death of another. It’s a wicked sort of high, one that can become addictive, especially to someone who felt helpless or without control before.”

“The hearts of humanity grow treasures or terrors,” Annie said with a sigh.

“Just so,” Riordan agreed. “I think these women had the best of intentions to start, but they lost themselves. One of them, the charismatic leader of the group, had some mental health issues that had gone unnoticed. Before long, she was targeting minor offenders. And then bystanders or people who didn’t help enough. And then she just started going after men in general, targeting those that seemed isolated or less likely to be missed. Like hitchhikers and homeless men. Like me and Daniel.”

All the bits about death magic, about strange grimoires and conspiracies, about corruption and magical manipulation were all excluded from this version of the tale, but the bones were true. Good intentions twisted in a slide into power hunger until the innocent died. Not that Riordan considered himself innocent generally, but he was innocent of anything that would have mattered to the cult’s original goals.

Removing magic left the story without the true depth of its horrors, but just as stark for its heartache.

“Anyway,” Riordan continued, forcing himself to meet Annie’s eyes, “they grabbed us, they took us out into the woods, they hurt us, and they left us to die. I’m not giving details on that. I wasn’t hurt as badly as they thought. I got a chance and I ran for it. I tried to take Daniel with me, but he was just hurt too bad by then. He didn’t last the trip. I went to the authorities. They took down the leaders of the cult and stopped the murders.”

And that was a gross oversimplification of events, but still true. Riordan could still remember slinging Daniel’s barely breathing body over his shoulders as he, still healing from his own injuries, ran from the tree. He remembered realizing that the man’s breathing had stopped. He remembered his frenzied attempts to revive him, in the dark twilight, in the middle of the woods, knowing it wasn’t working, knowing he was being chased and had no time. Trying anyway. Failing. Taking Daniel’s body with him to hide. That night was a nightmare any time he let himself process the events as more than distant facts.

Even Mark and Daniel watched Riordan with interest during this abbreviated retelling. He thought they cared less for his words than for whatever they read into his body language and tone.

“You tried to save Daniel?” Annie asked, transfixed.

“Yes. And failed. I’m–”

She reached out and smacked Riordan, just as Daniel warned him she would if pressed. He rubbed the stinging spot on his arm.

“No apologies,” she snapped, “especially not for that. You tried. You were a victim too and you still tried to help another. It’s not your fault.”

Daniel snorted nearby, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking relieved. “Maybe you’ll believe her. You haven’t believed me so far when I say that, but I couldn’t smack you before. Though–”

Riordan shot Daniel a glare. The last thing he needed to add to his current emotional slurry was a ghost smacking him around until he forgave himself.

“That.” Annie said sharply, pointing right at Riordan’s face. “That, right there. When you look at empty air. What are you seeing?”