Yet there was no doubt I was sitting next to the source of shadow. Maybe not of the spell itself, but at least its machinations.
“Solace, Mr. Victorsson.” He sipped again. “A righting of wrongs. An end to my vexations.”
Bjorn’s magic burst through the door before he did, and rolled out like a green- and violet-infused storm.
The interloper slapped the bar. He downed his remaining beer, and turned toward the big elf striding toward us. “Stay back!” He held up his hands.
Bjorn didn’t break stride. “Who the hell are you?” he semi-shouted. He held up his phone. “The photographer you claimed to be is six-foot-three and sixty-two years old.”
The interloper held up his hands. “I will know if you lay one ounce of your elven glory upon my person,” he said.
“Get out of my pub,” Bjorn growled.
“I paid Mr. Wilson a lot of money to rent his equipment,” the little man said. “And you damaged his camera. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sues.”
As Bjorn raised his hands to hit the man with some type of magic, the interloper raised his arms as if cowering from a punch.
“You hit me in any way and I will consider it assault!” he yelled. “I will sue you! This restaurant, the brewery, the property next door will be mine before any of you can lay down a curse!”
Bjorn stopped. He was obviously as confused as I was. “If you have brought an unwelcome… energy… to our town, I will deal with you personally,” he growled.
The manager and the other patrons were watching us, and Bjorn had dialed back any talk of magic.
The interloper grinned. He smoothed his jacket and resettled his gold chain. And he sniffed loudly once again. “It wounds me to see how uncivilized and insular this little community is.” He rolled his shoulders. “The shame it must bring.”
Bjorn threw me a what is he talking about? look. I shrugged.
The interloper made a show of flashing his gold pinky ring as he adjusted his cufflinks. “Move to the side. I wish to pass.”
Bjorn growled loudly enough to startle the manager even though he was at the other end of the bar.
The entire restaurant was quiet. Only the beat of the blues music and the slight rattle from the kitchen filled the air.
No magic danced. Bjorn kept his thunder and lightning back.
The interloper walked right up to him. Bjorn stared down at the little man and refused to move.
They stood like that—too close and exuding dominance—until the interloper laughed. He touched the tip of his nose and threw out his arms as if to hug Bjorn.
The big elf very quickly moved out of reach.
The interloper sneered. He winked at the manager and bowed to the other patrons, then blew Bjorn a kiss.
Bjorn grabbed for him, but I caught his arm. “Careful,” I said.
The interloper strutted toward the exit, but stopped and placed his back against the glass. “Good meeting!” he shouted, then backed out of the restaurant.
The backlighting from the afternoon sun should have shadowed his face. His expression should have been difficult to read. It was not. He smirked like a child who had just stolen candy and knew he was going to get away with it.
But mostly, what should have been shadowed was not, and what should have been bright was shadowed. He might not have obvious magic, but something around him caused a distortion. He saluted, then sauntered outside.
Bjorn took a step toward the door.
“Stay here,” I said. The last thing we needed was a full-on magic fight in the parking lot within the view of mundanes. I grabbed my phone and pushed through the exit into the bright afternoon sun—and onto an empty patio. No patrons. No interloper.
He’d vanished. I jogged out to the scattered vehicles in the lot, none of which were making a getaway. Had he returned to the church? I peered at the trees and the building. Nothing moved, but I made my way over anyway.
I swiped open my phone as I jogged. He’s gone, I texted Bjorn. Call Ed and pull the security footage. He’d call Arne on his own, and the wolves. I’m checking the church. He didn’t have many other options other than around back, but Lennart was still at the back of the pub and brewery, and I doubt he would have gone toward an elf.
I rounded the corner onto the path leading to the church and… stopped. Betsy, the smaller of the two ravens, perched on a small, leather rectangle in the middle of the walk. The church loomed directly behind her and in perfect alignment. She held her neck and back at a forty-five-degree angle to the church’s corner column. The saint I’d almost punched sat up and over her tail, while the carved Yggdrasil-like tree of the church’s door framed her head.
I knew what I was looking at. I understood. Geometry was one of the ways the mundane world accessed otherwise inaccessible magic.
Except these two birds were not mundane. Not at all.
“Did you see where he went?” I asked.
Betsy preened her chest. With each feather cleaned, magic puffed off her as little crackling clouds of blue-silver energy. I squatted down.
She squawked instead, and flew off when I extended my arm hoping she’d hop up for a talk.
“You two aren’t exactly clear with your thoughts and memories!” I shouted. Off in the trees, the two ravens laughed.
I picked up the leather rectangle. The package was about the size of a postcard, more of a sleeve than an envelope or pouch, and contained a plate of some sort.
I carefully held it up and scanned it for any unwanted spells, then gently tugged the plate from the sleeve—and uncovered a daguerreotype photograph. A richly colored one, with hues beyond the sepia tones
