The pack was as confused by his drive-by antics as everyone else was.
“I’ve been wondering if he was some sort of trickster spirit.” Which didn’t make any more sense than dark wolf magic, if I was honest, mostly because he hadn’t seemed physically magical. “Though he presented as a mundane.”
Axlam blinked rapidly for a brief moment, and she pressed her lips together. “He may never come back.”
She sounded as if she believed the opposite.
If he was Old World familiar, could he be looking to settle some old French score with Gerard and Remy? But they’d been in Alfheim longer than the United States had been a nation. “If he’s here to mess with your husband, he’s fixated on some ancestral clan feud that should just be a story to him.” The elven practice of living only one life at a time had more than a present benefit. It also released the quarrels of the past, something mundanes usually did by dying off.
Axlam’s frown deepened, and her magic shook as if, for that one brief second, fear had crept in. She pointed at the sky. “Some strong spirits and other magicals can manipulate a mundane into becoming an avatar. The magic may have chosen him simply because he’s fixated.”
I thought about it for a moment. “I hadn’t considered that the magic might be wielding him.” It made perfect sense.
Axlam made the maternal face again. But she didn’t respond. She pointed at the road. “Ed’s here,” she said.
Ed Martinez pulled his cruiser around, backed it toward the house, and pointed its nose toward the road without blocking the sedans or Bloodyhood. Our sheriff had an enviable spatial relations ability I swore not even all the elves could match.
The passenger side of his cruiser opened and his nine-year-old daughter, Sophia, burst from the vehicle with a huge bag in tow.
Sophia was in the other third grade classroom at Akeyla’s school. They played at recess, but this was the first time she’d come over.
“Hi, Mr. Victorsson!” she bounced over to Axlam and me. “Ms. Geroux!” She held out her bag. “We’re going to paint.”
I glanced in the bag at the mix of real acrylics, brushes, and small canvases. “Looks like fun.” I pointed at the door. “Go on in.”
“Okay,” she said, then to Axlam, “Your hijab is pretty.”
“Thank you, Sophia,” Axlam said.
Sophia hitched up the big bag. “Bye, Daddy!” she shouted, then trundled toward the front door.
Ed stepped out of the cruiser and set his hat on his head. “Howdy, Frank,” he said, with a hint of Texas drawl, and hitched his gun belt. “Axlam. I’m glad you’re here.” He did a quick tactical scan of my house, garage, and surrounding trees. “I did some digging on that company our friend said was funding his photography, one Natural Living Incorporated.” He leaned against the back fender of his cruiser. “Turns out they’ve bought up land around Alfheim.”
“A neighbor?” I instinctively glanced toward the lake and the new lots dotting the shore.
Ed walked over. “Not in the town proper,” he said. “Not yet, at least.” He rubbed his neck. “Several farms in the county were purchased last year. Most of them on the north side, near the forest. They’ve been empty ever since.”
Alfheim, like every town in Northern Minnesota, was within a quick drive of either state- or federally-owned parkland. The forests also made the wolves’ run less conspicuous, at least in the summer. But with the storm coming in, and with Samhain, the pack would be running more along the edges of the woods, through farm territory. They were less likely to get separated that way. And the last thing the pack needed was a lost werewolf on Samhain.
Ed pulled his notepad from his pocket and flipped it open. “It’s a shell corporation.”
Shell corporations usually meant someone was up to tax evasion, or money laundering, or some other form of no-good behavior.
“It’s not just one layer, either,” Ed said. “It’s inside other shell corporations.” He flipped to another page. “I got the report this morning. They all trace back to a French property management company that does business all over the world. A Fils de Loup Administration.” He pronounced “administration” with all the extra flare and strong ee-oon at the end that Americans did when mimicking a French accent.
“Son of the Wolf Administration?” Axlam asked.
Ed nodded. “Whoever is behind this is happy to obfuscate the money, but this,” he tapped his notepad, “this here screams I’m here to cause problems.”
“Wolf problems,” I said.
“I’m trying to figure out who owns the management company,” Ed said, “but I’m running into an entire parking lot’s worth of roadblocks inside the French legal system.”
Roadblocks that were likely set up on purpose.
“It’s him,” Axlam said. “The photographer. The interloper.” She waved her hand. “Why does he feel familiar?”
Ed flipped through his notes again. “The official background check will be sent to Dagrun and City Admin this afternoon.” He tapped at his book. “The French company is the most conspicuous. Thing is, they’re not doing anything illegal. Not even close. It’s all on the up-and-up, even if it is suspicious.”
Axlam stared at the wine bottle gate. “Thank you, Ed,” she said. “Gerard and Remy will be home this evening. I’m going to talk to Maura and get Aaron Carlson’s contact information.” She turned toward Ed. “If you find anything else, text me.”
“Will do,” he said. “I have the town police watching for him. After his little shows on Saturday, he’s a person of interest.”
“Frank,” Axlam said, “will we see you at the feast?”
She meant the feast at the Great Hall the night before the first of the two Samhain runs. I glanced at Ed. He tried not to frown, but it didn’t work. Axlam sniffed as if she’d smelled his annoyance. Her lips thinned as if she echoed his frustration, and she squeezed his arm, too.
“No,” I said. “I don’t run.” I’m not magical, even if I can see magic. I would only get
