I'd checked the folder three times before I even left the highway. Deed, survey map, the notarized copy of the title transfer, and the county filing receipt. Everything in order. Everything exactly where it should be.
I checked it again at the first red light in town.
Graymoor didn't announce itself the way most towns do. No welcome sign, no cluster of gas stations and fast food at the edge of it. One moment I was on an empty two-lane road cutting through dense tree cover, and then the trees thinned and there were buildings, and that was it. Just a shift in the quality of the air, almost, and then: town.
It was quiet in a way I couldn't quite put my finger on. Not dead-quiet, though.
I told myself that was the two hours of driving and talking, and I found parking near the county land office.
The building was small and government-beige, with old carpet and a smell of printer toner the second you walked in. One clerk at the front desk, middle-aged, reading glasses pushed up on her head. She looked up when I came in and gave me the standard waiting-room smile.
"Hi," I said. "Elise Winters. I'm here about a parcel inquiry. Deed reference 4471-W, filed through Weston County records."
The smile stayed in place for about two seconds after I finished talking. Then something shifted behind her eyes.
She asked me to repeat my name.
I did.
"And the parcel number?"
I gave her the number from the deed. She typed it in. Looked at the screen. Typed something else. Looked at the screen again.
Okay… is there something wrong?
"Can you just confirm it's pulling up?" I asked.
"It's pulling up," she said. "Give me just a moment."
She excused herself and went through the door behind the desk.
I waited. Checked my phone. Put it away. Looked at the laminated fire safety poster on the wall. Checked my phone again.
Eight minutes. Which, for a routine parcel lookup, was about seven and a half minutes too long.
Is she planning to come back today or sometime next week?
The person who came back out wasn't the clerk. This one was older, in a collared shirt, with the composure of someone who had been briefed on the way down the hallway.
"Ms. Winters." She had a file folder, which was interesting given that I was the one who'd come in with documentation. "The parcel you're inquiring about sits within Graymoor Pack's registered territory. Any access or claims discussion would need to go through the pack directly."
I looked at her. "I have a deed."
"I understand. This is still the process."
"The process for a parcel that's in my name."
"For parcels within registered pack territory, yes." She slid a card across the counter. "The pack liaison office can direct you to the right contact."
Okay. Fine. I'd dealt with pack bureaucracy before. It was always a layer, always a detour, always someone's way of establishing that the usual rules operated a little differently in lycan territory. I knew that going in.
I took the card. "What's the pack's address?"
"Ms. Winters."
I stopped.
The older woman was still standing at the counter. She lowered her voice just slightly, even though the office was empty.
"If you're really planning to go out there, just be careful."
I looked at her. "The pack estate?"
She didn't say yes or no. She just held my gaze for a moment.
"Have a good day," she then said, and went back through the door.
I stood there for a second, then walked out.
Be careful. That was it. No context, no explanation.
I got in the car and pulled up the address on my phone before I started the engine.
Graymoor Pack Estate. Okay. Let's see what the internet has to say.
The results weren't dramatic. A few local news mentions. Nothing alarming. But there were two forum threads from a human residents' group in the area, and both of them mentioned the same thing: heavy security. One person described driving past the main road once and counting four armed checkpoints before turning around.
I read that twice.
Okay. Armed checkpoints. That's not nothing, but large lycan territories aren't exactly unusual in terms of security infrastructure.
Except the older woman's face kept coming back to me. The way she'd said it. More like she was warning me about walking into something she wasn't sure I'd walk back out of easily.
I started the engine and followed the directions anyway.
The road changed gradually as I got further from town. Still well-paved, well-maintained, and better than most county roads I'd driven. But about ten minutes out I started noticing the figures at the roadside.
Not lampposts.
Men. Posted at intervals along the road, spaced far enough apart that you might miss the pattern if you weren't paying attention. Armed, dressed in dark clothing and watching the road.
That's a perimeter line. That's not security infrastructure; that's a perimeter line running along a public road.
Near the end of the approach, the road narrowed slightly and I came up on a checkpoint. Two men, a barrier arm across the road, and a small structure to one side. One of them stepped forward as I slowed. I rolled down the window.
"Name and purpose," he said.
"Elise Winters. I'm here about a property matter. I have documentation."
He looked at me for a moment, then at the car, then stepped back and said something on the radio that I hadn't noticed he was holding. A pause. The barrier went up.
I drove through.
The estate itself came into view slowly, the treeline giving way to open ground, and the scale of it took me a second to process. The main structure was large and built low and solid, dark timber and stone, with additional buildings visible at intervals across the grounds. And everywhere, at regular intervals, there were people. Armed, positioned, watching. Lookout points at the corners of the outer buildings. A patrol moving along the far perimeter in pairs.
Geez! What did I just step into?
For a moment, something cold moved through me. Clearly, I had driven myself to a place I didn't fully understand yet.
Okay. You have a deed. You have documentation. You have every legal right to be here asking questions about land registered in your name. That has not changed.
I parked. Sat with the engine off for exactly four seconds. Then I picked up my folder and got out.
The air was different here, too, and I was going to stop noticing things like that. A car door closed somewhere out of sight. Somewhere further off, a voice said something I couldn't catch.
The front door of the main building was solid wood, wide enough for two people to walk through side by side without adjusting.
I straightened my jacket and walked up to it.
I knocked.
And waited.
And then came the sound of footsteps from inside.
I squared my folder against my chest and reminded myself that I had a deed. I had every legal right to be standing here asking questions about a piece of land that was registered in my name.
I knew all of that.
So there was absolutely no reason for my pulse to pick up the way it did when the door opened.