Moonlight Audit

The first proof that I belonged to a werewolf pack was a bank statement.

Mara Voss spread six years of them across my kitchen table while I stood in blue pharmacy scrubs, eating cereal at nine in the morning.

Every month, the Red Pine Pack had sent $480 to my checking account. The deposits appeared on my statements as MNL Services, the same description I had assumed belonged to my mother’s small life-insurance annuity.

In the pack ledger, they were labeled Luna allowance.

“Our Luna died six years ago,” Mara said.

She was compact, gray-haired, and smelled faintly of wet wool. Rain ticked against the fire escape behind her.

“Then your bookkeeping is terrible.”

“That is why I am here.”

My mother, Celia Hart, had died when I was twenty. She had told me my father was a traveling pharmaceutical salesman named Owen. No photographs. No relatives. Just a silver pendant she made me promise never to sell.

Mara placed a photocopy beside the statements.

It showed the former Alpha, Owen Redmond, wearing that pendant at his mating ceremony.

His Luna, Elise, stood beside him.

Elise looked enough like me that I stopped chewing.

“Mistaken identity?” I asked.

“Deliberate identity,” Mara said. “The beneficiary number predates your birth. Someone attached your tax information to Elise Redmond’s old entitlement after she died.”

Pack law guaranteed an allowance to a Luna removed from the territory without dissolution of the mating bond. It was an old protection against Alphas abandoning inconvenient mates. After Elise’s reported death, the allowance should have ended.

Instead, the payment continued under my account.

“Why would anyone send me money to steal money?”

Mara turned over the final sheet.

The pack had recorded a monthly Luna allowance of $4,800.

I received ten percent.

The rest went to North Moon Holdings.

The company’s authorized signer was Caleb Redmond, Owen’s younger brother and the current Alpha.

I pushed back from the table. The chair scraped the vinyl.

“Call the police.”

“Pack funds come from member dues and private businesses. We can report fraud, but first I need the original beneficiary records. Caleb controls the archive.”

“Then why tell me?”

“Because the ledger says the Luna is alive. If that is legally true, only she can demand the records.”

I laughed once.

Mara did not.

At midnight, three black vehicles stopped below my building.

Caleb Redmond came upstairs with two guards. He was broad, silver at the temples, and dressed like a banker trying not to look like a banker. His eyes caught the kitchen light with an amber shine.

“Nina,” he said. “You resemble your mother.”

“Which one?”

That made one guard glance at him.

Caleb declined coffee. He offered me a folder instead. Inside was a confidentiality agreement and a check for $75,000.

“My brother made a private arrangement before his death,” he said. “Celia received support for raising you. I continued it.”

“As the dead Luna?”

“Accounting categories are imperfect.”

Mara opened her laptop. “Nine shell-company transfers are not a category.”

Caleb’s gaze hardened. “You copied restricted records.”

“I preserved evidence within my duties as treasurer.”

He turned to me. “Your mother wanted you outside pack politics. Take the settlement and remain outside.”

For the first time, I noticed the pulse in his neck. Fear, not anger.

I folded the check in half and slid it back.

“I want the original record.”

Caleb stood. “There is no record that changes who you are.”

“Then showing it costs you nothing.”

He left the folder but took the check.

Mara waited until the vehicles disappeared.

“He called Celia your mother,” she said. “Not Elise.”

“Celia was my mother.”

“Perhaps. But she was also Elise’s younger sister.”

Mara had found that connection in county birth records. Celia Hart and Elise Hart were born eleven months apart. Celia vanished from pack records at nineteen. Elise became Luna at twenty-one.

Owen died in a hunting accident when I was four. Elise supposedly died twelve years later in a cabin fire. No body was recovered.

Three months after the fire, Celia opened my bank account.

The next morning, Mara and I met pack advocate June Bell in a grocery-store café beyond Red Pine territory. The espresso machine hissed while retirees compared coupons two tables away.

June explained that I could not simply declare myself Luna or inherit a title. Nor did I want to.

But as the named beneficiary whose identity had been used, I could dispute the transfers. Mara could freeze future payments under the pack’s bylaws. A civil attorney could subpoena bank records if North Moon refused an accounting.

We did all three.

Caleb responded by calling a pack council for Sunday.

The council chamber occupied the old grange hall. It smelled of floor wax and damp pine. Forty pack members sat on folding chairs. Caleb stood beneath portraits of former Alphas, including Owen.

He called the audit an outsider’s attempt to seize pack money.

Mara projected the ledger onto a white wall.

“The outsider received $34,560,” she said. “North Moon Holdings received $311,040. Alpha Caleb certified every payment.”