“Where did he go?”
Cristian shrugged. “I lost him. He knows these woods, and I do not.”
“You’re a Lupine,” Bowman said impatiently. “One of the best, you keep telling me. You can track anything.”
“I know. That’s what worries me.”
“Did you track as wolf?” Kenzie asked. “If so, you’re neatly dressed again.”
Cristian gave her an irritated look. “I left my clothes here and came back for them. You know we must alert the human police as to the fate of this poor girl.”
Kenzie agreed, but she knew it would lead to awkward questions. “I can call Gil. He might be able to respond discreetly.”
Cristian raised his brows. “Who is this Gil?”
“Friend of Kenzie’s,” Bowman answered, annoyance in his voice. “A cop.”
“He can help,” Kenzie said. Under Cristian’s suddenly interested stare, she looked to Bowman for confirmation, and he gave her a nod.
Kenzie pulled out her cell phone, hoping she could get a signal this far out. She lifted it to the sky, studying the icon that would show her how strong the signal was.
The next instant, the plastic shattered in her hand.
She spent one second staring at the remnants of her cell phone in shock before Bowman tackled her. They went down in a tangle of limbs, another bullet landing in the dirt where Kenzie had been standing.
“Sniper,” Bowman whispered, just as Kenzie’s stunned brain registered the fact. “Nightscope.”
Kenzie shivered violently. A man with a nightscope could sit under cover and shoot, spotting his target many yards away, and never be seen himself. It made her hackles rise, her wolf want to run, run, run.
Bowman tugged her to move, and the two of them melted silently into deeper shadow. They wouldn’t be able to find cover in darkness from a nightscope, but they might be able to move out of the hunter’s line of sight.
Cristian had vanished, he too trying to put distance between himself and the shooter.
Another bullet pinged two feet from Kenzie’s boot.
“Go.” Bowman’s whisper was a hint of sound, but Kenzie got the message. She ran. A bullet hit the ground at her heels, and she dove down a bank, finding a hollow of mud that hadn’t frozen.
The mud sucked at her, and Kenzie pulled herself out, losing one of her running shoes in the process.
To hell with that. Kenzie kept going, shedding clothes as she ran. She was leaving a trail, but it didn’t matter. She needed to change from hunted to hunter.
She heard Bowman’s growl behind her and then a great gray wolf bounded past her, Bowman back at full strength. Kenzie’s vision changed in the next seconds as her wolf took over.
She smelled the hunter now, a human who’d been sitting all night in the woods, his faint odor coating the others in the air. She scented the acrid smells of gunpowder and metal, heard the ping of bullets on trees and in the dirt.
Kenzie put her head down and ran. Her wolf could eat up miles before she tired, could run hard without losing breath. Her paws scrabbled for purchase on rocks as she followed Bowman up a hill.
He led her below a ridgeline so that their silhouettes would not be outlined against the sky. The moon was setting, but the sun would rise soon. Their only hope was to find a thick tumble of rocks, or brush so thick their forms would be blurred. Better still would be to take themselves completely elsewhere.
Bowman stopped below a rocky outcropping, his low growl barely discernible from the wind in the trees. He wanted to go up and over.
He sank to his haunches and began to crawl on his belly. Kenzie imitated him. Felines were better at slinking, but wolves could be pretty good at it too.
They slid over the rocks, grit and frozen weeds catching in Kenzie’s fur. She wanted to sneeze but didn’t dare.
Over the ridge, down the other side. The trees were thicker here, the darkness more complete. Bowman picked up into a run, flowing down the hill in perfect silence.
Where they were, Kenzie had no idea. She and Bowman had explored the wild lands around Shiftertown plenty, but a wolf could only patrol so much, even with trackers. Then again, Bowman might know exactly where they were—he often went off alone, leaving Kenzie to guard Shiftertown.
No more bullets whizzed around them, at least. Bowman slowed after a time and stopped, lifting his head to sniff the air. Kenzie also sniffed, catching unfamiliar scents, both woodsy and human.
Bowman shook himself. He sat down, his tongue lolling, but his ears and eyes alert.
Kenzie lifted her paw to look in annoyance at the thorn wedged deep between the pads. She closed her teeth around it, and found another muzzle against her own. Bowman nudged his way in, licking her paw to soothe it. The gesture was caring, even in the middle of their flight.
Kenzie nuzzled him, and Bowman made a noise low in his throat. They were alone together out here, the two of them against the night. The mate bond didn’t matter right now. Their knowledge of each other and mutual trust did.
The thorn dislodged from Kenzie’s paw. Kenzie licked Bowman’s ear in thanks, and he shook his head, as though embarrassed he’d been caught enjoying licky-cuddles.
He turned from Kenzie and trotted off into the woods. Kenzie came behind him, a few steps from his tail. If this were a more playful time, she might have lunged forward and grabbed his tail with her teeth, just to annoy him, but playfulness would have to wait.
The scent of human grew stronger. Bowman halted, Kenzie swerving to halt beside him. She looked past him and saw why he’d stopped.
They stood on the edge of a clearing. Within it was a small, narrow house—a mobile home that had been fixed on a permanent foundation. A wooden step led to the front door, which was flanked by two windows. A round barbecue with a dirty grill sat quietly beside the doorstep, and the scent of lighter fluid and burned meat lingered.
Kenzie caught another scent she couldn’t place. She had the feeling she should be able to recognize it, but either she was mistaken, or it was so covered with something else its identity eluded her.
Bowman’s nose wrinkled, and he inhaled deeply. He must have noticed it too.
As they debated in wolf language whether they should approach, the screen door of the house creaked open.
“I know you’re out there,” a man’s voice said. A shotgun poked its way out the door, followed by a human bundled in a thick jacket. The gun, as far as Kenzie could make out, had no nightscope attached. “I need you where I can see you.”
Bowman rumbled a low growl, which meant Kenzie should remain behind, then he walked slowly into the clearing.
The starlight that filtered down showed a regal gray wolf, ears pricked, head up, unafraid. Kenzie tensed, ready to spring the moment the man’s trigger finger so much as twitched.
The shotgun lowered, and spectacles flashed as the man peered more closely at Bowman. “Hello, my friend,” he said. “Tell me, are you Canis lupus? Or Canis lupus shifterensius?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kenzie watched from the shadows as Bowman shifted back to human.
He did it slowly, drawing out the process for greatest effect. His back legs grew thick and strong, his body straightening as he changed. By the time he was standing upright, his arms and legs were human, and his fur receding. His head shifted last, his wolf face flattening to human.
His eyes remained the same, gray white and fixed on the man in the clearing.
“It’s Shifter,” Bowman said clearly. “There’s no such thing as Canis lupus shifterensius.”
“There is now,” the man said. “A new classification has been approved by the scientific journals. A new one for your Felines and your bears as well.”
His voice bore the faint soft drawl of a Southerner, from coastal South Carolina, Kenzie surmised. He sounded cultured, educated—he should be lounging in his sophisticated house in the city with swimming pool, not roughing it in the backwoods. Why he was out here, she couldn’t guess.
“No.” The man sounded surprised. “Is someone shooting? Thanks for the warning.”
He didn’t seem to be at all bothered by Bowman’s lack of clothing. Bowman didn’t move, assessing the man and his threat level, as did Kenzie from the shadows of the trees.
“Why don’t you and your friend come inside?” the man asked. He uncocked the shotgun and slung it over his arm. “I’ve got coffee going. Also blankets, if your Shifter friend is shy.”
“Do you have a phone?” Bowman asked, not hurrying to obey.
“I do. I have to tell you, though, sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t. But you’re welcome to try.” He opened the door and gestured Bowman inside.
“Bring the blankets first,” Bowman said.
“Sure thing.” The man stepped up into the house. When he returned, he was minus the gun and had an armful of thin fleece blankets. He flipped on a porch light, walked to Bowman in its yellow glare, and put the blankets into Bowman’s hands. “My name’s Turner. Wayne Turner. Would you happen to be Bowman O’Donnell?”
Bowman’s hands closed on the blankets. “Do you prefer it if I am?”
“I study Shifters,” Turner said. “In a good way. I know that Bowman O’Donnell is the leader of the local Shiftertown. Your picture gets in the papers. So, you are either him or his twin brother, and you don’t have a twin brother.”
“You’re right; I’m Bowman. My mate, Kenzie.” Bowman didn’t gesture, but Kenzie knew the signal to walk out of the woods. Still wolf, she joined him, sat down next to Bowman, and gazed up at Turner.
Turner returned the look, interest in his blue eyes behind his glasses. “If it doesn’t offend you, can I say she’s beautiful? A Romanian gray wolf, right? A number of them survived in the wild lands, didn’t they?”
“They did,” Bowman said.
“Her eyes are different. Tawny rather than blue or gray. Means she’s from a different strain, different pack.”
“Yes, we know.”
Turner grinned. “Sorry, I don’t often get the opportunity to see Shifters close up. I’ve talked to a few, but I know that coming to Shiftertown and grilling you is rude. I’ll try to contain my curiosity. Come on in when you’re ready.”
He turned his back on them and walked away. Bowman bristled, but Kenzie knew Turner didn’t show his back to be insulting, like Uncle Cris did. The man had no idea what the gesture meant.
Bowman, carrying the blankets, walked with Kenzie under the cover of the trees, away from the circle of porch light, and waited for her to shift. When she was finished, he wordlessly handed her a blanket.
Kenzie wrapped it around her, glad of its protection in the sudden chill. “Are we really going in there?”
Bowman lifted one shoulder in a shrug. He’d folded a blanket and wrapped it around his waist like a bath towel. With it hugging his hips, he looked good enough to eat.
“I want to see what he’s up to,” Bowman said. “Why he’s staying here. What he has to do with Serena, if anything, or the sniper, or the beast.”
“I don’t like it,” Kenzie said, tucking the corner of the blanket around her shoulder. “And what about Uncle Cris?”
“He can take care of himself. Besides, if he finds the sniper and takes him down, that’s one less thing I have to worry about.”
Bowman held his hand out to her, and Kenzie took it. She knew the offer wasn’t just to steady her, but to share strength and confidence, and for protection. They would stay united, and alert.
Kenzie gave his hand a squeeze, and they walked to the house, up its wooden step, and inside.
* * *
The inside of the trailer was not what Bowman expected. It was less like a house, more like an office. Half the front room was taken up with bookcases plus a large, flat desk holding a computer. The other half did have a couch, a rust-colored, utilitarian thing.
A table near the computer desk was strewn with maps and photographs, and dozens of photos were pinned to the walls. Most humans these days kept their caches of information on computers, but this man seemed to like to spread out his research and immerse himself in it.
His research was on Shifters, the history of, it looked like. Many of the Lupines, Felines, and bears in the photos on the walls didn’t wear Collars, but Bowman could tell they were Shifter. The photos were older, from the 1950s and ’60s, some from the early twentieth and late nineteenth centuries. Some were photos taken in the wild, of Shifters in their animal forms. The oldest photos were of Shifters in human form sitting stiffly in chairs, posed for portraits. Likely the photographer hadn’t known they were Shifters, but their eyes and attitudes told Bowman what they were.
Kenzie looked around in disquiet and threw a glance at Bowman. He agreed. The rows and rows of Shifters staring down at them was creepy.
“What’s all this for?” Bowman asked, indicating the photos.
Turner had moved to a tiny room at the far end of the living room, which, when he snapped on the light, proved to be a kitchen. A closed door on the opposite side of the living room likely led to a bedroom.
“I discovered Shifters,” he called to them. “Well, unofficially, long before it was common knowledge. I’m a professor of anthropology. At Asheville.”
Bowman exchanged another glance with Kenzie. Is he a danger? Kenzie’s eyes asked the question. Or just a nut?
“I’m on sabbatical,” Turner said, returning with cups of steaming coffee. “Trying to get my book done. It’s a never-ending task.”
“You’re writing about Shifters?” Kenzie asked, accepting the cup he handed her. She took a long sniff of the coffee, trying to detect whether anything tainted it. Apparently, she smelled nothing amiss, because she sipped it. Then her expression changed. “This is good.”
Turner shrugged. “I live like an absentminded professor most of the time, but I pack the best Italian roast. Yes, my book is about Shifters. Their history, their origins, what they were like before the ‘outing.’ I’m something of an expert. I think, you know, that if people read about what Shifters were like ‘in the wild,’ as you call it, they’ll lose their fear. That fear has already lessened, but humans need to better integrate you into society.”
Gil Ramirez had told Kenzie much the same thing. Bowman wondered if the two men knew each other.
“Please sit down,” Turner said, scooping a pile of maps from the end of the sofa. “If you are Bowman’s mate, then you must be Kenzie, of the Dimitru pack.”
“Yes,” Kenzie said. She settled herself on the burnt orange sofa and took another sip of coffee. She looked delectable with the blanket wrapped around her like a sarong, her unfettered breasts moving softly beneath it. Bowman wondered if he’d ever cease lusting after her. Probably not.
“I’m Kenzie O’Donnell now,” Kenzie was saying. “I was absorbed into Bowman’s pack when we mated.”
“In order to calm the challenging tendencies of the Dimitru pack,” Turner finished, sounding pleased with himself. “The Dimitrus and O’Donnells nearly came to battle over who would run the Shiftertown, and Bowman took a Dimitru mate to settle the question. Like Henry the Seventh and Elizabeth of York, ending the Wars of the Roses once and for all.”
“I hope so,” Kenzie said. “Those two came to care very deeply for each other, so they say.”
Bowman shot her a questioning look, which Kenzie returned neutrally. He could almost hear the words in her head—I read books. You should try it.
“Exactly,” Turner said. “A love story for the ages.”
Bowman took a sip of coffee as Turner headed back to the kitchen, but didn’t sit down. “The phone?” he asked.
“There.” Turner pointed behind him.
It was a landline, but when Bowman lifted it, he didn’t hear a dial tone. Turner’s cell phone didn’t get a signal either when the man brought it to him, along with a plate of lemon cookies poured out of a box. Kenzie ate a cookie, but
Bowman declined.
“The phone lines get chewed on,” Turner said. “Lots of wildlife out here. If the phone lines are down, I can’t e-mail either. Doesn’t bother me, but you said there was someone in the woods shooting?”
“Someone with a nightscope,” Bowman said grimly. He didn’t like this place, but Kenzie was right about the coffee. He took another sip, filling his mouth with the rich, full taste of it.
“I have a pickup, if you think you should go find the police.”
“If we get our bearings, we can go cross-country back to Shiftertown,” Bowman said. “Where are we, exactly?”
“Here.” Turner moved to a map of western North Carolina tacked to the wall, and stuck his finger on a point where no roads were marked. “About there.”
“There” was a blank spot north and west of Leicester. Shiftertown was clearly indicated farther to the north, a long way away. They’d have to cross a couple of valleys and skirt hills, or circle miles around to main roads where they might be able to find a phone and call for Cade to pick them up.
“I can drive you,” Turner offered again. “I might not have a reliable phone, but I’m not stupid enough to come out here without a four-wheel drive, good tires, and plenty of gas.”
“Sure,” Bowman said. “I’ll think about it.”
He moved across the room and sat down by Kenzie. She was tense, and he was too, though Turner seemed harmless. Bowman had come across humans obsessed with Shifters before, although none had gone so far as to write a book.
“You said you knew about Shifters before anyone else,” Bowman said to him. “Did you have a hand in outing us?” His voice took on a dangerous note.
Turner laughed. “Of course not. When I first discovered Shifters—in Ireland it was—I got excited and wrote a paper on what I’d seen, but I was considered a crackpot and lost out on an assistant professorship I’d been an inch from getting.” Anger gleamed briefly in his eyes. “Men turning to beasts in the mists? Werewolves were real? They dismissed me as a fool.” His smile returned. “They had to eat their words in the long run, but I learned to keep quiet in the meantime. I started calling my research ‘weird things people in remote villages believe’ and told the scientific community they’d misunderstood my first paper.”