“Not exactly.” Turner leaned one hip against his desk. “As I say, I was in Ireland, doing postdoc studies in villages on the west coast. In one, the locals swore that they were protected by ‘magic people’ who lived in a ruined castle in the hills. Even the villagers who struck me as being practical and modern believed in the otherworldliness of these people. The consensus was that they were Sidhe—their name for the Fae. Good ones, they said, for a change. They kept the village safe; everything had started going right when the magic people came. So they said. They also swore up and down that the people could turn into lions.”

Kenzie lifted her brows as she studied him over her cup. “And you believed them?”

“Not at first. I thought they were messing with me, trying to find out how much the gullible anthropologist would swallow. But the story was repeated by so many, and the people in the next village told me the same things.” Turner let out a breath. “So I looked for these magic people, but of course I couldn’t find them. One night in the little camp I’d set up near the ruined castle in question, I heard them prowling around, watching me. But I never saw them out there. However, in the village one day, I saw a man, about as big as you, Bowman, who had the most amazing blue eyes. He was staring at me from across the high street, and I couldn’t look away. It was the wildest feeling. Almost sexual, I’d say, even though I’m not gay. He just held me with those eyes and released me when he chose. When I could finally look away, I blinked, and he was gone.”

Bowman listened in disquiet. He had no doubt Turner had spotted a Shifter. The description plus the location made Bowman think he knew which Shifter Turner had seen—sounded a lot like Dylan Morrissey. He must have chosen to let the curious American get a look at him, no doubt ready to lead him away from the rest of his pack.

“So you were convinced?” Bowman asked.

“Not quite. But interested enough to pursue more tales, once I’d learned to keep my mouth shut around my colleagues. I set off on a worldwide quest, looking for more ‘magic people.’ Eventually, of course, Shifters were revealed as real, I was offered a position at Asheville, and here I am. I’m now one of the leading authorities on all things Shifter.”

He finished, smiled at them, and walked to the kitchen to refill his cup.

Kenzie held her coffee away from her, frowning a little.

“What?” Bowman asked her under his breath.

“I smell something.”

Bowman smelled coffee. Strong, filling the cabin. He moved the cup from his nose, as Kenzie had, and rested it in his hand on the sofa.

He began to breathe deeply, pulling air into his lungs, forcing himself to sort out odors. He processed them for a long time before he found what had instinctively troubled him. The faint but unmistakable odor of Faerie.

Not strong at all; barely discernible. He glanced again at the map, which was marked with mountains, rivers, valleys, farms, towns. He knew a ley line ran alongside Shiftertown—a ley line was a sort of magical artery of a network that stretched around the globe, near which magic was enhanced and gateways to Faerie could be found. If Bowman was right, that same ley line snaked down to cross near here.

The scent didn’t come from Turner. Bowman surreptitiously inhaled when the man came back to refill their cups. Nope, Turner was human. He was not half Fae; not even one quarter. Anyone with Fae blood had a distinctive odor.

A Fae might have been here though. While Fae had difficulty in the human world, with all its iron, Bowman had heard that they could take magical precautions against iron poisoning. But even then, their spells didn’t last long.

Not that Bowman knew a lot about the Fae. He had experts like Pierce for that information, and he tried to think about Faerie and the Fae as little as possible.

He exchanged another glance with Kenzie, but she gave him a slight shake of her head and looked up at Turner again.

“This book on Shifters,” she said. “I’d love to read what you have so far.”

Turner flushed with sudden pleasure. “Really? I’m flattered. Would you? And maybe . . . give me some pointers? I want to get it right.”

“Happy to,” Kenzie said. “Do you have a copy I can take with me?”

“Why not read it right here?” Turner asked, giving her a hopeful smile. “While you enjoy some more coffee and stay warm?”

“I’m afraid we should be going,” Kenzie said, shaking her head. “Our son will be worried, plus we should report the shooter.”

“It’s still pretty dark,” Turner pointed out. “Dangerous out there until full daylight. And as I say, I’ll give you a lift.”

He returned to the kitchen without noticing the two Shifters’ discomfort. “Do you think he’s harmless?” Kenzie whispered into Bowman’s ear. “Or not?”

Bowman liked the way Kenzie’s breath tickled him, but he didn’t know how to answer.

Kenzie quietly put her coffee aside and moved to the front door. She stopped, stymied, and pointed at the keypad that took the place of a doorknob. There was no other latch, bolt, or keyhole; no other way to open the door.

“Oh, that has a code,” Turner said, coming back out of the kitchen. “Keeps squatters out when I’m not here.”

“What about the windows?” Bowman asked. “They don’t look very sturdy.”

“Looks are deceiving.” Turner smiled. “They’re wired to give an intruder a nasty shock when the alarm is on.”

“You booby-trapped your own house?” Kenzie asked him, still at the door.

“You’d be amazed at the people who come out here,” Turner said, with a quiet sigh of disapproval. “Drug dealers and pot growers, gangs, people trying to hide from the law. Or just hunters. After someone trashed the place once, I got wise.”

“Why do you come out here?” Kenzie asked. “If it’s so dangerous?”

He shrugged. “I like the quiet. I can think better. My dad left this house to me, and the property—why should I give it up because of scum like that? Besides, when I’m here, I can visualize how it used to be for Shifters in the wild. You lived pretty close to the bone, didn’t you?”

Kenzie had, in Eastern Europe. Bowman’s pack, which had lived north of the Great Lakes, had been hunted, first by Native Americans, then by colonials.