* * *

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.