“And have your mate hunt me down?” he asked. “I’ll pass.”

“I’ll tell him. Bowman can come with us, and if he can’t, he’d rather have me protected by you than going alone.” Kenzie stood up. “If you don’t want to, I can’t force you. I’ll ask Jamie or Cade.”

“Now, wait a minute.” Pierce unfolded himself to his feet. “You have me curious. Let me shut down here, and we’ll go.”

Kenzie grinned to herself and called Bowman. He didn’t answer, which was typical when he was patrolling, but she left a message. She called Afina again and told her as well, talking to Ryan and explaining that he needed to stay put. Ryan sounded resigned, used to staying the night with Afina when Kenzie and Bowman got involved with things. But the quicker Kenzie finished this, the quicker she could spend more time with her son.

“Let’s go,” Pierce said. He grabbed a heavy leather jacket and followed Kenzie out into the night.

* * *

Not long later, the two of them were rolling through Asheville, then out the other side and onto a smaller highway, continuing west.

They reached the town called Fayboro after midnight. The streets were quiet—most people here went to bed early. The historic downtown drew both tourists and artists, but in the cold months, tourists migrated to the ski resorts. The pointed steeple of a church stuck up into the night, the church sitting on a square lined with neatly trimmed rosebushes, bare now for winter.

Pierce led the way around the square and down the street behind it. They rode slowly—in this tiny town, the police would be itching to nab any outsiders speeding through. They might get stopped simply because they rode motorcycles, and when it was discovered they were Shifters . . .

Pierce killed his light, and Kenzie followed suit. There proved to be no need to sneak up on the house in question, however, because when they stopped in front of it, it was lit up. All the downstairs lights were on, the porch a bright beacon to the Victorian mansion, and the trees in front were strung with tiny white lights.

The house was a Queen Anne–style Victorian, with round towers, peaked gables, and dainty gingerbread trim. Kenzie had become familiar with the house styles of the area since she’d moved here, by riding around the countryside and collecting brochures of historic places.

In the area of Romania where she’d grown up, ruined castles abounded, as well as villages with half-timbered and stone houses. The open, airy styles of the nineteenth-century American wealthy had come as a pleasant surprise to her. Kenzie had already determined that, the day Shifters got free of Shiftertowns, she would live in a house like this one.

Parked cars lined the street in front of the place. A wooden sign planted in the yard said, “Worthington House, Historic Hotel.” The smaller sign hanging beneath the larger read, “Vacancy.”

Kenzie lifted off her helmet. “Are you sure this is right?”

Pierce’s helmet was under his arm, wind ruffling his hair. “Yep. It was turned into a bed and breakfast about twenty years ago. According to the records, Gil was hired help for the family when he first came here, but later they adopted him. When the last of them passed, they left the house to him. Everyone liked him, from what I read.”

Of course. Gil was likable. Why wouldn’t he have been a hundred and fifty years ago as well? He’d probably charmed his way into the family’s hearts. How many lies had he told them?

“Looks like the bar’s still open,” Pierce said. “Want to go in?”

“I do. Let’s see if they don’t throw out Shifters.”

The patronage of the bar was sparse—an older couple, the bartender, and a young couple obviously on honeymoon. The honeymoon couple were absorbed with each other and never noticed Pierce and Kenzie come in, but the older couple glanced up in alarm.

Kenzie knew she and Pierce looked scary—Pierce was a giant of a man compared to humans, and Kenzie was plenty tall. With their leather jackets, rumpled hair, and Collars, they must present a frightening picture.

“I can serve you drinks,” the bartender said. “But the hotel doesn’t have accommodations for Shifters.”

Kenzie wanted to snap that Shifters used the same kind of bedrooms as any human, but she restrained herself. No sense riling the natives.

“We’re just passing through,” Pierce said smoothly, moving to the long, polished wooden bar. He’d always been more diplomatic than most Shifters. “We’ll each have a beer, the best you have on tap. We’re wondering if you’ve seen this guy.” Pierce pushed a print of the photo of Gil from long ago across the bar’s top.

The bartender glanced at it as he pulled the tap and filled a glass, tilting it to let out a stream of foam. “Of course I’ve seen him. Most people who work here have, and so have some of the guests.”

“Great,” Pierce said. “Do you think we could talk to him?”

The bartender shrugged. He placed the filled glass, expertly topped with a small head, in front of Kenzie, and started on the next one. “Depends. Sometimes he shows up; sometimes he doesn’t. It’s been hit or miss lately. Too bad, because some of the guests drive miles for it. If he appears tonight, it will be out in the lobby, on the old staircase. Was there last night, though before that, he hadn’t shown himself for about a week.”

Kenzie gave him a blank look. “Shown himself?”

The bartender put the second glass down in front of Pierce, printed out a slip from the register behind the bar, and put the paper facedown by Pierce’s hand. “You know, manifest, or whatever it’s called.” The bartender tapped the picture. “He’s our resident ghost. Famous. This is the most popular haunted hotel in the Smokies.”