Kenzie. My mate.

“Trapped,” Cristian said when Bowman was unable to speak. “You mean in a pocket?”

Gil’s gaze flashed to him, and he nodded the best he could with Bowman’s hand on his throat.

“What the hell is a pocket?” Jamie asked.

“A piece of a world beyond,” Cristian said, “where anything might be. Or so my mother claims. She’s always telling me to never go into the mists. Romanian folktales, as I said.”

“The pockets are real,” Gil broke in. “They open and close. One can lead to many different places or to other pockets. Some are stable, most are not. Even the Fae are afraid of the mists.”

Bowman’s voice was harsh. “You’re saying Kenzie is in one of these?”

“Maybe,” Cristian said, at the same time that Gil answered, “Yes.”

Bowman yanked Gil from the wall by his frayed shirt. “You will show me exactly where you lost her. And if you’re lying, and if she’s dead, you will come to understand the meaning of pain.”

“That means no more haunting for you,” Pierce said with cold humor. “Your mutilated body would scare all the guests in your little hotel away.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Who the hell are you?” Kenzie called.

She peered between the trees and wet leaves of fernlike plants, searching for whoever had spoken. She’d turned human as soon as she heard the voice, but her sight wasn’t as good in this form, and Kenzie strained to see. It was lighter here, as though the sun were rising, but that couldn’t be. It was still the middle of the night.

A woman stepped onto the path in front of her. She was as tall as Kenzie, had a sharp, rather pale face, very dark eyes, and many braids of white blond hair that fell to her waist. She was beautiful—in a frightening sort of way.

The clothes she wore had once been rich—velvets, brocades, and fur, cut to flow with her every move. But the brocade was fraying, the velvets torn, the fur damp and matted. The entire ensemble—long tunic and cloak over breeches and soft leather boots—was stained with mud and what looked like dried blood. Kenzie also noticed that though the woman’s voice was cool, her scent broadcast her fear.

“Who the hell are you?” the woman returned. “More fodder for the trials? I have told him, I’m a hunter, yes, but not a killer. A clean hunt for food and feasting is one thing. Murder to harvest organs is something else entirely.”

Kenzie’s mouth sagged open. The woman was angry, scared, and arrogant. She was also Fae.

“Harvest organs?” Kenzie repeated.

“To create the mythological beasts. Why stop at Shifters? Why not the griffins, unicorns, and manticores of legend?”

Kenzie folded her arms, suddenly cold, though the air here was warm. “Who wants to create them? Gil?”

The woman frowned and shook her head. “I know not this Gil.”

“Who do you know? Who are you? And why is a Fae in the woods in North Carolina?”

“I know not this Northern Carolina either. My mother warned me of the mists, but I forgot in the excitement of the hunt. If I had been a fine young lady and followed the rules, I would be at home weaving tapestries instead of trapped in the mists.” The corners of her mouth turned up a little. “I might be, as you say, bored out of my mind, but I’d be safe.”

Kenzie had to smile. She’d feel the same. “I’m Kenzie,” she said. “And you are . . . ?”

The woman shook her head. “You Shifters. So quick to give away names.”

“We don’t have a big hang-up about them, no. Though I understand the idea about true names being used for magical control. You have a name you let people call you, don’t you? Even if it isn’t your real one?”

She conceded this with a nod. “Brigid. You may call me that.”

“Good. So, Brigid, where the hell are we? And why are you here? Instead of home weaving tapestries?”

Brigid gave a little shiver. “That I do not know. I was hunting with my sisters. I chased my prey into a misty dell and quite suddenly found myself in this wood. I called for my sisters, but they never heard me.”

“Are we in Faerie? Not someplace I want to be.”

Kenzie’s voice was steady, matter-of-fact, but inside she was tight with worry. A Shifter stumbling through a gate into Fae realms might never get out again. She could be hunted, captured, killed, her wolf skin hung up like a trophy. Or she could be enslaved as Shifters had been of old, used as a fighting and hunting beast.

The best thing Kenzie could do in Faerie was get out. Fast.

“I do not know where this place is,” Brigid said. “It might be the inside of a gate between the real world and another place, perhaps many places. I am stuck here, released only when he comes for me.”

“He?” Kenzie asked. “He who?”

“Human names make no sense to me. I don’t remember. But he likes my skills. I am a—I don’t know how to translate to your language, but I breed and raise animals. Hunting dogs, hunting cats, hawks. My father does, that is. I assist him, but I am plenty good at it myself.” She ended with pride, a touch of Fae arrogance.

“A breeder?” Kenzie asked, taking a step back. “You keep the animals in cages and take away their cubs?” So the Fae had done to Shifters in the old days, the stories went.

Brigid shook her head. “No. Young taken from a mother too fast can decline and die.”