“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.”

“Mmm,” was all Bowman could say.

“Wise of you,” Kenzie put in. “How were you so certain you’d found Shifters? Did you see one shift?” Her voice was warm, interested. She was trying to charm him—a good way to figure out what he wanted from them.

“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.”