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We introduced ourselves, then followed Charles across the snowy field.
As hunting lodges went, this one was damned near perfect: a two-story log chalet nestled among snowcapped evergreens, wood-perfumed smoke spiraling lazily into the night sky. Icicles from the second-floor balcony glistened in the moonlight. When Charles pushed open the thick wooden door, a wave of heat rushed out, carried on a current of laughter. Inside, a half-dozen men sat around a huge stone fireplace that took up the entire north wall.
"Got two more," Charles called as he led us in.
While the men called greetings and introductions, an oversize pet door on the east wall swung open and a gray-brown wolf pushed its way inside.
"Hey, Marcello," Charles called. "Good hunting?"
The wolf gave a grumbling growl, walked over, and turned, presenting us with a flank splattered in still-wet orange paint.
"Lemme guess," Charles said as a wave of guffaws rose from the fireplace crowd. "New guy?"
A middle-aged man rose from his chair. "How was I supposed to know he was a werewolf? He should be wearing a collar or something."
Marcello chuffed and tossed a baleful glare at the man, then strode to the fireplace and stretched out in front of it.
"Marcello prefers his wolf form," Charles whispered. "Hardly ever changes back. Won't hear us complaining, though. I had scores of hunting dogs in my day, but none of them compared to Marcello."
>
I looked at Charles's rifle as he laid it down. "So you guys hunt with paint balls?"
He laughed. "The Fates won't let us use bullets, that's for sure. Not that we can kill anything here anyway. Doesn't matter to me. I like it better this way. More sporting...and you never run out of targets." He looked over at Marcello and lowered his voice again. "He can make that paint disappear with a good shake. He's just leaving it on to razz the new guy."
"So..." Kris said as we moved into the room. "How many new guys do you have?"
"Four. All first-timers. Real keen on hunting, though, and that's the important thing."
That certainly didn't sound like Luther Ross. He'd probably touched down, taken one look around, and teleported out again.
A few minutes later, I was on a sofa by the fireplace, legs stretched over Kris's lap, enjoying a hot chocolate with marshmallows as Kristof chatted up the hunters, trying to discreetly find out if anyone had spotted Ross. I was only half-listening, having already decided Ross was long gone, and was furiously trying to think up a new plan...one that didn't involve sitting with Lizzie Borden.
I had gotten about halfway through my drink, and nowhere near a good backup plan, when the door swung open, blasting us with cool air. In walked Luther Ross, a pained smile pasted on his face. A young man followed him in and patted his back.
"Got ourselves a real hunter here, boys," he said. "Could barely drag him back in, even when I promised him brandy and venison stew."
Ross's gaze darted about, searching for an escape route.
"Hey, Luther," Charles called. "Got someone you might like to meet. You know how you were asking if we ever got any ladies up here? Well, you're in luck. One just landed."
Ross's gaze followed Charles's wave almost reluctantly, as if afraid of what he'd see. When he saw me, he blinked. Then a slow smile lit up his eyes.
"Well, hello," he said.
"Uh, one problem," Charles said as the others chuckled around him. "'Fraid she didn't come alone."
Ross's gaze slid to Kristof and his eyes narrowed.
"Told you you're in trouble," I murmured. "Better let me handle this one."
It took a few minutes, but I was finally able to excuse myself from the group. Upstairs, I made a beeline for the balcony. I'd been outside only a few moments when Ross joined me.
I should have known he'd still be in Alaska--he'd have let us send him to Siberia if it meant he'd be safe from the Nix. The old saw about being "a lover, not a fighter" fit Ross to a tee. There was probably a good dose of "yellow-bellied coward" behind that, but I'm sure he would have preferred the first cliche.
I blamed the poor choice of safe house on a transportation-code mix-up, and promised to find him something more suitable...as soon as he answered a few questions. He agreed, and Kristof joined us.
Ross said he'd never asked the Nix anything about herself, including why she'd shown up at his door. There's a Luther Ross in every bar every night of the week--guys who are willing to sit across from a pretty girl for hours, look deep into her eyes, and entreat her, with near-perfect sincerity, to tell him everything about herself, her thoughts, her fears, her hopes and dreams. But, hey, if you'd rather just hop straight into bed, then your private life is your own, sugar.
