Bowman stopped. Graham was watching him, and Bowman shook his head. “Misty knows Kenzie and I never . . .”
“Yeah, she does. But she doesn’t agree that you don’t have it.”
Graham looked as though he’d say something more, then he closed his mouth, his cheekbones reddening. If Bowman had been in any other state of mind, he’d be amused watching the warrior Lupine grow embarrassed.
“Misty also sent a big flower arrangement for you,” Graham finally said. “You know she still has the florist shop.” He growled. “You know what I felt like holding that on my lap all the way across the country and then riding in from the plane? Don’t worry, I left it at your house. Kenzie can enjoy it when she gets home.”
* * *
The university campus was quiet this early in the morning, between semesters. Classes didn’t start again, an electronic sign at its main entrance informed them, until mid-January.
Even so, there were enough people around to make Bowman’s expedition perilous. Groundskeepers and maintenance workers moved about the campus on foot and in electric carts, department secretaries hurrying in to open offices. A few students trickled into the just-opened library, and one academic walked to a brick building, a briefcase in hand, head down against the cold.
The Shifters didn’t resemble anything but Shifters, and one had a broadsword on his back.
Bowman had considered leaving Pierce behind—for about three seconds. Bowman knew he needed Pierce near, in case it became necessary for him to do his job as Guardian.
The Fae woman, Brigid, accompanied them, though she’d started to feel ill as soon as they’d left the woods. The Shifters had parked their motorcycles and trucks at the arena—the arena’s shored-up beams had iron in them, as did the waiting vehicles.
Gil had stepped forward and solved the problem. He gave Brigid a necklace with what looked like a coin hanging from it, which, he said, would protect her from the worst of the iron sickness. Brigid took the necklace distrustfully, but when she put it on, the greenish cast to her skin disappeared, and she breathed better.
Gil handed another necklace to Bowman. “This will help.”
“Help me what?” He was as suspicious as Brigid.
“Cut through any spells Turner has laid on to keep you from Kenzie. He knows a lot of Fae magic. Half the crap Cristian and I found in his trailer is about Fae spells and how to find the power, as a human, to work them. He’s figured out a lot—how to tap the ley lines; how to use sympathetic magic—blood, hair, the like—to control people. He’s dangerous. This is a fairly general spell, but it should help.”
Bowman would have preferred him to say, Here’s the perfect weapon that will take out Turner and free Kenzie without her and Ryan getting hurt, instead of It should help. But Bowman had learned to take what he could get.
They rendezvoused at a coffeehouse outside the university, a place that didn’t mind serving Shifters. The clientele was young, mostly students and newbie executives. They gave the Shifters curious glances, though Brigid stood out still more than the Shifters. She’d look otherworldly even without the tunic and breeches, with her pale hair, long braids, and black eyes. She gazed coolly back at the men who stared at her in wonder until they pretended great interest in their coffees.
Bowman sipped his brew in the parking lot, for once having no enjoyment of the rich, bitter liquid. They’d decided to keep the penetrating team for the university small—Bowman, Pierce, Graham, Reid. Gil, who Bowman wasn’t going to trust by a long way, would stay with Cade. Cade had orders to sit on him if he tried anything.
“I’m here to help,” Gil said, undaunted. “Believe me, I owe Kenzie.”
“Damn right you do.” Bowman snarled at him. “But you take orders from me, got it?”
Gil raised his hands. “All right. It’s your show.”
“We don’t even know if Turner’s at his office,” Pierce pointed out. “He could be at his house in South Carolina. The university is only a guess.”
“Simple enough to discover.” Cristian took out his cell phone and tapped numbers. “Hello, is that the Department of Anthropology?” he asked when a woman’s voice answered. His accent became thick. “I am a colleague of Professor Turner, an anthropologist from Romania. Is he in? May I speak to him?”
Bowman heard the woman on the other end. “He’s here, but he’s over in his lab. He doesn’t like to be disturbed there. I can leave a message with your number, or send you to his voice mail.”
“It is no matter.” Cristian managed to sound cheerful and bumbling, and somehow stooped and elderly, though he stood next to Bowman as taut and dangerous as a naked blade. “I take a chance. I call him again this afternoon, yes? Thank you, young lady. You have a nice day.”
He tapped the phone again and dropped it into his pocket. “He is there.”
“I heard,” Bowman said tightly.