Cristian didn’t keep him waiting long. “My trail, perhaps not surprisingly, went to Turner’s,” he said as he approached Bowman. “Something is very wrong in that clearing, and I would like to know what.”
So would Bowman. “Mine went to a road,” he said. “Someone had parked a pickup there. Something like an F250 by the spread of the tires and depth of the tracks.”
Cristian gave him an ironic smile. “Impressive, Holmes. Anything else?”
Bowman took what he’d found on the trail out of his pocket and wordlessly handed it to Cristian.
It was a charm, a large one, from a necklace or some such, made of solid silver. The design looked Celtic—not the same as the Celtic knot that adorned Shifter Collars, but similar. The silver was old, softened by time; not tarnished, but not bright and shiny either.
Cristian sniffed it. “This is Fae.”
“Yep.” Bowman folded his arms against the cold. “Just lying in the woods, in the mud, about halfway up to the truck.”
Cristian continued to study it. “I would swear that the two men standing in the clearing were human.”
“They were. No scent of Fae anywhere. And yet, the guy in the big boots dropped it. I found it right beside his footprints.”
“Or it was lying there and had nothing to do with him.”
“The ley line is over there.” Bowman pointed to the left, away from the arena. “But I’ve never heard of any gates in it. No standing stones in this woods.” Standing stones often contained an entrance to Faerie. “I doubt a Fae popped out, went for a hike, dropped a piece of silver, and ran back home. We’d smell a trail like that.”
Cristian scowled at him over the charm. “Then what are you suggesting?”
“That a human had this thing in his possession.”
“A human, meaning Turner?”
Bowman nodded. “Why not? If he has studied Shifters as thoroughly as he says, he’s come across the ley lines and the Fae.”
“What is your idea, then?” Cristian asked. “Turner, in his zeal to find out about Shifters, stumbles across a piece of Fae jewelry and passes it to a large man who drives a pickup? Who drops it along the way as he leaves the woods? I think you had not enough sleep last night, Bowman.”
Bowman reached for the charm. He wanted to yank it away, but as much as he’d wanted to hit the man earlier, he knew that starting a fight with Cristian wouldn’t help anything. It might make him feel better, but it wouldn’t do any good in the long run.
Cristian relinquished the silver piece without fuss. “Maybe Turner does not know exactly what it is,” he said.
“And maybe gave it to the other guy as payment for something—like shooting at us the other night? Or killing Serena?” Bowman studied it. “Nothing a Fae makes is free of magic, is it? This thing could have leapt out of the other man’s pocket, trying to stay near the ley line, maybe.”
“And you picked it up?” Cristian asked, eyes wide. “I am wrong—you are a very brave Shifter.”
Bowman ignored his needling and shoved the charm into his pocket. “It’s important. I want to ask”—his throat closed up—“Kenzie what she thinks about it.”
Damn it, he couldn’t deal with this. He couldn’t let her go. Life without Kenzie would be one long road of emptiness.
Bowman closed his fist in his pocket, the charm still inside it. It burned his hand, calling to the tiny piece of Fae magic all Shifters had inside them.
“We should take it to Turner,” Cristian said, watching Bowman. “To see how he squirms when he lies about it.”
“Kenzie knows a lot about the Fae. I want her opinion.” Bowman smiled a feral smile, taking refuge from pain in thoughts of violence. “Then, yes, we’ll go make Turner eat it.”
* * *
“Damn it, Gil, will you call me?” Kenzie growled in her tenth voice mail at him. “You can’t drop a bombshell like this on me and then not answer.” She closed her eyes, taking a tighter grip on her phone. “I wanted to say this face-to-face, but I’m just going to tell you. I don’t care what you said. I’m staying with Bowman, even if it kills me. You’re not Shifter, so you should be all right. I’d appreciate it if you’d just forget all about the mate bond.”
The buzz in her ear told her the connection had cut off before she’d finished the message. Kenzie banged the phone to the counter in frustration.
Gil must be at work, patrolling the roads, catching suspects, bringing them in to jail. He had a job, after all. He might have turned his phone off so he could get on with it.
No, this was too important. Kenzie looked up the number of the police station in Marshall, where Gil worked, and called the main switchboard.
“I need to speak to an officer there, Gil Ramirez,” she said to the woman who answered. “Is he there? Or can I leave him a message?”
“I’m sorry,” the woman answered. “Who?”