choked back a laugh. “You sent Luther Ross to Alaska?”
Kristof tilted his head to the side. “You don’t think he’ll like it?”
“Naughty boy. We’ll be lucky if he’ll talk to us after this.” I looked back up at the sky. “So how come you never brought me here?”
“I was saving it. For a special occasion, I guess.” Another glance my way. “You like it?”
I closed my eyes. I could still see the Northern Lights dancing. “Mmm. You’ll have to bring me back.”
His fingers found mine, enclosing them in a sudden surge of warmth. “I will.”
A shout, and we bolted upright. I concentrated and the darkness lifted enough for me to make out two orange jackets moving from a stand of trees.
“Never shoot anything around here,” a man said, voice carrying in the stillness. “The drop-off point’s there, remember? That’s fine welcome for a new visitor—getting shot the moment he touches down.”
“But I saw something over there,” a younger voice said. “In the woods, not near the drop-off.”
“Doesn’t matter. You don’t shoot anywhere near here.”
Kristof leaned toward my ear. “Time to make some new friends. See if they’ve encountered your pedagogically inclined nymphomaniac.” He pushed to his feet. “Hullo!”
The older voice hailed him and two hands rose in greeting. As I brushed the snow from my jeans, the men approached. Their voices had suggested an older man and a younger one, but I couldn’t have guessed which was which. Both were bundled in parkas, with fur-lined hoods drawn tight over their bearded faces, as if it really was subzero out here. Matching hunting vests topped their parkas. Each man carried a modified rifle.
“Well, hello there,” the man with the older voice boomed. “Welcome to Deerhurst, Alaska. Population: a few thousand.” He winked. “But only a handful of ’em human.”
“Beautiful place,” I said, looking around. I snuck a glance at Kristof. “You, uh, must get a lot of visitors.”
“Nope,” the man said. “The transportation code is damned obscure, which is how we like it. Just enough visitors to keep things interesting.”
“So I bet you haven’t seen another visitor in…weeks.”
“Not that long, actually. Had a party come through just this morning.” He thumped the younger man on the back. “Billy here came with them. Now, let’s get you folks back to the lodge. It’s getting nippy out.” He shivered for effect. “Time for a hot cocoa and brandy by the fire. A proper Alaskan welcome.” He started to lead us away, then turned. “Damn it, I’ve been out in the bush too long. Always forgetting my manners. I’m Charles. You can call me Chuck, Charlie, Chas, whatever you like…though, given the choice, I’ll stick with Charles.”
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