“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 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.