Shifter Nation- East Coast Bears Collection

by Meg Ripley

  “Research? Are you a scientist?” I haven’t received any petitions for studies, but sometimes students do trips on their own, without grants or funding, for papers. The woman I’m walking with doesn’t look like she’s much older than the average grad student, so that could be the case.

  “I’m a journalist, actually,” she tells me. “I’m investigating the history of the National Park Service for an article, and I wanted to get a feel for one of its parks before starting to delve deeper, so I planned a little trip up here to Acadia.”

  I nearly stop dead in my tracks.

  “A journalist?” Great. Of course those assholes chose literally the worst person to attack. This is going to make things even more complicated.

  “Yeah—I’m working with New World magazine,” she says. “The name’s Hannah Grant.” She holds out her hand for me to shake it, and I oblige, in spite of the multiple distractions raging for control of my mind.

  “Knox Bernard,” I tell her. “We’ve spoken before.” I see her eyes widen as we pass into the lighted area surrounding the parking lot.

  “You’re the administrator for this park,” she says, looking at me sharply. “We talked on the phone.”

  “We did,” I agree. God could this situation get worse?

  “You’re...much more attractive than you sounded on the phone,” the woman says, smiling a little awkwardly.

  “I don’t know if I should be offended or flattered,” I tell her. She laughs, and it’s like someone’s run a finger down my spine in the best way possible.

  “No, I didn’t mean it as an insult at all,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m just surprised that you’re the one who came to my rescue, I guess.” She shakes her head again and rummages through her purse. “I should probably head back to my Airbnb before I embarrass myself even more.”

  “Let me just check you over before you leave,” I suggest, partly because I want to make sure she’s actually okay, but also because I want an excuse to linger. The scent rolling off her is enough to drive me mad; aside from that, I have to set some ground rules about this article she’s working on. I can’t be having a scandalous investigation into the park underway.

  “I guess,” Hannah says, looking at me warily. I hold up my flashlight and wave the light over her hands, up her arms and down her legs, checking her over. I don’t really need it—there’s enough light from the moon and the safety lamps set out in the parking lot for me to see clearly—but it gives me an excuse to take my time, and besides: she doesn’t need to know that I can already see her as plain as day.

  “I hope that little incident didn’t give you a bad first impression of the park,” I say, playing the light over her back. Her denim jacket must have gotten snagged on something; but thankfully, it’s not torn through.

  “Well, it certainly gave me a good first impression of the park Rangers,” Hannah says playfully. “Rushing to help this stupid damsel in distress.”

  “It could’ve happened to anyone,” I tell her. “I’ve been trying to run those campers out of here for a couple of weeks, but they’re paid up and I haven’t had anything I can use as leverage ‘til now. Hopefully this changes things.”

  “You know who they were?”

  “I know this park inside and out,” I point out with a little smile. “Well, you look like you’re all in one piece, but you should check yourself over for ticks once you get back home.”

  “I will,” Hannah says. And then we’re just standing there in the parking lot, awkwardly, with maybe a foot and a half of space between us. “Are you on duty tomorrow? I was hoping I could get a tour...in the daylight, of course.”

  “I’m off duty, technically,” I reply, thinking fast. “But if you want to get a tour of the park, I’d be more than happy to show you around.”

  “That would be great,” Hannah says.

  “Think you can get here at about two? It should be warm enough, and we can make good time along the shoreline and through the wooded areas.”

  “You realize I’m going to be interviewing you,” Hannah says, making it not quite a question.

  “I expected as much,” I say, grinning at her. “Two?”

  “That works,” she tells me, smiling back. “Thanks again. For...you know.”

  “Just doing my job,” I insist. I turn away from her, stepping back to watch the gentle swaying of her hips as she walks the rest of the way to her car. I’m not sure whether I’m looking forward to tomorrow because it’ll give me a chance to run interference, or to be around that lingering, sweet scent of hers, but I can only hope I can get enough sleep to be functional before I have to meet up with her.

  I watch as her car pulls away and then head back onto the trail, towards the part of the woods where the interlopers disappeared to. I’m going to have to discuss the incident with the members of my clan, and if I expect to be able to expel these bastards from the neutral, sacred lands of the park, I’ll need some solid evidence to present to the conclave of shifters.

  3

  Hannah

  The morning after my ill-fated trip to Acadia National Park, I’m up early, scanning through some of the research I’ve already done, trying to put together a cohesive strategy for interviewing Knox Bernard later in the day.

  As I look through my records, there’s something odd I keep coming across, and while it doesn’t make me feel like I’m becoming a full-on conspiracy theorist, it does set off some red flags. Like many of the national parks that exist in the US, Acadia was made possible through lots of advocacy and generous contributions from wealthy men—but the donations were made by the same handful of families repeatedly.

  Most well-off families do benevolent things to get their names in history books. But a lot of the people involved in the establishment of Acadia, and the National Park Service as a whole, seemed to not want any credit at all. I decide by around eleven that I’ll ask Knox what he knows about the history of the park itself, and start getting ready for our meeting. I’ve got a few bumps and bruises from falling on the trail, but I’m actually surprised at how unafraid I am to venture back into the woods. Of course, that could just be because I won’t be alone, and especially because the Ranger who’ll be taking me around is actually pretty hot.

  I weave my hair into a french braid and pull an old cap from my university over my head to keep the sun out of my eyes. It’s cool enough that it makes perfect sense to wear hiking boots, my other pair of thick jeans, and a heavy pullover sweater. I find myself hoping that I at least look halfway decent; not that I should be worried about how I look, other than needing to come across as professional.

  “Headed out to the park? It looks like a beautiful day for a hike,” Mary says as I clomp downstairs from my room.

  “Yeah. I’m even getting a special tour,” I tell her. I’d mentioned I was going to be in town to work on an article for New World, but I hadn’t given away any details about what I was actually investigating, just that the piece is about national parks in general.

  “Oh really? Well a cute young thing like you is bound to get some special treatment,” Mary says, pouring herself another cup of coffee. “Want me to fix you up some of this in a thermos? It’ll help to keep you warm out there.”

  “I’d love some. Thanks,” I say, smiling at her.

  I check over everything in my bag as she’s hustling about the kitchen to get my thermos ready: I’ve got my recorder, a spare microphone, a notepad with some preliminary questions written out, a heavy-duty flashlight, a full bottle of water, my phone, maps and guides of the park—everything I need for the day’s trek and for the interview I lined up with Knox.

  I wonder absently about the guys who tried to attack me, and what’s become of them, but I know I’m not going to include that detail in the article unless I absolutely have to—that’s not the kind of incident I want to have my name next to, if only because it makes me look like a total idiot for putting myself in that predicament in the first place.

  In no time
flat, I’m pulling through the gate at Acadia. I spot Knox waiting for me, and I have to admit: in full daylight—even without his uniform—he looks super hot. He’s in a pair of relaxed jeans that fit snug in all the right places, along with a shirt that looks a little light for the weather, a leather jacket, and rugged hiking boots.

  I find an empty parking spot—there are a lot fewer of them now, since it’s daylight—and pull into it, checking my hair and making sure I collected everything I’d need. I climb out of my car and by the time I’ve got it locked up and my bag slung over my shoulder, Knox is only a couple of yards away. I see him looking me over and realize that I’m not the only one who likes what they see.

  “Good day for a hike,” he says, giving me a smile. For a second, something vaguely primal flashes in his eyes, and I have to wonder if I imagined it somehow.

  “You do know that I’m going to spend the entire time trying to pry information out of you, right?” It only seems fair to give him warning, but I give him a little smile to go with it. I’m not usually coy or all that flirty with people I’m interviewing, but there’s something about Knox that makes me blush and flutter my eyelashes.

  Up close, he’s more muscular than I realized the night before; I can almost make out his pecs against the fabric of his shirt. He’s definitely more ripped than I would imagine a park Ranger to be, and I can’t help, just for a second, imagining what he would look like naked.

  Shit! You stop that right now, Hannah Grant. I take a quick breath to try and stifle the heat that seems to be coursing through my veins, heading just south of my hips. What is wrong with me?

  “I expected as much,” Knox says, keeping that little grin on his face. I notice something secretive in his eyes, and begin to wonder if maybe I’m onto something; perhaps some of the bizarre claims I’ve read about the NPS aren’t so outlandish after all. I can’t think of what else he could feel the need to hide, but I’ll play along for now.

  “Well, shall we get started?” I open the thermos and take a swig of coffee. “I’ve got all day, but the sooner we start…”

  “The sooner we’ll have it done and over with,” Knox finishes for me. “Let me show you my favorite trail.”

  We start off in that direction and I fall into step with the Ranger, running the questions through my head and trying to figure out where to begin.

  “So, I’m assuming that as the manager of the park, you’re pretty well-versed in its history,” I say. “Oh! I almost forgot. Do you mind if I record this?”

  “Not at all, go right ahead,” Knox replies. I take the recorder out of my bag and rattle off my standard disclaimer, holding the machine a few inches from Knox’s face for him to confirm his agreement to being recorded.

  “So, as I was saying, I assume you’re pretty knowledgeable about the park’s history,” I begin again.

  “It comes with the territory,” Knox says. “Is there something specific you want to know?”

  “While I was doing my research, I came up sort of...confused, I guess, about some of the founders,” I say. “Obviously, the main people involved were Christopher Ellsworth, his father Christopher B. Ellsworth, and Theodore Davis, but there were others too, right?”

  “Of course,” Knox nods. “What about them?”

  “A lot of them don’t seem to have much in the way of public records,” I say. “I mean, there are notations that they contributed or lobbied to the cause, but when I tried to find some of their birth certificates, for example, I came up empty.”

  Knox shrugs. “It was nearly a century ago, so keep in mind, many of the records might be a little shoddy.”

  I frown at that, but I can’t think of a way to press the point further. “So, Knox, you’ve probably heard the strange rumors about Acadia, and the National Park Service in general. What are your thoughts?” I hurry a bit to keep up with him as we head up a little incline. I have to admit it’s beautiful out, even if it’s a bit chilly.

  “The conspiracy wackos?” Knox gives me a sardonic grin. “Don’t tell me you’re doing some hit piece about how the people who created the national parks were all warlocks and freemasons.”

  “No, no; I’m trying to do as straightforward a piece as possible,” I say quickly. “But it does come up, you know.”

  “I know,” Knox nods. “It’s just always seemed so ridiculous to me—doesn’t it seem that way to you?”

  “Well, we know a lot of the founding fathers were masons, or members of other fraternities,” I counter; I’m not even sure why I’m pressing the point at all, because a day ago, I found the whole idea ridiculous. “But obviously, the idea of building a bunch of parks to make it easier to sacrifice goats in private is a bit much to believe.”

  “Glad to hear you think so,” Knox says, his voice rippling with amusement.

  We come to a stopping point and I mention I need to sit down for a bit; I offer Knox some coffee and he waves me off. “I’ve actually got a picnic basket with some snacks hidden for us down the trail a bit,” he tells me. “Did you bring water, too, or just coffee?”

  “I have a water bottle, and it’s full,” I tell him, and he nods his approval.

  “Do you do much hiking, Hannah?”

  I shrug off the question. “Some, but my job doesn’t leave me much time to.”

  “How did you end up in this line of work, anyway?”

  “Kind of by accident,” I explain. “I always liked asking questions, and I enjoyed writing back in school, so when it came time to pick a major, journalism sounded like the perfect path. By the time I graduated, I had honed my skills...and well, here I am.” I take another sip of my still-warm coffee and look at Knox speculatively. “How about you? When did you decide to become a park Ranger?”

  “I’ve wanted to be one since I was a kid,” Knox says. “I’ve always loved the outdoors; hunting, camping, fishing. I even took foraging classes when I was young. My parents liked living off the land, and when I turned twelve, we did a tour of the different national parks; that’s when I decided.”

  I try to picture Knox as a twelve-year-old boy, foraging in the woods for mushrooms, berries or whatever, but it’s impossible. He’s far too masculine and fully-grown for me to imagine him any other way.

  “Ready to move on?” he asks, gesturing toward the next leg of the trail.

  4

  Knox

  “What can you tell me about Theodore Davis?”

  I had hoped that Hannah would give up the line of questioning about the park’s early history after what I’d said before, but she’s obviously intent on digging deep. Of course, I can’t tell her much about Davis; only the official history.

  “He was a major conservationist, and a wealthy guy,” I say, turning a corner and glancing back to look at Hannah.

  I’ve been trying to stay downwind of her the entire time we’ve been hiking. I nearly forgot just how good she smells, and how much her scent—lavender honey, and now, after some hiking, a deeper musk that drives my animal instincts into overdrive—makes me want nothing more than to carry her off into one of the more isolated areas and explore every inch of her body. She’s not even your kind. Get your head out of the clouds.

  “He was one of several people involved in the establishment of the park. Davis donated a bunch of his land and convinced some of his rich buddies to do so as well. He was one of the guys who was able to get the area protected by the feds. The government eventually agreed to preserve the space as a monument, but it didn’t get its status as a national park until after the National Park Service was formed a few years later.”

  “Have you heard any anecdotes explaining what spurred his interest in conservation to begin with?”

  I glance at her again; Hannah’s keeping pace with me pretty well, even without the advantage of having the preternatural speed that comes with being a shifter.

  “Lots of rich people back then made it their pet cause, and they still do today. It’s a way to preserve beautiful landscapes, and add some c
redit to their names. You know?”

  “I guess that makes sense, but why not...I don’t know. Why not build hospitals, or something like that?”

  I shrug. “Some of them did that, too,” I tell her. “But a lot of them liked to be in the great outdoors in their downtime, and the best way to make sure they could enjoy it was to set up parks like this one.”

  Of course, the real reason behind why many of the conservationists were so devoted to the cause is a very different story. One that Hannah could never know.

  Davis and a handful of the other founders—his comrades—were shifters.

  Around the turn of the twentieth century, the industrial revolution began to encroach on our normal safe spaces, the same way it had been pushing out other wildlife. We needed areas where we could shift at will or during the full moon; to be ourselves and embrace our dual natures while being shielded from the public eye. So, while Davis and his associates were rallying for the designation of a preserved space for us here in Maine, other wealthy shifters with political prowess infiltrated the federal government and made their case for forging the National Park Service as a whole, which would establish preservation areas for shifters across the nation.

  As for Hannah, hopefully, if I keep repeating the story that’s on the official record, I can get her off this line of questioning altogether. I’m pledged—as every shifter is—to keeping our kind and its history secret. Because of my position as the administrator of Acadia, as well as the Alpha of my clan, I have the responsibility of making sure no outsiders know about the real purpose behind the national parks. Hannah is most definitely an outsider, no matter how much the ursine part of my brain keeps insisting that she should belong to me.

  “I guess maybe the fact that it was mostly a bunch of super-wealthy people is why some folks are so keen on the idea that they were free masons, or Elks, or whatever,” Hannah says.