“What are you doing? Shimmer? Shimmer! What are you doing?”

Jared sounds alarmed, even more so than when we walked down the rather ominous gravel path with NO TRESPASSING signs tacked to every other tree. If I were to warrant a guess, I’d say he’s less than comfortable with the fact that I’m currently picking the lock on the front door of Qim’s Wulfkonig’s home in the Kukunniwi Woods.

His home, as it turns out despite the plaque on the door declaring it the “Founder’s Cabin,” is more a ski chalet-level mansion with several summer camp-style cabins in back. Definitely not the little country cottage I’d been imagining when Grace found the address but no pictures or Google Earth-images of Wulfkonig’s Kansas property.

At least the lock on the door is decidedly old fashioned and therefore easy to pick. Which means one thing is going my way…

Five minutes after asking Santiago for one of the bobby pins from his samurai knot, I’m inside—with a silent thank you to my cousin Pavel for teaching me the art of lock picking at his place in Indiana that one summer.

I find exactly what I expect after breaking into a luxury cabin: a massive front room that extends all the way to the rear of the house, and large windows framing a stunning view of a small mountain beyond. There’s wood everywhere. The floors, the walls, the ceilings, and much of the furniture. But the wood is from a variety of trees—pine, oak, cherry, birch—and the different shades along with the bold leather furniture and a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace keep the place from feeling like the inside of a giant wooden box.

Santiago immediately fans out to search the rest of the house while Jared stands guard beside me in the middle of the room.

He gives the room a long look and whistles. “Nice place. Wonder what type of wood this is?”

“Mostly pine, and a few others,” I answer automatically.

“How can you tell?” he asks, throwing me a curious frown. No doubt I’m one of the last persons he’d expect to be able to identify wood on sight. And now that I think of it, he’s right. Nevertheless…

“You can’t smell it?”

He frowns, inhaling deeply through his nose. “Nope. Just smells like a closed-up cabin to me.”

My nose isn’t having nearly the same vague experience. I can smell everything. In fact, my nose easily picks out a huge number of scents as if they’ve been neatly arranged. Leather, pinewood, stone, dust, and something dog-like—but not quite. This scent is sharper—rich and woodsy—and not nearly as offensive as that of wet dog. In fact, it smells…

I inhale again. Right. It smells right.

Kindred, the strange new voice whispers inside of me.

The scent is also stale. Which means the cabin is empty. I know this even before Santiago returns to give the all-clear. And I get the sense I’ve arrived too late for…something. But I don’t know what that something is.

“This place kicking up your allergies, too?” Jared asks me with a sympathetic look.

That’s when I realize how all my sniffing must sound to the others. “Yes,” I answer even though I know that’s not the problem. “Forgive me for not simply making use of a tissue.” It’s easier to blame non-existent allergies than to admit I’m investigating the place with my nose. I can only imagine how fast the two men would bundle me into the car for a one-way trip straight back to Texas if I start telling them about my new and improved sense of smell.

“So…can I ask why we came here?” Jared asks with another curious frown. He’s obviously fishing for answers to the follow-up questions Dad will surely ask him when we get back.

And that reminds me of the constant supervision I’m under. Which makes me grind my teeth behind the gentle perma-smile I was trained to keep on my face at all times as the new voice whispers, Cage…cage…inside of me.

It’s not Jared’s fault he’s been hired to keep an eye on me like I’m a wayward child, I remind the voice. And instead of showing my annoyance I say, “We’re near the Oklahoma state border, right?”

Jared’s eyes go up in a way that lets me know he’s consulting his bioware. “Yes, that’s right. Just above the panhandle. Why?”

With one last glance around the empty room I say, “Let’s get some barbecue for lunch.”