Chains of Ice (10 page)

The man leaned over her. “Are you all right?” “Yes!” Frantic, she tried to lift herself on her hands. He pressed her back down. “Take it easy.”

She couldn’t take it easy. If he hadn’t been there . . . if he hadn’t acted . . . She rolled over, struggled to sit up. “How did you do that? How did you . . . ? I was
falling
. And you caught me!”

He stood over her, his boots planted firmly on the swaying platform. “I’m a big man.”

She looked up. And up.

He
was
a big man, probably six four or five and over two hundred pounds, bulky across the shoulders, slender at the waist, with long legs and massive hands clad in leather gloves. A black, unkempt beard covered his chin and cheeks and grew down to his chest, and lank dreadlocks hung from beneath the worn cowboy hat he pulled low over his eyes.

She had the snapshot Father had given her, but this wasn’t John Powell. This wasn’t the assured, laughing military man of his picture. This guy couldn’t look her in the eyes. Instead, he stared out at the horizon as if fascinated by the view.

As she watched, his fingers flexed slowly.

Brandon said their yeti was insane, suffering from PTSD or worse.

Yeah. Maybe.

Avni said he was a sexual being of unparalleled passion.

And Genny’s subconscious had built on that claim.

If he truly had a gift, she hoped it wasn’t mind reading, because her thoughts had taken the terror of falling, combined it with her rescue by a big, muscled beast, and she was breathing hard for all the wrong reasons.

“Are you all right?” he asked again. He sounded perfectly normal; American with the slightest hint of a Russian accent.

“Yes. Of course.” She swallowed and tried to calm her unruly heartbeat. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You landed hard.”

“The coat is well padded.”

“How about your face?”

She explored with her fingers. Her cheek throbbed, right over the bone. “Well. Compared to what might have happened . . .” She rubbed her bruised chest, then realized . . . she’d landed on her camera.

With a gasp of horror, she grabbed it, looked at the view screen, and flipped through the pictures.

They were fine. Better than fine. They were fabulous. The great cat moved through the photos with beauty and grace.

With a sigh of relief, she took the strap off her neck and tenderly stowed the camera in her case in the backpack.

John stood unmoving, paying her no apparent attention, yet she thought he was aware of her every movement. And he had saved her, saved her camera, saved the photos . . .

She placed the flat of her palm on his calf right above his boot.

He looked down as if her touch startled him.

She jumped, as startled as he, for his eyes were the bleak pale blue of glacial ice. She’d never seen eyes of such a color, frozen and still, without emotion or feeling.

Her fingers tightened on the tanned leather of his pants.

This man had a reputation as a lover?

No. Impossible.

She had dreamed about him?

Foolish.

A man with eyes like that could kill her with efficiency and indifference.

Instead, he had saved her life. If not for him, she’d be shattered on the rocks below, swept away by the river; and before her body was discovered, she would be food for the carrion birds.

He was frightening. But she owed him.

“Well?” he asked harshly.

“Thank you,” she whispered, still held in place by the chill of those eyes.

“What?”

More loudly, she said, “Thank you for rescuing me.”

He stared at her, those peculiar eyes growing a deeper blue—and more wary. “Fine.”

“If there’s ever anything I can do for you . . .” Her voice trailed off, and once again she was aware of him, of the warmth of his leg beneath her palm, of the compelling masculinity that drew her against her will.

She’d never thought she was dumb enough to be attracted to a dangerous man.

Obviously, she’d simply never met one before.

One thing Brandon had gotten right. This guy really did look as if a sheepskin factory had exploded all over him. Or maybe goat, or rabbit, or deer—she was a city girl. She didn’t know. She only knew he wore skins sewn with primitive leather cords like some kind of Russian Daniel Boone.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“Quite sure.”

“In the future, be more careful.” He turned, pulling out of her grip, walked with perfect balance across the tree trunk and climbed the ladder toward the top of the cliff.

She gaped at his retreating back, then realized—that was it. He was leaving. Just like that. She hadn’t confirmed his identity, whether he was John Powell.

And she sure couldn’t ask anyone in Rasputye where he lived so she could go talk to him. She could only imagine what Brandon would say if she asked, or how Mariana would react.

In return for this opportunity to live her dream, she had promised to talk to John, to convince him to return to New York, and this was her break—if that bearded monstrosity was truly him.

Using her backpack as support, she got up on one knee, then the other, then one foot, then the other. Bruises made themselves felt, and as her ribs complained, she groaned softly.

But she hadn’t much time. Mr. Yeti had dragged himself over the edge of the cliff, and with his long strides, he would be quickly out of sight.

The wind dragged at the platform, tilting the corner toward the ground.

She panicked, leaping toward the ladder, catching one of the steps in a death grip. She steadied herself, struggled into the backpack, and then climbed as fast as she could up the cliff and onto solid ground.

He was gone.

She scampered around a tree and leaped in front of him. “We didn’t have a chance to introduce ourselves. I’m Genny Valente.” She stuck out her hand.

He ignored it, ignored
her
, and walked around her and kept going. Fast.

She had to skip to keep up. “You’re John Powell, aren’t you?”

That made him glance at her, those odd blue eyes hard and cool. “How do you know that?”

It was him.
She had been pretty sure, but to have him confirm it . . . what a relief.

“They talk down there.” She gestured toward Rasputye and comforted herself it wasn’t a lie. They
did
talk down there. “Thank you, John. You saved my life.”

“You already said that.”

“I think it’s a big deal.”

“You would.”

“I was wondering how you knew I was in trouble.”

He didn’t increase his speed, but he didn’t answer, either.

“Because since I’ve been here, I’ve had this weird feeling someone was watching me.”

“Do you always tag along like a yellow Lab?” Which was an answer in itself.

“I’d prefer to walk, but you won’t slow down.” She didn’t wait for the next crushing reply, but plowed on. “Where are you from? You speak English like an American, but I hear a little accent.”

“What kind of accent?”

“You sound like the people around here. The people in Rasputye.”

His facial expression didn’t change. “I’ve been here two years.”

That wasn’t an answer, and they both knew it.

So they were both being evasive. And they were both good at it.

“I’m from New York City.” She sort of enjoyed the repartee.

The path narrowed.

He strode on.

She fell behind and spoke to his broad back. “Have you been to New York City?”

“I lived there once.”

“I’m from the Bronx.”

He pushed a branch out of his way, then let it flip back at her.

She ducked, said, “If you’re trying to get rid of me,
that
kind of rudeness will never work.”

“Why not?”

“I already told you. I’m from New York.” She heard a deep strangling noise from him, and smirked at the back of his head. So he had a sense of humor, or at least he had had once. “Which part of the city did you live in?”

“SoHo. Why are you here?”

“Because I’ve always wanted to be a wildlife observer and my father gave me this trip as a graduation gift.”

“That’s not true.”

Her heart leaped to her throat. He knew why she was following him. He knew the promise she’d made to her father.
How
did he know? “What do you mean?”

“No one comes to Rasputye for so pure a reason.”

The best defense was a good attack. “Then why are
you
here?”

He plunged ahead. “I lived here. When I was a boy.”

“You grew up here?”

“Sometimes.”

That did it. She grabbed at the hem of his leather shirt and held on, and skied along behind him through the pine needles.

He turned on her so suddenly, she staggered.

He caught her arm.

Although his grip wasn’t painful, in their joined flesh she felt a pulse of . . . of emotion. Not lust. He didn’t feel lust for her. Or if he did, it was muted by grief, pain, loneliness.

The shared feeling was so great tears welled in her eyes. She put her hand over his. “What is it? Why are you so sad?”

“I’m not sad.” He released her, and the sensation was gone. “Look. I’m the yeti everyone warned you about. I live alone. I eat rats raw. I capture innocent women and use them for my own pleasure. I’m crazy.”

“Are you trying to scare me?”

His eyes narrowed on her as if trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. “Apparently not.” He walked on.

She followed. “Because if you are, you shouldn’t have saved my life.”

“That makes no sense. If I hadn’t saved your life, you’d be dead. I couldn’t scare you.”

“It seems like a lot of effort to scare someone.”

He grunted.

She felt more cheerful. If she had driven him back to speechlessness, then she’d won that round. Now to win another. “You’re an orphan.” Or he was if the legend was true, for Father said John was Chosen, and the legend had been quite specific—the Chosen Ones were abandoned as infants.

She didn’t believe in the legend, in any legend.
Lord of the Rings
was a great book, but it was only a book. The sensations which John had passed to her were figments of her imagination. Yet she held her breath, waiting for his answer.

“A boat on its last trip before the Kara Sea froze found a newborn floating on an ice floe. The ice formed my shroud; the fishermen thought I was dead.”

“I don’t believe it!”

He misunderstood, of course. He didn’t realize that the story he was telling paralleled the legend she so longed to discount.

He stopped, and turned to face her. “Such circumstances aren’t unique to me.”

“No kidding.”

“There are other instances of an infant surviving a drowning in cold water, unharmed.”

“All right. That’s true.” She had heard of babies shutting down and living through such trauma. But that didn’t disprove the legend of the Chosen Ones. Quite the opposite. “What happened next?”

“The crew put me in the captain’s quarters. They intended to bury me when they got to land. But the ice melted. I woke and squalled. They fed me milk and fish they chewed for me. I lived.” John spoke in short bursts, as if the effort of so much speech exhausted him. “One of the fishermen lived in Rasputye. Olik brought me back to his wife.”

“So you
did
grow up here!”

“In the winters. In the summers . . . no.” He started walking again.

Now she understood why he knew the area so well. But did she believe he was one of the Chosen? Did she believe in the legend?

To do so would be ridiculous. And yet . . . surely what he had said and what she had felt bore testament to the myth?

“In the summers, did you work on the fishing vessel?” Her eyes grew round as she tried to imagine him as a little boy on a boat in the frigid Kara Sea.

“No. What was so important that you had to risk your life to take those pictures?” Subtle he was not. He wanted to change the subject, and he had.

A small, resilient bubble of excitement worked its way up through her residual fear, her anxiety of tracking John Powell, and the exertion of keeping up with him. “I’ve been watching for the Ural lynx, and it was my first sighting. Or rather, almost my first sighting.”

He grunted.

“I know!” She laughed a little. “There was a lynx on the road, and that was beyond cool. But nothing since. Nothing. Not for the whole team. So far, this year hasn’t been nearly as successful as anyone was hoping.”

Certainly not as successful as her father had hoped.

Her mouth drooped. If she let him, her father’s ran-cor would ruin this summer for her.

The path split and John swerved away, taking the narrower trail, down the hill, leaving her headed in the wrong direction.

Not for long. She jumped a fallen log, slipped on the pine needles, and sprawled across the trail in front of him.

He stopped. Sighed. Grabbed her arm, lifted her and set her on her feet.

He was right. He was a big man, strong and hearty.

And she’d followed him into the woods. They were alone. From her father, she’d learned John had a problem with his gift. Since she’d arrived here, she’d learned he had a reputation as a soldier who suffered PTSD, that he captured women to use them for sexual purposes.

True, to her he seemed normal, if normal included wearing skins and dreadlocks and having extremely pale blue eyes. But really, how many times had she heard the neighbors say to the press,
I had no idea he was a serial killer. He seemed so ordinary!

Maybe she should rethink this.

Then he spoke the magic words. “You want to see the Ural lynx.”

She nodded.

“Then come on.” He let her go. He started off down the path again.

She stood in place. “What do you mean,
come on
?”

“I mean—I know where Mama Cat has hidden her kittens.”