Chains of Ice Page 6

  But no. No one was smiling. Slowly, one by one, the villagers stood and retreated from the benches around the table.

  Lubochka looked around at the locals and scowled. “What’s wrong, Mariana?”

  The supermodel lifted a pitcher off the table with the kind of competence that marked her as someone who knew her way around the barroom. With a nod toward Genny, Mariana said, “That one will bring . . .” She hesitated.

  “Trouble . . .” The faintest whisper floated from the back of the room.

  “No!” Mariana shook her head. “Not trouble. But change.”

  Genny didn’t like this attention, didn’t like the signs of wide-eyed recognition from people she’d never met before. “I, uh, am not here to change anything.”

  “She saw the first lynx of the year,” Lubochka said.

  And the first yeti. Genny bit her lip on the comment.

  Mariana smiled, her eyes looking deeply into Genny’s eyes, sending a message Genny didn’t understand. “Then she has already brought luck. More is sure to follow.”

  Dropping her bag on the floor, Lubochka gave Genny a shove toward the stairs. “Go to bed.”

  “But I . . .” She thought she should remain down here with the others, bond with the rest of the team.

  “Are you hungry?” Lubochka asked. “No? I thought not. So go to bed. You have first shift. Tomorrow at six, I will take you to your observation post and you will watch for the Ural lynx.”

  “Okay.” Genny smiled, so exhausted and excited her eyes filled with tremulous tears. “I can’t wait.” Turning, she fled up the shadowy steps, then paused on the landing.

  A man spoke in Russian, quickly and with a local accent that was hard for Genny to follow, but she understood one word, repeated over and over. Trouble.

  During the ominous silence that followed, Genny sat and, keeping to the shadows, slid down the steps far enough to see Lubochka dominating the room with her strength of will.

  “You listen to me. All of you.” Lubochka’s voice was low and intense. “Up here, the flowers die too soon. The snow stays too late. The soldiers come and stomp around in their big boots. The big cats barely cling to existence. I bring my team to you while we track the Ural lynx. We pay you for our lodging, our food. We bring you prosperity, money until the crops come in, until you can mine the gold. I don’t care what you think, what your superstitions say. Do you hear me?” She pointed, marking the villagers and the team with her attention. “You all heard what Mariana said. That girl brought us luck. Up here, we need all the luck we can get. So hear me. I want no bad blood. No strife. No unpleasantness at all.”

  Genny knew she was talking about her.

  She just didn’t understand why.

  Chapter 7

  Lost. In the forest. A dozen pairs of indifferent eyes watch her strive to save the world’s last lynx. Darkness falls, and one pair of eyes begins to glow red . . .

  The door slammed open. The light flashed on.Sweaty and frightened, Genny jumped out of her nightmare.

  “Sorry,” Avni mumbled. “Dark in here.”

  “Not anymore.” Genny pulled the thin pillow over her head.

  “Sorry,” Avni said again, and dragged her bag to her cot. “No head for liquor, and that vodka. . . . I’m going to be so sorry in the morning. So sorry . . .”

  The attic was a whitewashed space with a single lightbulb in the middle of the low ceiling, with two narrow iron beds tucked in among boxes and trunks. Genny’s lumpy mattress rested atop rusty springs—but for her tense and travel-knotted muscles, it was heaven; she’d settled in and listened and smiled as the party downstairs had grown louder and more raucous. Yet when she fell asleep, she had fallen right into that nightmare.

  Avni flopped on the bed. Said, “Crap. I forgot to turn off the light.”

  Genny knew why she’d been dreaming about those eyes. What she’d seen today had creeped her out. Those eyes . . . were they John’s eyes? And if they were, did that mean he had known she was coming?

  Genny sat up on one elbow. “Listen, Avni.”

  Avni moaned in response.

  “I want to know more about the yeti.” Genny figured she could ask anything she wanted. There was a pretty good chance Avni wouldn’t remember talking to her tonight.

  “Can you imagine?” Avni sounded dreamy. “Days and days of such great sex that you never want another man?”

  “No, I can’t imagine.” Genny had been busy graduating at the top of her class. She hadn’t had time for sex. “Listen, I want to know—”

  “How he does it. I know. Me too. I know it’s weird, but Halinka said he does things with his mind.” Avni gave a high-pitched giggle that sounded incongruous coming from such a tall woman.

  “‘He does things with his mind,’” Genny repeated, and her heart sank. She might not believe in the Chosen Ones, but evidence was building that John was extraordinary . . . in more ways than one. “What do you mean?”

  “That he can move things and. . . . Listen, it’s silly, really. But the people in Rasputye are so superstitious, you have no idea. It’s all hooey.” Avni struggled her way up onto her elbow, too, and looked drunkenly solemn and sincere. “I mean, what idiot believes in magic?”

  “You believe that John is so good in bed, a woman never wants to sleep with another man.”

  Avni snorted and giggled again. “That’s why Brandon hates him so much. Brandon knows no woman is ever going to moan for him. Not with that little, teeny weenie.”

  Genny did not want to know that—or how Avni knew. “TMI, Avni. TMI!”

  Avni giggled uncontrollably, and finally managed, “You’re kind of a prude, aren’t you? Listen, that John . . . he’s good in bed. He gives a girl what she wants. That woman I met . . . Halinka. She said there was something about him. . . . He smelled so good, she wanted to lick him all over. She said he cooked for her, massaged her, kissed her, told her she was pretty, that her body excited him. He did everything for her pleasure: spent hours touching her, going down on her, worshiping her.” Avni’s eyes got dreamy. “At the same time, she said, he was a man. You know—a big man.” Avni gestured.

  “I get it.”

  “She said when he was inside her, there were, like, these pulses of power . . .”

  “It sounds like she was screwing a light socket.”

  “You’re a sarcastic prude.” Avni squinted at Genny.

  “Doesn’t the idea of a big, hot man do anything for you?”

  “A big, hot, hairy yeti?”

  “Apparently he’s not hairy there.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “I asked!”

  “Was there anything you didn’t ask?”

  “Hey, Halinka was more than willing to talk about it. She was telling anyone who would listen.” Avni fell backward on the cot. “Which is probably why none of the men in Rasputye like John Powell. Because according to her, when her time was over, she was exhausted from coming so much. But she would do it again in a minute.”

  “So John Powell is crazy, and he’s good in bed.”

  “That about sums it up.” The springs squeaked noisily as Avni turned her back to the room. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go to sleep and dream about . . .” Her words slurred. She snored.

  Genny got up, turned off the light, then groped her way back to the bed. She knew she’d found it when she banged her toe on the steel frame.

  No wonder Avni had “forgotten” the light. The moon had set, and Genny stared into a night so dark it pressed like a weight on her eyes. In the city, there was always ambient light. Here . . . everything was foreign, and she wondered what she’d done, taking this job in this strange place . . .

  Why didn’t the people of Rasputye like her? Why did Lubochka feel as if she had to threaten the townspeople to make them behave? How could Genny’s hope of saving the world become so twisted and tangled with whispers of danger, a pagan promise of sexual ecstasy, and a pact to reason with a madman?

&n
bsp; Lost in the forest in the darkness, sprinting away from an unseen menace only to encounter a pair of glowing red eyes. Screaming for help. Screaming for John Powell to save her. He stepped out of the woods. She ran to him. He kissed her on the mouth, on the throat . . . His hands around her waist, he lifted her, nuzzled her shirt aside . . . She closed her eyes as his mouth covered her nipple. She wrapped her legs around his waist. She held his head to her chest and whimpered in need, and whimpered as he suckled at her, then bit hard enough to make her jump. She looked down in protest . . . and screamed.

  Because he looked up at her, and it was his eyes that glowed with that peculiar, disturbing light.

  Chapter 8

  John tilted Genny backward onto the bed, reached between her legs, and slid his big hand under the waistband of her jeans. And at his touch, she came. And came. Hard. Fast. Over and over, while she whimpered and tossed, torn between fear and pleasure.

  And all the while, John watched with those glowing eyes, and he smiled . . .Genny’s alarm went off. She grabbed it, muffled it under the covers, turned it off, lay breathing hard. She felt as if she’d been running all night.

  And coming.

  Across the low attic room, Avni scowled in her sleep.

  Genny sat up quietly. She reached for her clothes, her camera, and her backpack.

  Man, that dream: equal parts terror and sex. That stuff Avni had told her about John Powell and his carnal prowess had worked on her subconscious and . . . well, what did Genny expect?

  She crept down the stairs to the bathroom. She splashed her face with the frigid water from the yellow porcelain basin, washed away memories of her nightmare. Brushed her teeth. But it wasn’t as easy to wash away the taste of unwilling arousal.

  She unzipped the thin outer pocket of her backpack and pulled out the photo of John Powell. She studied him—the way he stood, hands on hips, shoulders square, chin back as he laughed.

  He didn’t look like a yeti or a lunatic or even one of the Chosen. He looked like a nice, solid guy; the kind of guy she’d like to ask her out. In profile, she couldn’t see his eyes, but someone or something had been looking at her from those bushes yesterday. Was it him?

  Was he watching her with the intention of carrying her into the woods . . . ?

  Okay. Enough of that.

  She slid the photo back into the pocket and zipped it shut.

  Night was over. The dreams were gone. Sunlight was turning the sky a thin, clear blue, and she let loose her slow rise of exultation.

  Lubochka was taking her out to show her the ropes, and she would soon see a Ural lynx. In the wild!

  She would seize every day of this trip—and would make such memories that when she sat in an office or a boardroom, she could pull them out, polish them off, and remember each gleaming moment.

  She hurried down another flight of stairs to the taproom.

  Lubochka and Mariana were already there, sitting at the end of the long table in front of Lubochka’s computer, speaking in low voices about . . . about Genny, if the way they broke off meant anything.

  She pretended not to notice.

  Lubochka looked her over and nodded. “Good.”

  Genny felt as if she’d passed a test. Lubochka’s instructions had been to wear military-style clothes—heavy cloth khakis, camouflage patterns, and boots over the ankle.

  Mariana rose. “Feeling better this morning? Ready for breakfast?”

  “I’m starving.” Because she’d spent half the night fleeing John Powell with the glowing red eyes, and the other half the night having the best orgasms in the world. She smiled. And blushed.

  Mariana’s eyes narrowed as if she knew, but she said nothing more than, “Have a seat.” She went into the other room and came back with a mug of black coffee and a bowl of oatmeal topped with two eggs and a thin slice of bread.

  Genny pulled up the bench, looked at the food, then at Mariana. “That’s a lot more than I usually eat.”

  “Eat it all,” she advised. “Every observation point is straight up the mountain and Lubochka will work you relentlessly until someone sees the first sign of the big cats.”

  Lubochka grunted and typed on the keyboard in front of her. “That’s what they’re here for. To work.”

  Genny dipped her spoon into the oatmeal and found it wasn’t oatmeal, but buckwheat porridge—very different, very distinctive. The eggs added a familiar flavor; the toast was rough and yeasty.

  “You like it?” Mariana asked.

  “It’s good.”

  “Some . . . They complain because it’s not American.” Mariana indicated her opinion with a wrinkled nose.

  “I’ve been waiting my whole life to eat different foods in a different place,” Genny assured her. “This looks remarkably like my favorite English pub in SoHo.”

  “No. Not a pub. A traktir,” Lubochka corrected her.

  “Right.” With the morning, the faded brocade curtains were pulled back from the long narrow windows to let in the light. The view looked out at street level, and now and then a pair of leather-laced boots tromped past.

  With a well-honed knife, Mariana cut a loaf of the dark bread into hearty slabs. “In Rasputye, we are still mostly farmers. We found it was not good to depend on the state for support. We are very far from Moscow. We are not ethnic Russians. And in times of trouble, we are easy to forget.”

  “Is that why . . . ?” Genny waved at the corner where Orthodox icons—traditional paintings of saints done on wood and canvas—hung on the wall over a table draped in a red cloth where white candles burned.

  Genny knew the krasnyi ugol, the beautiful corner, held the place of honor in every Russian home. There families kept all that was holy to them, placed on a table covered with a red cloth or on walls painted with red paint. Genny’s studies had told her that the Soviets had replaced those gilded icons with newspapers and portraits of war heroes, yet in Rasputye the krasnyi ugol looked as it had for a millennium.

  Mariana followed Genny’s gaze. “Here, we have kept to the old beliefs. No one from the government has ever had the strength to live through our winters long enough to enforce the party’s orders.”

  “Saints. Icons. Superstitious nonsense,” Lubochka grumbled.

  “It is not superstition to seek protection from those who would harm us.” Mariana’s voice was soft but firm.

  “There’s nothing out there but some hungry animals and Mother Nature, and a few paintings of saints won’t save you from those,” Lubochka retorted.

  “It is not nature which we fear.” As if she feared she had revealed too much, Mariana glanced uneasily at Genny.

  “As I said—superstitious nonsense,” Lubochka repeated.

  Genny looked between them. This sounded like an old argument with no heat behind it, yet clearly the weirdness of last night lingered.

  Mariana poured Lubochka more coffee, and Genny nodded when Mariana offered her another cup.

  “No!” Lubochka pulled the cup away. “Don’t drink. I want you watching for lynx, not hanging your rear end over a log.”

  Genny thought about pointing out the perils of dehydration, or explaining that caffeine was her addiction and her golden door to consciousness, or that her personal habits were not Lubochka’s concern. Instead, mildly, she said, “Actually, I have the bladder of a camel.”

  “I know camels drink and hold water, but do they also retain that water? I suppose they must.” Lubochka did not crack a smile.

  Mariana and Genny both muffled theirs.

  “Very good.” Lubochka nodded and shut down the computer. “You may take fluid with you.” She covered the monitor with a cloth, then told Mariana, “Let no one touch this except Misha.”

  “I know.” Clearly Mariana had heard it before.

  “Genesis, are you ready?” Lubochka asked.

  Genny was not, but she took the none-too-subtle hint and polished off her porridge.

  As soon as she put down her spoon, Lubochka stood. “Let’s go.”
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  Mariana stuffed bread and cheese and a battered canteen of tea into Genny’s backpack. “If you don’t mind, Lubochka, I’ll walk with you this morning.”

  Clearly, Lubochka did mind. She frowned. “I thought you had an inn to run.”

  “After last night, no one will be awake for hours.”

  “These foreigners cannot hold their vodka,” Lubochka said.

  Genny grinned.

  “Yes, Genesis, you smile.” Lubochka stalked toward the stairs that led up to the door; impatience showed clear in every line of her big-boned figure. “You’re the smart one. You abstained. When I come back, I will kick their feeble zhopayee out of bed and they’ll vomit all day, and my big cats will laugh at the foolish humans.”

  Chapter 9

  It was spring, but here in the north of Russia, the air outside was bright and cold; Genny could see her breath. The morning sun shone on the treetops but had not yet reached the hamlet square. As Genny donned her ankle-length quilted down parka, Lubochka and Mariana, in shorts and long-sleeved canvas shirts, shook their heads as if she were odd.

  They left the inn. With Genny and Mariana on her heels, Lubochka headed toward the narrow road that led out of the hamlet.Rasputye was stirring. A few men stood on their doorsteps, scratching themselves and staring.

  Genny stared back.

  Her first impression was correct. They were tanned and blond, beautiful people with blue eyes and sturdy frames. They weren’t Komi, the native people who inhabited the area. Perhaps the Vikings had raided this part of Russia and sown some wild oats?

  She nodded to one of the men.

  He stared hard, and then, as if he were daring, nodded back.

  His wife stepped out of the house, placed herself between her husband and Genny, shoved him into the house, and without turning her back, sidled in and shut the door.

  They left the last houses behind. The road rose steeply beneath their feet.