Chains of Ice by Christina Dodd

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