For that matter, it had only been about a century and a half since the area had been sufficiently populated for him to have any human contact at all.
Before that, for untold centuries he had lived up here alone without another human being anywhere near him. He'd only occasionally caught sight of natives who were terrified to find a strange, tall Caucasian man with fangs living in a remote forest. They would take one look at his six-foot-six height and musk-ox parka and then run as fast as they could in the other direction, screaming out that theIglaaq was going to get them. Superstitious to the extreme, they had built up an entire legend based on him.
That left the rare visits of the winter Daimons, who would venture into his woods so that they could say they'd faced down the lunatic Dark-Hunter. Unfortunately, they had been more interested in fighting than conversation and so his association with them had always been brief. A few minutes of combat to alleviate the monotony and then he was alone again with the snow and bears.
And they weren't even were-bears.
The magnetic and electrical charges of the aurora borealis made it almost impossible for any of the Were-Hunters to venture so far north. It also played havoc with his electronics and satellite linkups, blacking out his communications periodically year round so that even in this modern world, he was still painfully alone.
Maybe he should have let them kill him after all.
And yet somehow he always found himself carrying on. One more year, one more summer.
One more communications blackout.
Basic survival was all Zarek had ever known.
He swallowed as he rememberedNew Orleans .
How he'd loved that city. The vibrancy. The warmth. The mixture of exotic smells, sights, and sounds.
He wondered if the people who lived there realized just how good they had it. Just how privileged they were to be blessed with such a great town.
But that was behind him now. He'd screwed up so badly that there was no chance whatsoever of either Artemis or Acheron allowing him back into a populated area where he could interact with large crowds of people.
It was him andAlaska for eternity. All he could really hope for was a massive population explosion, but
Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (http://www.novapdf.com) given the severity of the weather, that was about as likely as his getting stationed inHawaii .
With that thought in mind, he started pulling his snow gear out of the duffel bag and putting it on. It would
be early morning when they arrived and still dark, but the dawn wouldn't be far behind. He'd have to hurry to make it to his cabin before sunup.
By the time he'd rubbed Vaseline on his skin and had changed into his long johns, black turtleneck sweater, and long musk-ox coat and insulated winter boots, he could feel the helicopter descending toward land.
On impulse, Zarek sifted through the weapons in his duffel bag. He'd learned a long time ago to carry a wide assortment of tools.Alaska was a harsh place to be on your own and you never knew when you'd meet something deadly.
Centuries ago, Zarek had made the decision to be the deadliest thing on the tundra.
As soon as they landed, Mike cut the engine and then waited for the blades to stop spinning before he got out, cursed at the subzero temperature, and opened the door to the back. Mike raked a repugnant sneer over him as he stepped back to give Zarek enough room to vacate the chopper.
"Welcome home," Mike said with a note of gleeful venom in his voice. The prick was enjoying the thought of the Squires tracking him down and dismembering him.
Well, so was Zarek.
Mike blew his breath into his gloved hands. "Hope it's all you remembered it as."
It was. Nothing here ever changed.
Zarek flinched at the brightness of the snow even in the darkness of predawn. He pulled his goggles down over his eyes to protect them and climbed out. He grabbed his duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder, then waded through the crunching snow toward the climate-controlled shed where he'd left his custom-built Ski-Doo MX Z Rev the week before.
Oh, yeah, now this was the subfreezing temperature he remembered, the arctic air that bit so fiercely, every piece of his exposed skin burned. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering—something that wasn't pleasant when a man had long, sharp fangs in place of teeth.
Welcome home…
Mike was heading back for the cockpit when Zarek turned around to face him.
"Hey, Mike," he called, his voice ringing out through the cold stillness.
Mike paused.
"Rumpelstiltskin," he said before he tossed a live grenade underneath the helicopter.
Mike let out a fetid curse as he loped through the snow as fast as he could, trying to reach shelter.