By L. Lee Lowe
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They've surely been lectured enough; a few days on the ice sharpens everyone's listening skills. Then he gives each of them a chance to talk. ' For a fraction of a second Zach thinks she's swearing at him. He manages to keep his face deadpan when she adds, 'I'm dying to find out if an auger cock's really dead brute. A whopper, a piece of metal, a fucking iron harpoon, you're supposed to have between those skinny legs. ' 'Sorry I can't oblige,' Zach says coolly. ' Unperturbed, she smiles and glances round.
He offers no explanation other than a lame joke for the second set of footprints, the ones which resemble their own but circle the aglu without an inbound or outbound trail. ' 'Better than armoured ice bears equipped with subtle knives,' Zach says dryly. 'Listen, seal meat makes good eating. ' 'Without a harpoon? Anyway, a seal is no challenge. ' Zach edges closer to his companion. For now, their layered clothing, lightweight but well insulated, defies the wind. Though they've avoided overtaxing themselves—sweat, like any moisture, has sinister consequences in the far north—the cold always wins in the end.
She'd prepared her script carefully, but he made her feel like a cliché waiting onstage for the curtain to rise. ' He nodded, then pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it onto the couch table. She noticed a small tattoo on his upper chest, above his heart. A code, it seemed—at least a series of symbols in no alphabet she recognised. He was very thin, much thinner than she remembered. Or perhaps he'd lost weight recently. She averted her gaze from the dark line of hair below his belly button, but not before he snorted.