We were
not the first.

Kangerlussuaq Glacier, Greenland, October 28

High above them, a descending helicopter blocked the morning sun.

“Wave him off!” Kreisman cried over the deafening roar of its rotors.

“It’s not one of ours!” yelled Grant, his eyes wide beneath his goggles.

Kreisman gestured with his thumb toward their equipment. “Get base camp on the radio. See if they can stop it from landing.”

In this pencil-thin valley of Greenland’s Kangerlussuaq Glacier, boxed in by towering cliffs of ice and mottled gray magma, the five scientists had nowhere to hide. They huddled together, gloved hands covering their ears and backs turned to the hurricane of blowing snow, praying the thunder of the landing helicopter would not collapse the mountain of ice perched high above them. The chopper crunched onto the valley floor.

Hands raised in front of his goggles to block the snow, Kreisman pivoted to face the intruders. This helicopter wasn’t the university’s blue and white six-seater—not that anyone on their team would be foolish enough to attempt a landing in an avalanche zone. The sleek, jet-black craft was bigger than anything Kreisman had ever seen. Painted on its door was the white silhouette of a statuesque man with angel-like wings.

“What kind of idiot would land in such a tight space?” Kreisman yelled to his team over the whine of the slowing rotor blades.

The chopper’s door slowly opened, but Kreisman was at a bad angle and couldn’t see who or what was on the other side. Then, below the door, ice crunched beneath two huge, white boots that emerged.

Kreisman sucked in a startled breath. Grant, still trying to work the radio, swore. The others drew even closer together, as if seeking protection in numbers.

Kreisman didn’t think numbers were going to help them against this.

A giant of a man stepped through the opening. His bent form kept unfolding until he towered above the helicopter’s door.

“Jesus,” mumbled Kreisman.

The behemoth stepped away from the aircraft and moved nearer. Instead of a parka, he wore a skin—and not one of the ubiquitous sealskins the Greenlanders used to make their clothing. The furry upper half of a lion’s head, feline ears standing erect like horns atop Satan’s brow, served as a hood. A row of yellowing canines formed a reverse crown on the interloper’s head above the gnarled mustache and long, pointed beard that framed his powder-white face.

Two more tall, bearded men emerged from the craft wearing similar garb, though without fallen beasts atop their heads. They remained respectfully behind the first as the trio marched to within inches of the group.

“Where is he?” growled the towering stranger. “I do not see him here.”