Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,107

rain out, we’ve had to secure plastic sheeting across the hatch overhead. It was the last bit we had. We’re stitched in now—we’re not leaving the Dragon until we reach the rebel camp.

It’s dark, our headlamps lighting the road before us, the moon overhead hidden by the clouds. Out my window, the sea is nothing but a black blur. I’ve stopped turning my face toward it, stopped checking the shoulder for monsters.

The driving is rough, rocks and debris churned up and thrown mercilessly into the components beneath the rig. We can’t suffer another repair. The Dragon has to make it as she is, and the road is pissing me off.

Winter’s doing her part too, needling me with old stories. Her past heroics, our adventures together. That scene at Mistress Quine’s.

YOU’VE FORGOTTEN, she says, HOW TERRIBLE IT ALL WAS BEFORE I GOT THERE. YOU’D GO DAYS WITHOUT TALKING TO A SOUL. WEEKS WITHOUT ANYTHING TO EAT BUT WHAT YOU COULD SCAVENGE. I BROUGHT YOU TO WHISTLETOP. TO THE OLD MAN AND THE GIRL. I DID THAT AND YOU’VE FORGOTTEN.

She’s a sickness in my belly now, my muscles so tight it’s hard to breathe.

“Let’s talk. Tell me about the Dragon. Did Drypp build her?” Kyn asks. The tension in his voice, the angst. It has me taking my eyes off the road, turning toward him.

He can’t hear Winter’s words in my head but he’s sure to feel the strain, the conflict raging in a place no one can see. He nods at me, choosing to shut out the fear. How does he do that? How does he lock the panic away?

“He won her,” I say. “In a game of dice.”

He whistles. “She’s quite the prize.”

“Especially for a guy who didn’t gamble.”

“Tell me,” he says. “From the beginning.”

I know what he’s doing. He’s feigning curiosity to keep me talking, to keep me distracted. But I could use a little distraction right now, and I’ve never told anyone this story. Not the whole of it.

“Well,” I say, turning my eyes back to the road. “Drypp knew I wanted the Dragon. I’d seen it around Whistletop, joked that one day, while it was parked in front of the tavern, I’d climb up and add my name to hers. Drypp agreed. Said it should be called the Sylver Dragon because she was restless and stinky and always covered in mud.” I smile at the memory. “I was just a kid then, but I’d skive off whenever I could, watch the guys in the garage work. I wanted a rig of my own to repair and Drypp thought it would keep me out of trouble. Keep me closer to town. I had a habit of wandering off and he worried.”

We hit a divot in the road, and the bucket smacks down hard, sheering rocks off the uneven surface, spewing them into the air, pummeling our sad excuse for a windshield. Kyn reaches forward and flattens out a strip of puckered sheeting.

“Who did build the Dragon?”

“Frydrick Vaxton. You know Vaxton?”

“I know his firm. I’ve never trucked for him.”

“Well, he’s dead now. Died last Ryme, but his firm had a contract with the Majority, so he had this way about him. Big head, big mouth. He’d roll into Whistletop and expect some grand welcome. He wasn’t much liked in the village, but he threw around a lot of coin, so everyone smiled and served when he came. When Vaxton took up his seat at the dice tables, Drypp surprised the entire tavern by sitting down opposite him.”

“Ballsy man, your Drypp.”

“Not really,” I say, thinking of the man who raised me. He was mostly quiet, locked away in his own thoughts half the time. But it was a kind of courage, I guess. Going toe-to-toe with Vaxton. “Drypp was so bad. It wasn’t three hours before he was in over his head, offering up half-built rigs in the garage, the broken tractor out back. Free drinks for a year. I think he genuinely expected the dice to understand he was the better man. But they have a nasty streak, the dice, and that night, Drypp was on the losing end of it.”

“So, how’d he end up with the Dragon?”

“Magic,” I say, the truth bitter on my tongue. “It came down to a single roll of the die. Vaxton had put up the Dragon—just to see what Drypp would do, I think. And of course, he took the bait. There was a genuine risk he’d have to sell off the tavern