Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,108

or the garage to cover what he’d bet. I was sick with worry. Sitting there, trying to figure out how to tell Lenore we’d be living on the street. But there was no stopping now. Drypp had made the bet, he had to throw ’em down.”

“And he won?” Kyn says.

HE HAD SOME HELP, DIDN’T HE?

“It was the first thing I ever asked of Winter,” I admit, my voice quiet.

“She tilted the die?”

“I’ve seen it in my head a thousand times. The die catching on its side, a winning roll if it fell left, a losing roll if it fell right. Winter hot in my stomach, her whispers cold on my skin. WATCH, she said, WATCH.” I shift in my seat, a favorite memory fading into something soiled. “A thin gust of air trickled through the open window and . . .”

“. . . it fell left.”

“One tilt of the die and the Dragon was mine.”

Kyn whistles. “How old were you?”

“Too young to drive. Fourteen Rymes, maybe. I had to put blocks on the pedals so I could reach them, but I was a hard worker and it wasn’t long before I started trucking around Whistletop. The locals don’t care how old you are—they just care that their wares get hauled. Drypp didn’t mind as long I stayed close to town. After a season of that, he sort of unclenched. He was getting older, moving slower. He was only opening the garage a couple days a week. My income helped keep us afloat and I didn’t mind handing it over. I had the open road and no one telling me what to do. No one gaping at the kol in my eyes and assuming I’d take up their cause. No one trying to convince me to join their rebellion.”

“No one but Winter.”

He’s not mean when he says it. He’s just following the story. Just going where I’m leading. And he’s right. Winter’s been in control a lot longer than I realized.

The road pitches forward, the incline moderate, nothing like the Cages, but we’re descending now. The Kol Sea out my window is replaced by flinty stone rising up as we drop lower and lower. The danger should be behind us now—the kol and the monsters—but she won’t shut up, Winter. She’s tipping her hand, trying to scare me into turning around, promising me safe passage if I do.

YOU’RE TOO LATE, she croons. YOU WON’T FIND THE GIRL YOU’RE LOOKING FOR WHEN YOU REACH THE END OF THIS ROAD. AHEAD THERE’S ONLY TREACHERY AND LOSS. GIVE UP THIS MADNESS AND I’LL BRING BACK RYME, A GIFT FOR YOU. SOLID ROADS AND ANOTHER SEASON OF TRUCKING, OF PUTTING COIN IN YOUR POCKET. THAT’S REALLY WHAT YOU WANT, ISN’T IT?

“She’s not going to let us reach the camp,” Kyn says, his jaw clenched. Whatever gut feeling I have, he’s getting enough of it to be wound tight.

“Not without a fight.”

And then they rise up before us, an army of Abaki. They’re not crawling or lumbering. They’re just there, standing. Waiting. Winter’s guard barring the way.

TURN AROUND, she barks. THERE’S NOTHING FOR YOU HERE.

“She’s not messing around,” Kyn says.

I won’t turn back. But I can’t exactly plow over the monsters. Not again. We can’t risk more damage to the rig, can’t risk Abaki leaping onto the hood, clawing their way inside.

“It’s going to have to be me, isn’t it? I’m the only weapon we have left.”

Kyn smiles. My eyes are on the road, but I feel it in my gut. I hope it makes its way to his face too. If there’s anything that can rival Winter’s beauty, it’s Kyn’s smile.

“You’re going to have to take the wheel,” I say.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

I use my heel to release the seat and I kick it back. Kyn slides behind me, careful to avoid my hands when he puts his on the wheel.

“What does it mean?” I ask, grazing the etching on his index finger. “It’s a Shiv symbol, isn’t it?”

“It’s the sign of Begynd.”

“I thought you weren’t devout?” I say, climbing onto the bench seat, pressing my hand against the thick plastic secured over the hatch.

“I’m not. Or, I wasn’t. I just liked the look of it.”

“Maybe pretend you’re devout now,” I say. “A little prayer couldn’t hurt.”

“Yeah, no. No, it couldn’t.”

I scrounge around beneath the bench seat, searching for something sharp and finding only pliers.

“Here,” Mars says, startling me, pulling the pliers from my hand and replacing them with a utility blade. He’s propped in