Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,17
windshield, the incline steep. Kyn’s leaning so far forward his face is inches from my own. In the rearview, I see Hyla, her brow wide and flat, her golden eyes round and hungry, devouring the road before us.
My eyebrow hitches. “First time through High Pass, then? You all picked quite the season.”
The engine groans as the Sylver Dragon climbs higher up the mountain. I shift gears and press my foot to the floor, flooding the rig with enough power to get us to the top. The tank tread spins, digging into the snow crust. Even with the steady, faithful push of the tread, it’s a slow climb. The lower fork drops behind us as we press forward toward High Pass, the long narrow passageway that marks the summit of the Kol Mountains.
“What’s that?” Kyn asks, pointing to the ridge high above the roadway.
“Shiv caves,” I say. “Shouldn’t you know that? You’re the Shiv expert, remember?”
“They live in caves?” he asks, gaping.
I bite back a retort. His lack of knowledge scares me. Kyn might speak Shiv, but he’s a liability up here if we’re forced into an encounter. “There’s a series of dwellings on both sides of the pass,” I say, my tone measured. “But the view from here is deceptive.”
“Why?” Kyn leans farther forward, craning his neck left and right. His ear brushes mine and I have to shove him back into his seat. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Are their numbers fewer than they appear?”
“Far more,” I say. “The cave openings you can see from the road are nothing compared to the network beyond.”
We’re still too far away to see individuals, but it’s clear there’s movement.
“They’ve seen us,” Mars says.
In the mirror, Kyn is a mess of awkward elbows as he attempts to remove Drypp’s shotgun from the mount behind Hyla.
“You can’t shoot that up here,” I say, catching his gaze in the mirror.
“We can’t just let them attack the rig.”
“Look at the ice, Kyn. It’s barely clinging to the north peak. You fire that in the pass, the mountain might come down on us.”
IT MIGHT COME DOWN ANYWAY, Winter whispers.
Mars hears her, grins.
Kyn takes aim. “That’s what you and Mars are here for.”
“You can’t,” I say, focusing now on Mars, panic rising in my chest. “You can’t use magic. Not up here. Winter makes her home in the pass.”
“Your point, Miss Quine?”
“She may suffer you fairly if you let her be, but what would you do if a crew of smugglers rolled into your home and started rearranging things?”
Mars sits taller. “I’d offer them a bottle of my favorite red and ask for the latest news.”
“Mars—”
“We need to make a stop,” he says.
“Bad time to have to take a leak, boss.” Kyn’s grip is still tight on the gun.
“It’s up there, isn’t it?” Mars asks, a thin white finger jutting toward the south peak.
I know where he wants to go, but I won’t. I’m not stopping here. Not after what happened last time.
“I understand the draw, Mars. I do,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “But the best way to get your haul safely across the Shiv Road is to first, make it through High Pass alive. Stopping to pay homage—”
“Make the turn, Miss Quine.”
“I’m telling you—”
“I can make you take it,” he says, his voice deadly.
“And risk losing your haul?”
“Make the turn.”
“For some stupid Kerce sentiment?”
Mars clears his throat and turns his black eyes to the road. I follow suit, proud to have stood my ground. It’s insanity to make this stop. To take the turnout. He’s never been told no. Never been refused. He’s held that power over everyone’s head until they’ve handed over their own free will.
But I won’t. Not for a pile of stones.
The ground shakes and, from somewhere high above, a boulder slams into our path. Hyla lets out a string of Paradyian curses, and behind me, Kyn’s hands tighten hard around the seat. My braid catches in his grip and hair is yanked from my head. I fight every flight instinct I have, refusing to crank the wheel hard to the left—a jackknifed trailer will be impossible to right. I slam my foot to the brake and the tank tread skids, the steering wheel useless in my fisted hands.
The trailer slips left and right, but before it can really get swinging, we stop. It’s the incline that saves us, the climb working alongside the brakes to slow our deceleration. If we’d been any heavier . . .