Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,24
be,” she says. “He was not happy to see you with a Shiv traitor.”
My thoughts whirl before they land on her meaning.
“Where’s Kyn?” I regret the question as soon as it’s crossed my lips. Words are expensive—every one costs me a breath.
“The traitor? Just there,” she says, jerking her head to somewhere beyond the flame. “Let’s not wake him. Small breaths are easier when you’re sleeping. He’s strong. It took seven men to hold him down. In the end, Shyne had to knock him out to place the stones.”
I arch my palm, grind my thumb. “Where are the others?”
“Winter swallowed the Kerce smuggler and his strongwoman. We let her have them.”
There’s no use worrying about Mars. He can handle himself where Winter is concerned, but I have to get out of here. If I can’t get back to Mars—if we can’t get back to the Sylver Dragon—there’s no knowing what will happen to Lenore.
“Most Kerce are not welcome here. Only you, Sessa.”
“Why—” My throat catches and I start again. “Why do you call me that?”
Her eyes widen. “It’s what your friend called you. The tall woman with the guns. Is that not your name?” She rolls back on her heels. “Maybe it’s not. Shyne calls me Little Fox and that is not my name. You’ve made him very angry.”
“You’re not speaking Shiv.” The words are nothing but a whisper.
“Shyne teaches me lots of things. Mostly I like to learn about the stones.”
Dark spots fill the corners of my vision. I try to blink them away but they simply shift and transform, a thousand walking sticks bumping into one another.
“Shyne?” I ask, my voice scratching, my skin tearing as I rub my hand against the ground. My lungs are on fire, the stone heavier with every word, with every breath.
“He’ll be here soon.” The girl is little more than a dark outline now and I can’t tell if the fire is dimming or if it’s the lack of oxygen reaching my brain. Her shadow reaches out and removes something rigid cutting at my wrist.
“I told you to stay still,” she says. “Now you’re bleeding.”
But the space the rock left behind is a gift. I can almost tilt my palm. I’d thank her, but there’s no air left for that.
There doesn’t seem to be any air left in the world.
And I’m tumbling into darkness.
I yank my hand hard and fast. Pain shoots down my shoulder and explodes across my chest as the massive rock presses me deeper into the mud. I can’t breathe, but my hand is free.
And then it’s not. Spot by spot, my vision starts to surface. Everything’s still gray and shadowed and I have to blink the tears away before I realize the girl is standing over me now, her bare foot pinning my forearm.
“You have to talk to Shyne first,” she says, her words strange and meaningless when all I want is air. I think to pull my arm away—she can’t weigh sixty pounds—but there’s only enough strength to gasp, an action I lament. The last crumbs of breath are forced out of my lungs in a raspy choke and though I can feel the damp air licking my lips, there is no room for it inside my chest.
A blink and the girl’s shadow lifts a spindly arm. There’s something there—in her hand.
“Don’t be mad, Sessa. You’ll breathe easier this way.”
She shifts and in the flickering light I see it’s a stone. Amber like her eyes, like the shimmering crescent moon covering half her face.
There’s a protest on the tip of my tongue, but the girl’s shadow swoops down before it’s fully formed and, with a crack that must split my skull wide, the world goes dark.
I wake to the sound of wheezing. My chest burns so fiercely I think the sound is mine—but as the cave swims into focus, I realize I’m not alone.
New shadows shift throughout the cave, long and lean. The stretched forms of men dance across the walls and floor. I try to count them, but my head aches and I cannot keep hold of the images for long.
Frigid mud splashes onto my cheek as someone moves close. A walking stick pierces the ground before my eyes.
Shyne.
“Crysel has been here, I see,” he says. “She thinks herself clever, but she never clears away her footprints. She’s as bad as the little foxes who rob our fish houses.”
The girl has a name now. Crysel. It’s a beautiful name for such a miserable child.