Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,44

own islands once in a year,” he says, “and for only half so long as Ryme visits us here. Did you know that, Miss Quine? Those winters understand their purpose. To water the dead earth and to court it to another year of growth and prosperity. The winter spirit that enthroned herself here is vindictive, addled by the kol—”

“The same kol that runs through your veins?” I ask.

“She has been made more than she ever ought to have been. She is dark and ugly.”

Winter roars, and, from the mountain to our right, a giant spruce flares into movement, ice-slicked limbs growing and stretching across the road. They’re not thin spindly things either, but robust beneath the ice, heavy beams that will slice the rig in two if we strike them at our current speed.

“Shut up, Mars.” I fight the urge to slam on the brakes, pressing my foot down slowly, steadily.

The branches of the spruce split and grow, twisting and knotting until they’ve formed a wall before us.

Next to me Mars laughs. “Sensitive, this spirit, isn’t she?”

“You were baiting her,” I bark, my foot pressed so hard to the brake, I’m standing. I can’t stop the rig. This isn’t fresh powder beneath the tread. This is the Flux. “Hold on to something.”

I brace myself for the collision, but Mars cries out in Kerce and the limbs shatter into splinters of wood, the ice melting as we connect. I take a face full of water as a crack in the windshield opens.

The curtain flies sideways and Kyn emerges, the shotgun tight in his hands.

“Fluxing Blys, Mars!” I’m easing off the brake, letting the Dragon push forward. “What were you thinking? Winter could blow us off the road if she wanted to.”

“Oh no, Miss Quine. She could do much. But she could not do that.” A new layer of blisters has erupted on Mars’s lips, but he’s so pleased with himself, he doesn’t even notice.

“And your haul? What of your precious haul? If I turn the trailer on its side and your merchandise goes sprawling across the road, what will you do?”

“You’d never let that happen,” he says, his smile slipping. “You care about Miss Trestman too fiercely for such a mistake.”

I duck as a loud pop sounds. And then another. And now I do slam on the brakes.

Nerves, frustration, exhaustion.

Mars.

Everything conspiring to keep me stupid on the ice.

The tail fishes around, but we’re traveling slower now and the Sylver Dragon slides to a stop. I kill the engine and turn to glare at the smuggler.

“What did you just do?”

His features are disheveled: eyes wide, brows cocked at weird angles, blistered lips curved low. One hand grips the door, the other tight on Kyn’s shoulder. “I genuinely do not know.”

Outside, Hyla’s curses are loud and indecipherable, but at least she’s able to speak. It means I didn’t throw her from the turret.

“Those were tires blowing,” Kyn says.

“The trailer.” I kick the door open and drop to the road. Kyn’s half on top of me as he follows. His boots land hard on the ice and he groans, closes his eyes, leans against the rig.

“Your ribs?”

“They’re OK,” he says. “Come on.”

We turn toward the trailer and I gasp.

Winter’s built herself a castle.

A low whistle skates across Kyn’s lips. “Begynd almighty, she’s fast.”

On the strip of highway we’ve just trucked, she’s constructed towers of frosted orbs and spires of soft white powder. So tall, they disappear into the heavy cloud cover above. Panes of ice connect one pillar to another, curtains of hardened sleet hanging majestic over passages crafted out of sculpted snowdrifts. Icicles, clear as glass, grow like the twyl in Lenore’s planter boxes—up from the ground, mingled with triangles of hardpack—penitent snow, we call it, because it bows before Winter. From somewhere deep inside her masterpiece, a frigid wind begins to blow.

“She’s taken out the tires,” Kyn says, awe fading to irritation. “Barbs of ice shot straight through the rubber . . .”

“Paradyian rubber too,” I say.

We have to hurry. I know we do. But I need a closer look. I’ve seen Winter do some miraculous things, but I’ve never seen her show off so stunningly. So pointedly.

The ground is slick, so I reach down and flip the lever on both boots—the one that extends the crampons—and then I’m moving forward, into the ice castle she’s built. I run my glove along a wall lined with hoarfrost and wander deep into the belly of her creation. It’s like a maze, shorter walls