Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,47

and sprint toward the cab. I jump the gap first and fling open the roof hatch to drop inside. I kick open the driver’s side door and climb out onto the highway, Kyn just behind me. When he emerges, he has Drypp’s shotgun in his hands.

I slam my fist into the tool compartment and it springs open—a coil of rope and a box of bolts tumbles to the snow. I wrench Drypp’s old pickaxe from its mount and I’m running now, toward the back of the truck, Winter securing my footing, holding my ankles steady.

Thank you, I tell her. Thank you.

“You want the gun?” Kyn asks.

No, I don’t want the gun—I’m still not sure we should be shooting anything up here—but I don’t have time to answer. The Rangers fire their harpoon and a shock trembles through the pass. The projectile whistles as it cuts toward us. I drop to the snow and the rig shudders as the harpoon embeds itself in the door of the trailer.

The angle of the rig is such that—even from here, with my face flat in the muddy snow—I see the line snap taut. Despite the Dragon’s heft, she shimmies backward an inch or so.

“Hold your ground, girl,” Kyn tells her as he jumps up and sprints forward.

Mars launches himself into the air, the wind violent and angry as he flies toward the slumping castle.

I’m on my feet when the harpoon’s reel grinds to life, the crank fighting against the Dragon’s weight and winning—the rig slipping backward. I’d heard about the harpoon gun. Seen it even. But I’ve never been there when the Rangers used it to steal a haul. I can’t work out their endgame—they’ll never drag the trailer back to town this way—but the harpoon is impressive, the power of it, and I have to wonder if it’s also Paradyian. If their reel holds, they could yank the door clean off the trailer. Perhaps that’s been their intention all along.

Hyla’s boots pound the top of the trailer, running, then stopping. She fires her handguns. Kyn too, is firing. At what, I can’t say, but the ferocity of the noise is loud, bouncing from mountain to mountain. I’m terrified Winter will shed her coat, terrified of another avalanche. I push harder, running, raising the axe over my head.

“Kyn!” I yell.

He turns and his eyes widen. He drops the shotgun and links his fingers together, bracing his back against the trailer. My boot strikes his cupped hands and he launches me into the sky. I swipe at the harpoon cable and the axe slices through, the cable snapping back on itself, twisting like a sea snake into the snow. The harpoon shaft juts from the trailer door, but it’s harmless, no longer attached to their crank.

I land in a crouch, my eyes on the road. They’ll load another harpoon, surely, but we’ve bought ourselves a good two-minute head start if we get moving.

“You’d be terrifying even if you weren’t Winter’s plaything,” Kyn says, offering me a hand. But I’m halfway to my feet and don’t need any help. Disappointment flashes in his eyes, but there’s no time.

“We have to hurry,” I say.

“Right, yeah. Stay behind me.” He hefts Drypp’s shotgun and turns, jogging toward the Rangers and their pickup.

“Hey, hey!” I call. “We’ll be safe in the Dragon.”

Kyn pulls up. Turns to face me.

“We just have to get out of the harpoon gun’s reach,” I say.

“You always run from a fight?”

“Everybody back in the rig!” I yell. “Now!”

“Mars hasn’t returned,” Hyla hollers, the toes of her boots hanging off the end of the trailer.

“What do you mean he hasn’t returned?”

“The harpoon machine—he thought to freeze it.”

Stupid, idiotic—

“The Rangers aren’t Shiv,” I yell. “They’re armed with more than rocks and arrows.”

“There!” Kyn says, pointing at the sky.

Mars flies toward us, the storm following, smacking us hard, numbing my face.

He’s bleeding.

Flux.

Blood drips from his boot, a steady trickle freezing and falling to the snow. Both hands are pressed to his side, the wind keeping him afloat, though barely. He’s only three or four feet off the ground. Hyla steps off the side of the trailer and drops to the road.

“How bad?” Kyn says, swinging his gun around, crouching as Mars lands. Mars lets him examine the wound while he rests against the trailer.

“Flesh wound,” Mars says. His pale face is gray and he fights to keep his black eyes open. “But the harpoon gun is a block of ice. They’ll have to kill us if they want