Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,53

small feeling compared to the terror of Kyn’s certain death that I can’t even make myself revel in it.

Mars is at fault. Yes. Of course. Everything is his fault. But the Rangers also hold blame here. They unleashed Winter’s dogs. They did it in a way that left us little recourse but to kill. They made the glorious Frost Whites expendable. They tore this beautiful, conflicted boy to pieces.

Rage rattles in my throat, spills over my lashes.

We’re at the trailer. I drag Kyn to the far side, position him between the mountain and the truck where we’re protected from the wind.

He’s not breathing well, but he is wailing. The sound climbs my spine, my neck, the chill worse than anything Winter can unleash.

I sprint to the back of the trailer, slipping despite the crampons jutting from my boots. It’s only when I reach the roll-up door that I realize I don’t have the key. Mars has it. It’s in the medicine bag around his neck.

I turn, yell: “Mars!”

The storm has turned the sky white and Mars is nothing but a gray speck in the distance. I can’t see Hyla at all. I step away from the trailer, cup my hands, and yell again.

But there’s nothing. Not even an echo.

Just the sound of Kyn’s misery.

I turn back to the trailer, desperate. I’m not going to lose him. He may be the only one of my companions with a conscience. A confused, myth-believing conscience, but one that could come in handy when Mars gets tired of me.

The harpoon jutting from the top left corner of the trailer catches my attention. It’s not a large hole, but I’m not a large girl. If I can work the harpoon into the trailer, work the clamps free, I can probably wriggle in after it.

I have nothing but a single dagger now—Lenore’s dagger. Where its twin and the pickaxe are, I can’t recall.

In the tool compartment, there’s a massive wrench and a rubber mallet. I grab the tool belt and jam the things I’ll need into it. And then I waste a solid minute scrounging the cab for my gloves. Something’s been in here. Foxes or coons. A scavenger raided the food stores while we were fighting. The seats are slashed to pieces, the contents of our bags scattered. My gloves are nowhere to be found.

Giving them up for lost, I prop my foot in the windowsill and swing up onto the cab. From there I launch myself across the small divide and onto the trailer, the tools smacking my thighs, bruising my hips as I go.

When I reach the end of the trailer, I drop to my stomach and inch to the edge, so I can get a good look at the harpoon.

Fluxing Blys.

The clamps have pierced the door inside and out. Four sharpened points twisted into the metal. It would be easier if I had metal cutters, but that might also do irreparable damage to the door. And I can’t afford to lose this haul. Not if I expect Mars to help me with Lenore.

I go to work with the pliers, prying at the metal points, my hands blistering without the gloves. I’m making very little headway.

I ask Winter for help.

She ignores me.

I curse her because none of this is my fault.

Kyn’s face fills my mind, his bloodied, broken face.

I curse her again.

“Please,” I beg. “Please.”

But there’s something strange in the breeze that smacks me flat in the face. Something gleeful in the chill that works its way down my spine.

How does she do that? How does she make me feel her emotions? And why?

I twist hard at the metal pinched inside my pliers. Finally, a prong gives.

I cry out—exhaustion and frustration mixed with a small triumph—and then I set to work on the others.

The wind has died away now. Everything is still. Flakes of snow float on the air and settle on my chapped face. I brush them away and grin as I work another prong free. The sense of victory is overwhelming and it takes me a minute to realize the only one I’m fighting here is Winter. She wants this to be hard. She wants Kyn dead.

AND WHY SHOULDN’T HE DIE? she screams, suddenly there, suddenly everywhere. SOMEONE SHOULD PAY FOR MY WOLVES.

“But not him!” My teeth grind and my hand twists on the tool.

Kyn wakes. I hear his cries. Words now, not just unintelligible groans. I’m not brave enough to ask Winter if it was her doing. Instead, I work