Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,56

a pulse.

But he’s breathing.

He’s alive.

And the deep gashes on his face are closed. I run a soft finger over their rippled surface. The kol never acted this quickly on Drypp.

It was Winter who did this. Winter who closed Kyn’s wounds.

I asked and she answered.

And then I sent her away.

“Your hands are cold,” Kyn says.

I start, pull my hand back. He catches it, pressing my palm to his fevered skin.

“Stay,” he says, his voice tired and scratching.

But I roll back on my heels, putting some distance between our faces. “We have to go,” I say. “I’ll get you some snow for this.”

“Always taking off when things get interesting,” he says, but my fingers slide easily from his and I back out of the sleeper cab, my face as hot as his.

The running board on the passenger side has been mangled beyond use. I drop from the seat to the road. But instead of crunching into fresh powder or even the slippery ice pack, I splash into a puddle.

Ah, flux.

“Mars!” I scream, taking off, running. “Stop! You have to stop!”

Water splashes onto the road around me, the mountains on my right and left melting like Lenore’s famous icy creams.

I follow a trail of melted snow into the trees edging the highway, yelling for Mars. For Hyla. Under the pine cover, it’s darker and I nearly smack into them as they emerge from behind a massive tree.

“If you’re going to bark orders at anyone, Miss Quine, bark them at Winter.”

He’s limping, in pain, but the look on his face is sheer anger. He’s holding Hyla up, his arm around the woman’s waist, hefting her as best he can. Blood pours from her shoulder.

I move to help, but Mars raises his hand, Drypp’s pick axe in his grip. “You were hurt before. Bleeding.”

“I’m fine. It’s stopped.” I bat his hand away and slide under Hyla’s other arm, doing what I can to help, but I barely reach her chest.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Winter threw a tantrum while we were gathering the twyl.”

“It was an icicle, Sessa.”

“Mars is the only one I’ve seen flinging icicles.”

“It was not Mars who did this. It was her. Your lady, Winter.”

Habit begs me to argue, but the tree overhead is melting away, snow turning to water, dripping from its branches, slipping down my collar.

“You have to stop, Mars. If you melt away the road—”

“We’ve covered this, Miss Quine. And you were quite convincing. This is not my handiwork.”

We find the highway, but it’s slick. The ice hard in some places and wet in others. It’s impossible to know where to step.

“Winter wouldn’t do this to herself. She wouldn’t destroy . . . Even in full Blys, even when the avalanche risk is at its highest, the road here stays frozen. This isn’t something she would do of her own accord.”

“Her game is bigger than this moment,” Mars says. “Like all warriors, she’s not above a strategic loss. Not if it convinces you I’m to blame.”

“She’s not a warrior. She’s . . .” A friend? “She’s a season.”

“Not a season,” Mars says. “She’s the only season on Shiv Island. Her power cannot be allowed to go unchecked.”

I haven’t the energy to heft Hyla and argue, so I focus on my feet and the uncertain terrain under them. We skid and slip our way to the Sylver Dragon, but there’s no hope of us hoisting her up into the cab.

“Stand back,” Mars says, reaching out, pushing me aside.

I stumble away and watch as Mars whispers something in Kerce. Winter kicks up a gust of wind. It fights with Hyla’s weight and Mars has to repeat himself, louder, more insistent. Hyla’s boots leave the ground and Mars lays her gently in the passenger seat.

“Would you prefer I take the lookout, Miss Quine?”

“What?”

“Are you still concerned about a Shiv attack? If so, I could take the lookout,” Mars says, tugging the bloodied scarf away from his side and dropping it to the ground. “It’s fine,” he says, catching my stare. “Like you, I’m a quick healer. The lookout then?”

“No,” I say, the idea of breaking up our little party a discomfort not worth analyzing just now. “You’d best stay inside with us, keep an eye on Kyn.”

The water at our feet is rushing now, coming at us from all sides, splashing against the tank tread, spilling over the top of our boots. It steals the muddied scarf and drags it over the shoulder and into a swift-moving current rushing downhill. “I could make her