Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,57
refreeze it?” Mars ponders aloud. “The highway.”
“No, don’t. Let’s just get out of the pass.”
I follow Mars around the front of the rig, gripping the Dragon’s grill, fighting to keep my feet underneath me. Hefting Hyla took what little energy I had left. “You couldn’t have asked Winter to carry Hyla back here from the forest?”
“Look at you, Miss Quine, encouraging me to use magic.”
I flick my cheek at his back as he climbs up and into the cab.
A thin crack splits the air and I watch as a slab shifts high on the mountain. Racers of powder slide down the rock face. Every bit of displaced snow, Mars’s fault. I feel it in my bones. Bones that are wrapped tightly in Winter’s hold. She’s angry I sent her away, but she hasn’t left me. She hasn’t—
“We were in a hurry last I checked, Miss Quine.”
In two steps, I’m up and into the driver’s seat. I turn the key and the engine jumps to life. Forcing my jittery legs to calm, I ease my foot onto the gas. The tread catches immediately and the Sylver Dragon rolls forward.
“There are things about Winter—”
“You say nothing,” I say, shifting until I find a comfortable gear. “Not now. Not until I get us out of the pass. The ice is gone. The highway’s a rutted mess. I’ve never had to navigate this stretch in these conditions. Five minutes, Mars. Can you keep your mouth shut for five minutes?”
If he’s seething next to me, I can’t tell and don’t care. There’s very little room to work with here. The mountains press in on both sides, scraggly trees jutting here and there from the rocky wall. They brush the sides of the truck, scraping at windows that are barely hanging on. I eye the branches as we push through, beg and plead with Winter to let us be. Her hatred of Mars is a palpable thing. But she’s exhausted. The fight in the pass, the death of her wolves—it’s taken something out of her.
I push the gas pedal closer to the floor and the Dragon barrels over the summit, breaking free of the dark trees and imposing mountain walls, out into the white light of day.
The road drops immediately as we start our descent. I pull my foot off the gas, letting the weight of the Dragon do all the work. The front end bobs and sparks fly as the bucket strikes the road—it’s to be expected with the exposed potholes and the lack of ice, but it throws us around the cab, making our teeth rattle and Kyn cry out in the sleeper.
For a solid minute we’ll have an unfettered view of the Desolation. I take it in. The vast spread of ice. So cold, smoke rises off it, hanging thicker in some places than others. Despite the thawing pass, the Desolation far below is frozen thick, but if there is life beneath it, there are no signs from here. Still, that strange, sylver ribbon remains. From somewhere deep, just north of the pool’s center, it twists westward.
“What is it?” Hyla asks.
“Begynd,” Mars says, his voice quiet. “The fount.”
An irrational rage bubbles inside my chest and I wonder if it’s me—truly me—who’s angry. Or is it Winter? Has she crawled inside my ribs, built her home near my heart?
The road forks here—a wide left toward the Seacliff Road or a sharp right to the southern tip of the isle. With the rebel camp shimmering bright in my mind, nestled on the northeastern wing, I take the turn north.
“It’s almost like you know where we’re heading, Miss Quine.”
I twist the wheel in my hands, checking the mirror for his expression. But he’s draped elegantly in the corner, his face turned toward the Desolation. It’s better if he doesn’t know I’ve sorted out the location of the camp. Not until I’ve decided what to do with the knowledge. But he’s right. I’m driving with the confidence of a rigger who knows her way. And that’s something I haven’t felt since we left Hex Landing.
“You did mention the Seacliff Road,” I say.
He takes a deep breath and lets it go, his exhale fogging the window. “Did I?”
He’s so rarely quiet, I leave it there, the Dragon filling the silence kindly. She rattles and drones, her pieces and parts chattering constantly. But even over the constant hum, even over Hyla’s moans of discomfort, a rumble cracks its way into the cab and shakes what’s left of our windows.