Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,60

braid away and tuck it up and into my stocking cap. “Now, back!”

He settles against the wall of the cab and the air is suddenly lighter around me. I slide the Dragon into gear and push her forward. Ahead, the highway drops. It’ll drop and climb three separate times, the grades steeper with each incline. The first will take us close to sea level, forcing us through a knot of grandfather oaks that grow humped and knotted in a tangle over the road. Unlike the highway west of High Pass, the Shiv Road is not maintained—the Rangers don’t patrol it with any regularity and the trees are left to do their worst.

I can tell Bristol’s been here. He must have taken the road through Hex Landing and made the turn onto the Desolation stretch near Kasebyrg. Snow has fallen since he’s passed, but it’s minimal, and the tracks from his rig are still visible. Small mounds of snow line both sides of the roadway where his plow has made a way forward.

With the first of the cages dead ahead, the road disappears, and nothing but a wide expanse of sky fills the shattered windshield. The cloud cover is purpling, the sun far beyond it slipping toward the horizon. I do the math and curse.

“We won’t make it before sundown. It’ll be two solid hours before we clear the last cage.”

“If we wait out the night, we’re complicating matters,” Mars says.

“I know,” I say, shifting gears as the drop approaches. “We can’t wait. Layce is already melting.”

“You can do this, Miss Quine? You’ve done it before.”

“A little late to worry about that now, isn’t it?”

The Dragon trundles forward and over the top of the first drop. My stomach plummets as we rock forward; the bucket smacks the ice, shaving it as we plunge headfirst into airy wisps of fog. I cringe but keep my foot on the gas. Another two smacks of the bucket and the rig settles in.

“Shouldn’t we slow down?” Mars asks, his hands wrapped around the edges of my seat.

“Not if we want to make it up the next incline,” I say. “We’ll need every bit of the momentum we can generate on the downside of this thing. The trick is not to lose control.”

“I thought you said the darkness is our greatest problem?”

“A nightmare,” I say. “But not until we get to the bottom. Now, sit back.” I drag my stocking cap down over my ears, muffling the noise.

The fog thickens, pressing against the glass in great white swirls. I don’t need the headlamps just yet, so I leave them switched off. Our visibility is already scant.

The trees aren’t an issue until we’re about a quarter of the way down. And then they leap in with a ferocious hunger, their knobby branches present and sudden and groping through the fog.

Ice coats each limb, but it’s thawing. Water drips in a thin, steady trickle, turning the white ground to mud—a visual we only get in spurts and stops. The trees slap the cracked windshield and scratch at the trailer. They snap off left and right, the frozen appendages popping and bending.

We’re moving fast, dropping deeper and deeper into the cage, and I have to work my jaw to clear my ears. After fifteen or twenty ticks I notice more proof of Bristol’s passing. Recent breakage and dangling limbs. Markings where his rock saw cut away stubborn branches.

“I was hoping to save the motors,” I murmur.

“Louder, Miss Quine.”

“I’m going to need your help,” I say, raising my voice and turning my face but not my eyes.

“Yes?”

“Beneath the passenger seat is a lever. Normally I can reach it, but Hyla’s—”

“—in the way.” Mars moves so that he’s between the front two seats. He leans forward and pushes Hyla’s legs aside. She moans and shifts, but she doesn’t wake.

“Can you reach it?” I say, glancing back and forth between Mars’s twisted body and the hazy road.

“Yes, Miss Quine. I can reach it. What does it do?”

“The rock saws will engage. The motors will wear quickly in this thick growth, but the trees . . . I was hoping to make it as far as the second cage before we had to use them.”

Another barrage of limbs. The Dragon is much taller than Bristol’s rig and we’re taking a beating from the higher branches. The windshield groans and snaps, bits of glass flake away. The canvas on Hyla’s hastily patched window tears, the sound lost in the chaos. The limbs will be