Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,65

is aflame.

“They do,” Mars says. “Miss Quine should be quite immune, but she’s let Winter in.”

“Flux,” Kyn says, the word thin and low.

“The kol is dormant in your veins,” Mars says, ducking his head, finding my gaze. “Frozen, I’d guess. I can only imagine what it’s doing to your insides.”

“OK, Mars. That’s enough.” Kyn takes my elbow and starts back for the cab.

I tug my arm free. “What do you mean?” I ask. “What it’s doing to my insides—what does that mean?”

He pulls that square of cloth from his pocket again. It’s no longer clean and white. It’s ratted, smeared with crusted blood and kol. He folds it in half and dabs the corner to his lips.

“These scabs are proof that I’ve wielded my power over Winter. Kol magic has consequences—it does, you’re right. The words open a conversation between her and I and she takes every opportunity to bite at me. The kol mixes with her magic and tears my lips to pieces, but using the magic I’ve been given keeps the kol running fast and potent through my veins.” He flattens his pale hand against his chest. “It keeps her out.”

“I don’t—”

“Not wielding your power has consequences as well. Winter is not warm, Miss Quine. She is not comfortable. If her words burn inside your belly, consider that it’s likely a cold burn. The kind that kills. You can remain silent—that is always your prerogative—but just because we cannot see the consequences of your inaction doesn’t mean you will escape unscathed.”

LIAR, Winter whispers. She’s listening. Of course she is. HE LIES.

“I’m not lying, Miss Quine.” He steps closer, his boots knocking mine. “The authority over Winter is a birthright you cannot escape. It sits dormant in your veins and if you do not use it, if you invite Winter in, there’s no knowing what all she’ll freeze.”

“You think Winter’s—”

“I have no idea what she’s doing to your heart, Miss Quine. There is no one like you. Not one soul with your unique relation to both the kol and Winter. But there is a reason the Kerce do not mix kol with her freezing magic.”

“It’s blasphemous,” I say, remembering.

“Yes, Miss Quine. It is blasphemous. It’s how she makes her monsters.”

CHAPTER 16

The driver’s side window won’t latch properly anymore. Two finger-widths sit between the glass and the top of the sill. I pull the twyl gum from my mouth and pinch it out the window. The wind catches it and pulls it from my fingers as we rumble into the second cage.

It’s bright enough up here, with the Desolation and the ever-present cloud cover bouncing moonlight back and forth, but we’re descending now. The atmosphere grows blacker with each rotation of the tank tread, tendrils of fog fingering their way into my line of sight. I’ll have to make a decision about the headlamps soon.

Everyone in the cab is awake—the first time since High Pass. Hyla’s wound has been bound, and, after chewing our only surviving stick of twyl chewing gum, her eyes are clear. Mars and Hyla were able to collect a few blossoms before her injury, but they’re unlikely to be very potent by the time we reach North Bend. Once we clear the Cages, we’ll have to keep an eye out. If my reaction to the spray off the Kol Sea is anything remotely similar to what I just experienced, we’ll be in serious trouble if we don’t have a stash of twyl before we reach the Seacliff Road.

Kyn is settled into his seat now, crunching on my store of honeycomb and passing around a canteen that’s partially iced over. He taps it against my shoulder and I take a swig, not quite meeting his eyes.

I stroked his hands, didn’t I? Rubbed them.

I don’t know how to process what happened before. Where to tuck Mars’s words so that they don’t jab at my spine, at my ribs. He’s made me uncomfortable and that’s the thing I work hardest to avoid.

The water is cool and bright as it washes away the taste of twyl, but I allow myself only one small sip.

“Put it away now,” I say. “I’m not stopping again until we reach the mines at North Bend.”

“They’re luckier in that way than you and me, Sessa,” Hyla says, adjusting her arm. “They don’t need a safe place to squat.”

“Just an empty container,” Mars says, taking a sip.

“The road’s melting, Dresden. I don’t imagine a pothole would be a pleasant obstacle while you’re making use of a