Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,77

to service the roads around town, and though it was days before I was able to keep down a meal, I never told Drypp or Lenore what happened that day at Mistress Quine’s. It was a shameful thing—him putting his hands on me, forcing me to put my hands on him—and I wasn’t shameful, not like Mistress.

No one had to know.

Plus, I had my knife and Lenore had hers, and it was easy enough to avoid the man and his yellow rig.

Winter knew what he’d done and that was enough. And though she never said as much, it was clear that as long as she was around, I’d never again find myself alone with Bristol Mapes.

CHAPTER 19

I stomp the parking brake and reach for the door handle.

“Sylvi,” Kyn yells, “you can’t. Look at the ice.”

A vibration quivers up from the Serpentine, trembling through the Dragon. A clap like gunfire, deep and ominous.

“Sessa—” Hyla doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t have to. I see it. A fissure spreading from beneath Bristol’s plow—slow at first and then racing straight toward us.

“Drive, Sylvi,” Kyn says. “Drive!”

I release the parking brake and jerk the rig into gear. My foot’s pressed to the gas, but we’re not moving. The ice hisses and spits as the crack widens.

“Go!” I tell the Dragon. “Come on, girl!”

And then Mars is there, hovering unsteadily over the fissure, his words drowned out by the splintering river. I can’t see any obvious effect, but Mars brought down an entire mountain. Surely he can stitch a seam in the ice.

“Sylvi—”

“I’m trying!” I downshift, letting the clutch out slowly, hoping for any forward momentum at all. “Come on,” I plead, “come on.”

And then, movement! The Dragon inches forward, the tank tread spinning stupidly as I give it more gas. Our progress is slow. Too slow. Kyn and Hyla are cursing while I beg the Dragon for a miracle. At last we find traction and we’re moving. Past Mars, Bristol’s rig just up on our right side.

I crane my neck to look around Hyla, but the Dragon’s too tall and as we roll past, I see only the roof of the smaller truck. We’re nearly parallel with it when Mars crumples to the ice and the river splits wide. Bristol’s rig bobs and threatens to go under.

“Mars!” Hyla yells, struggling to open the door. “We must help him!”

My chest heaves and tears race down my face, but I don’t stop. If I do, we’re all dead. Instead, I give the rig more gas.

We’re past Mars now and approaching the far shore at breakneck speed. I’m still not sure it’s fast enough. The splitting ice is loud, the Dragon rocking as she goes.

I don’t know what to do. Mars would tell me to demand Winter do something, but I don’t know what to ask of her. I just know that if I don’t get the Dragon onto land, she’s going to go under. And if she goes under, there will be no helping Lenore.

I don’t bother braking as we smack onto the shore. The three of us ricochet around the cab, Hyla slamming her face on the dash, my head bumping Kyn’s. I don’t waste time asking why he’s half in my seat again.

As soon as the trailer’s wheels are clear of the Serpentine, I kill the engine and I’m out the door, Kyn behind me. I hear him demanding that Hyla stay where she is, but I don’t stop to see if his commands are obeyed. There isn’t time. Lenore is out there.

The river is cracking with impatient glee, dark water spilling unhindered onto the ice. Bristol’s back tires are still above the surface but they won’t be for much longer.

I step out onto the river, slower than I want to go, testing—my heart a sharpened awl chipping away at my ribs.

“Miss Quine,” Mars warns, his voice frail in the distance. “Stay there.”

But I’m done taking orders.

The creaking, crunching ice is not at all stable and I curse Winter for bringing Blys on so rapidly. She could stop this. She could. She could save Lenore. She could at least make it easier for me to save her.

“Miss Quine, I am begging you—”

I step forward again and again. And now I don’t stop. My boots kick up water and ice in equal measure, the groan of the thawing river drowning out Mars’s protestations.

I’m almost there—the rig five or six arm lengths in front of me—when the weight of my boot flips a shard of ice and