Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,83
warrior woman from the golden kingdom, out to set right all the world’s wrongs. She shifts, letting her good arm fall on my shins, her warmth a friendly sort of comfort.
She did almost crush my arm. When was that? A week ago, maybe, but it feels like a lifetime past. And all in the service of the great Mars Dresden.
With my back against the door, I can’t help but catch sight of him as I close my eyes. I won’t miss him, but I think I’ll always be curious. About his travels and his ongoing war with Winter.
I don’t let myself glance at Kyn, but it hardly matters. His face is there anyway. And his words.
“One day, you’ll tell me something and it won’t be a lie.”
I pinch my eyes a little tighter and wonder what that would feel like.
CHAPTER 21
Winter wakes me. She’s climbed in through our useless windows. She slaps my face with chill, but her words swirl warm and wise in my chest.
HURRY, she says, HURRY.
I pull myself upright, lifting my boots carefully, needing all three of my companions to sleep for as long as possible but feeling it particularly for Hyla. Her wounds aren’t healing nearly as fast as Kyn’s.
I crouch in my seat and unlatch the already gaping window, easing it gently down and into the frame. I’ve slept at least four hours; the strength in my legs, the clarity in my thinking tells me so.
But I’m ready to be on the go now. Ready to put this portion of the journey behind me. The regret I felt just hours ago, the remorse—it all feels like a different Sylvi. The very Sylvi I plan to leave behind.
The longer I ride with Mars and Hyla, the closer I get to Kyn, the harder it is to see the girl I used to be. To remember what it was like before I took this job.
I’ll become someone else if I don’t leave now. Someone I’m sure to hate.
Carefully, quietly, I slip out the window. My legs are strong as they land on the dappled clay inside the tunnel. I retreat to a dark corner to relieve myself and then I set to work.
I load up my tool belt and hit the lifts, pushing my face up against the grate and peering inside. Drypp was right—four barrels of fuel sit side by side in the cage. There’s a stack of smaller gas cans sitting next to the barrels, rusted and ancient. I’ll need two.
I slide open the grate as quietly as I can, but it’s been shut for a long time, and, as the rust shakes free, the track squeals and my heart stumbles. At this point I could explain my actions away, but if anyone wakes up, I won’t have time to get done what needs doing.
I fold the gate into itself and grab two of the cans, both heavy with petrol. I tuck them against the wall of the mine and inch the door shut as quietly as I can manage.
And then I set to work: The tires are easy enough to reach—they’re attached to the undercarriage. I’m plenty small. I simply squat and crab walk beneath the rig until I’ve reached them—two rubber tires, smaller than the ones on Mars’s trailer by more than half. Slowly, carefully, I apply the socket wrench and I crank. It takes me forever, my blood races in my ears with every twist of the tool, every grating sound it makes tightening my jaw.
I’m going to get caught, they’re going to wake, and this part—the tires that shouldn’t be here—this is going to be impossible to explain.
At last, the second tire falls free and I roll them both out into the open and across the mine where I rest them against the rocky wall next to the gas cans. I’m dripping cold sweat, but there isn’t time to worry about that. I’ve got to get the chassis unloaded.
The chassis will be difficult to free without making a ruckus. It’s attached to the outside of the cab inside a narrow compartment Vaxton installed before the Dragon was mine. Vaxton wasn’t a smuggler exactly. Not like Mars. He hauled lumber and twyl for the Majority mostly, cut trenches when they asked, but rumor has it he took coin here and there for moving small, easily stowed contraband.
To get to the compartment, I climb up onto the tank tread and slip carefully between the cab and the trailer. My blood races, warming my