Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,84
frozen cheeks. I can’t do this without noise. The latches make it impossible; they’re deep within a seam masked by the blue-and-sylver dragon scales painted onto the cab.
From my tool belt I pull a crowbar. Wedging it into the seam, I slide the bar until it connects with one of the seven latches. Fast and sharp, I engage the crowbar and with a dull click the latch pops open. It would have been louder inside the cab—Mars and Kyn have their backs pressed against this wall.
I lean against the trailer and I wait. And I listen. When I hear nothing, I slide the crowbar around, to the next latch and then the next. My gloved hands are aching with tension by the time I reach the seventh latch, and I’m certain there’s a blister forming on my palm. I ignore it and slide the tool beneath the final latch. It sticks. I wiggle the bar around, switching my grip, rising on my toes so I can come at it from above. But nothing.
And that’s when I see it.
There’s something there—wedged in the seam. I push my face close trying to figure out what it is. And then I curse. Stupid, incompetent mechanic.
It’s a wad of metal glue left behind by the idiot I hired to help me get the Dragon ready for Mars. I’ll need a blowtorch to melt it away.
I drop to the ground, not nearly as quiet as I should be. I take a second to slow my breathing and lower my heart rate. I’ve got to climb into the cab to get the blowtorch. It’s stowed beneath the seat Kyn and Mars are sleeping on.
I could kill the guy.
The sky outside the mine is pinking up, the sun pushing through a thin cloud somewhere. One more deep breath, one more tremor shaking my hands, and I climb up on the busted running board, using the door handle to pull myself upright.
“Sylvi,” Kyn says, suddenly there in the window. “You scared me.”
“You scared me,” I say, my already primed heart taking flight. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“I need to take a leak,” he says.
I step off the running board and he climbs past me, his steps loping and dreamy. I wait until he’s exited the mine entrance before I hop up and into the cab.
“Getting to work on the rig,” I say, leaning past her and grabbing for the blowtorch.
“I can come.” She attempts to sit up, but I push her back in the chair. Her shoulder looks good, but she’s still weak. And she needs her bandage changed. But most of all, I really don’t need another set of eyes out there. “It’s OK, Sessa. I’m feeling strong. I can help.”
“No need,” I say. “Kyn and I have things under control for now. I’ll holler when we need you.”
“My lady . . .”
“Mars needs to rest,” I say, dropping my voice, hoping she’ll do the same. “You do too, I think. You know what you can do?” I pull an ancient tackle box out from under Mars’s legs, my voice quiet, my hands working hard not to jostle the box. “There’s a half-inch eyebolt in here somewhere. I need one. Two would be better honestly, but I can make do with one. Can you find it for me?”
I don’t wait for her to reply. I leave the tackle box on her lap and drop from the cab with the blowtorch in my hand.
“I wondered if you had one somewhere.”
I turn and there’s Kyn, wandering back inside the mine, looking sleep-rumpled and far more comfortable than he did just moments before.
“Had what?”
“A blowtorch. I bet the brakes are frozen solid, parked all night in the cold like this. Here,” he says, “I’ll do it.”
He takes the blowtorch from my hands and crawls beneath the rig.
Flux.
“OK,” I say. “OK, I’ll work on . . . something else.” The last few words fall away while my mind revs. Through the gap between the trailer and the cab, my gaze falls on the tires and the gas cans resting up against the wall. They’re useless without the chassis.
Something hits my leg. “Put that somewhere, will you? I don’t want to ruin another one.”
It’s Kyn’s jacket. His spare. The one he changed into after the wolves tore his first coat to shreds. I toss it onto a cropping of rocks and something falls from the pocket.