Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,89
pull the wing free at any moment. Layce is in full Flux now and I’m tempted to stay and wait, to watch as Crane Falls breaks apart for the last time this Ryme. It certainly feels imminent.
Everything about everything feels imminent. Looming.
I complete the bike’s rotation and set my face to the far shores of the Desolation. Off to my right, the snowmobile has faded from view, and before me, there’s nothing but a vast spread of ice. I believe in my heart that the rebel camp is on the other side—Lenore’s on the other side.
There’s no knowing if the ice is solid all the way across—no knowing if I’m driving to my death or taking the fastest route to Lenore—but Winter rides my boots, wraps my fists tight around the handlebars, settles like a campfire in my chest, and I know I’ve done the right thing.
Confident now in the Desolation’s solid nature, I give the bike more gas. The wind is frigid on my face; tears stream from the corners of my eyes and frost forms on my lashes. It’s my compromised vision that keeps me from really opening up the ice bike to see what she can do. Hyla’s goggles would have been useful, but I’m no thief.
It’s not long before the sylver ribbon sunk deep beneath the ice begins to show itself, a glow emanating through the opaque surface, flashing on my tires, my boots. The light is not buried nearly as deeply as I thought it was. At least not initially. When I first come upon it, the ribbon seems so close that I kick my bike to a stop and climb off.
I drop into a crouch and run my hand over the ice. The light isn’t quite at the surface, but it’s not buried far beneath either. If it keeps spreading, keeps shallowing, it won’t be long. I wonder what that means? What would happen if this strange mysterious ribbon breaks through the ice? Is it liquid? Is it light? Can it be both?
A part of me wonders what would happen if I flip the lever on the side of my boot. What would happen if I engage my crampons? Could I dig the light out?
Aside from the obvious danger, I wouldn’t. Crysel promised me an unhindered trip across the ice. If I go today. And if their ancestors really are buried beneath the Desolation, I’ve no right to disturb them.
I leave the bike where it is and follow the gleam for several yards. It widens as I walk, a trail of light leading northeast. It’s definitely deepening, the sylver fading, its source buried somewhere far below.
I’m surprised at how translucent the ice is now. Frozen lakes, streams, rivers—they’re usually frosted, the ice fogged, especially when it’s as thick as this is. Near the strange sylver light, though, I see clear through the ice. Fish frozen in midflip, water shrubs paralyzed where they swayed. Bubbles captured as they rose to the surface, flecks of kol sparkling in ripples of water far beneath my toes.
And then a hand, its fingers splayed.
Dread rises in my chest and bile in my throat.
The hand is buried far enough beneath the ice that it would have been lost in darkness if not for the illumination of the sylver flow.
I brush at the thin layer of moisture atop the ice, a futile attempt to see deeper, but if there’s anything attached to the hand—an arm, a body, a heart and soul—I can’t see it.
A gust of wind thrusts me forward and behind me, I hear Drypp’s ice bike topple over.
“We’ve no time for a detour, Miss Quine, but I think it’s good you’ve come.”
Mars.
His voice doesn’t startle me as much as it should. I didn’t expect him to simply let me leave.
“Are there others?” I ask.
“Oh yes.” I hear his boots settle onto the ice—toe first and then heel. “Continue on, Miss Quine. You can’t miss them.”
“I don’t . . . want to,” I say, realizing the truth of it.
“You prefer not to know? Is that it?”
I nod, quite against my better judgment, but the sight before me has torn something from my soul. It feels naked and bare and completely wild.
“Come, Miss Quine. You’re better than that.”
“I don’t think I am. I’m selfish,” I say, trying the words aloud, letting the truth of them land like a punch to the gut. Lenore had told me so more than once. It never occurred to me that she might be right.