Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,90

you are. But that’s not why you won’t look. You’re afraid.”

I am afraid. But of what?

“You’re afraid that you’re wrong about her, this spirit you’ve grown to love. This relationship you’ve built your life around is the only thing you’ve ever been able to rely on, and you’re afraid that her kindnesses have numbed you to their cost. You’re afraid that Winter is using you.”

HE’S WRONG, Winter says. HE’S ALWAYS BEEN WRONG.

Mars takes another step and his shoulder settles next to mine. “You’re afraid that I’m right.”

MAYBE YOU’RE AFRAID OF HIM.

A sob threatens to shake me. It’s like I’ve been thrust onto the one battlefield I’ve always tried to skirt. And I’m cold. So cold. I shake Winter from my arms, but she refuses to release her grasp. I roll my shoulders back, tip my chin up.

“Will you show me the others?” I ask. “Please.”

He smiles, continuing forward. “I knew you were better than that.”

My boots are heavy and tired as I follow. Winter rises from the Desolation, climbing my ankles, my calves, my thighs. Suffocating the muscles and joints so fiercely, I swear my knees creak with every step.

NO, she says, DON’T! YOU WON’T UNDERSTAND.

The words burn in my belly, and I wonder if the blisters there look the same as the ones on Mars’s lips.

Another few steps and we’re no longer following a trail of light. It’s a trail of hands. All of them reaching for the surface. Hundreds of hands. I know then that the Shiv were right—this is a desecration. Mars and I are walking, however carefully, atop the frozen graves of so many.

“The Shiv,” I begin, “Shyne and the others, they believe their ancestors are living souls, alive beneath the ice. Do you . . . ?”

“Do I believe their claims?” he asks, stooping, running his pale fingers along the frozen pool, tracing the outstretched palm of someone buried so near the surface, I can almost make out a face. “I do. I think it would take very little to send Winter on her way, very little to free so many.”

“To send Winter away,” I say, the ache of it still there, still lingering in my voice. Even as I stare at the work of her hand.

“It will cost dearly—make no mistake.”

“Cost who?”

“You,” he says. “And me.”

I cock my head at him—surprised to hear him group the two of us so comfortably.

“It will cost us . . . everything. But these people, this island will live again.” He stands, turns. “I’m prepared, Miss Quine. I only await you.”

“Lenore.” It’s the only thing I can say. The only thing I can’t sacrifice. She found me in the forest, shared her grandfather with me, her home. It’s a debt I must repay. I won’t leave her to Bristol.

“I understand. First things first. We must make it to the rebel camp. All of us must make it there.” He takes my hands in his. They’re cold and damp from the Desolation. Nothing at all like Kyn’s hands. “You understand? The haul must make it there or I cannot help you with Lenore. And if we need the road to get it there then we’d best not melt it away just yet. Come back with me,” he says. “Please.”

His voice catches on something—tears, venom, I can’t tell. I stare at his scabbed lips, wonder what it’d be like to have the kol mangle mine in such a way.

“This is the first thing you’ve ever asked me to do, the first time it hasn’t been an order. Why?”

He releases my hands and steps backward.

“Kyn is dying.”

It’s like he slapped me. “What?”

“In all fairness, he’d have died at High Pass if it wasn’t for your blood—but now his life is tied to yours.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you left, his veins split wide, Miss Quine. The wounds that had healed over so nicely after the Frost Whites? They’re reopening.”

My mind reels, and I search my feelings for any hint that Kyn’s in danger. I would know that, wouldn’t I? I should, but I feel nothing of him now. Only my own regret. Still, the look on Mars’s face tells me he’s not lying. Kyn’s broken and bleeding and I’m too far away to know why.

“Winter,” I say, suddenly angry. “This has to be her doing.”

She’s suspiciously quiet, but Mars is shaking his head. “I would blame all the world’s troubles on her if I could. But this isn’t on Winter. This is on you. You healed him.”

“I healed him?”

“It was your blood,

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