Riveted (47 page)

God. He knew she was right. He still had to choke it down, feeling as if he stole every single bite from her mouth.

Her relieved exhalation slipped through the folds of her scarf and frosted the wool. “It’ll be all right. It takes longer than three days for even us rabbits to starve.”

He couldn’t think of it. His throat thick, he studied the column of ash again, the direction of the wind: south-southwest. “We probably won’t see much more ash here, but it’s being carried right over Vik. Källa might not be able to come for us in that balloon until it eases up.”

“I know.” She moved in against his side. He wrapped his arm around her waist, brought her in tight against him. “Do we try to walk out, or do we stay?”

The question that had tormented him all morning. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“My instinct is always to find a safe place and wait. I know she will come. The question is if she
can
. The ash might disrupt the balloon engine.”

“If we left, would it be harder for her to find us later?”

“No. There’s only one way to go: through the pass. After she searched this end of the glacier, she’d turn that way. But it might take days. She only has a balloon, and she’d have to come alone or she wouldn’t be able to take both of us back.”

He’d send Annika off first, anyway. “Dooley might have the clockwork dogs out of
Phatéon
’s cargo hold by now.”

“And he’d come, too?”

“Yes, if he can. The steam is still rising—that means the ice is still melting. We’re on high ground here, but there’s still a chance the pass could flood. And the rivers might be running at springtime levels or higher.”

She nodded. “We don’t even try to come this way in the spring. Even in a troll.”

“We could avoid them, go back up on the glacier and around the river heads, but I hate to risk the ice.”

It would be a rough hike in the summer. Add the uncertainty of deep snow and the eruption, and the glacier could be as dangerous as the rivers.

No doubt, they’d be safer here…until they ran out of food. Hoping to discern her thoughts, he studied her profile as she stared out over the glacier. He couldn’t see any fear, though she had to be feeling it. She wasn’t giving in.

Neither would he. “How far can you walk every day?”

She glanced up at him. “During the daylight hours only?”

Which didn’t last long—from mid-morning to mid-afternoon—but they probably shouldn’t risk traveling after the sun set, no matter that he could see. And even David would be exhausted after a day of trudging through deep snow. “Yes.”

“Perhaps ten miles…over flat terrain.”

Six days to Vik, at best. If they never had to backtrack, never had to slow. He looked to the clouds overhead. “We’ll need to be out of the first snow. It’ll be all ice and ash.”

“Poisonous?”

“Like the fissure eruptions? Possibly. Probably acidic. When we melt snow to drink, we need to dig deep.”

“But at least the snow will dampen this.” She kicked at the layer of ash, sending up a fine cloud. “So we won’t be walking through it.”

“Yes.” The masks could prevent them from breathing it, but the dust would penetrate every layer of clothing. “So what do you think?”

She looked to the sky, then out over the glacier again. “Let’s wait one or two days—until after the first snow. Maybe by then the eruption will stop and floods won’t be such a danger. In the
meantime, we’ll see if there’s anything to eat here. If not, we’ll need to go, anyway.”

Because they’d have no other choice, except waiting to die.

No choice.
David stared out over the barren expanse of ash and snow, fighting the helplessness sweeping over him.

“There’s another option,” she said.

Hope surged. “What option?”

“You can travel much faster than I can. You go to Vik for help and food, then come back for me here.”

That wasn’t an option. Even he would be slowed by the snow and the rivers, and would have to avoid that first snowfall. Two days traveling there, at the very least, and two days back. He wouldn’t leave her alone for a day. Four was out of the question.

“No,” he said.

“I could survive. It’s warm in the snow house.”

“Not warm enough. Not if you’re alone.” And if anything went wrong, anything at all, she’d have no way of knowing that he wasn’t coming for her—and by then, she might not be strong enough to strike out on her own. “I wouldn’t be able to leave you, anyway.”

She sighed and nodded. “I wouldn’t be able to leave you, either.”

But she’d apparently hoped he would, knowing that she might not make it. His arm tightened around her. “We’ll be all right.”

They couldn’t have left, anyway. It snowed that night and
through the next day. David ventured outside a few times to dig the entrance clear, but spent most of the day in the snow dome, reading to Annika from his journal. The next noon, the snow stopped. He crawled out and looked south. Only a few wisps of steam and ash still rose from the volcano. No animal tracks marked the fresh snow, though he searched through the afternoon for any sign. When he returned to the snow house, they shared the last
piece of flatbread, stuffed their belongings into one pack, and decided to leave the next day.

He couldn’t sleep, though Annika faded quickly. She’d been sleeping often to conserve her energy—or because it was waning. And even when awake, she frequently rested with her eyes closed and a faint smile on her lips.

David held her through the night, listening to her breathe. When she woke, he watched her struggle to moisten her dry lips. They’d been digging up snow, drinking plenty of water. But the lack of food was still taking its toll.

She smiled without opening her eyes. “Just a few more minutes while I dream of you.”

He couldn’t laugh this time. The hungry rumble of her stomach was loud in the small space, and was answered by an agonizing ache in his chest.

His heart was pumping blood that could save her. With a single transfusion, she’d be infected. He had no equipment to do it.

His throat raw, he whispered, “Ready?”

“Yes.”

She wasn’t. She emerged from the short entrance tunnel and swayed to her feet. He caught her waist. Bending over, she braced her hands on her knees, drew deep breaths.

“Just dizzy for a moment. Too long inside, I think.” After a long second, she straightened. “It’s already passed.”

It would only become worse. He looked to the sky, desperately praying for Källa’s balloon to appear in the distance. Nothing but clouds. He wanted to stop now, to send Annika back inside where it was warm, where she could sleep.

But if they didn’t go while she still had strength, they never would.

She gripped the pole they’d used to mark the location, offered it to him. When he shook his head, she nodded. “I’ll walk behind you?”

“Yes.”

With David breaking through the snow ahead of her, they managed a slow, steady pace. He stopped frequently to rest, for Annika to catch her labored breaths. The snow came almost to her knees with every step, and despite the trail he made, despite the strength that allowed her to drive a troll for hours, it was still rough going.

David paused again at two, but not because he’d stopped. Annika had halted behind him, leaning heavily against her pole, the red scarf fluttering. He couldn’t see her smile behind the blue scarf, but knew that she was by the tilt of her eyes, the lift of her cheeks.

“I’m so glad…I have…your boots,” she said breathlessly.

He was, too. “You’re all right?”

“I was just dizzy again. I’m better now.” She glanced toward the sun. “Another hour or two?”

Unable to speak past the ache in his throat, he nodded. He waited for her signal that she was ready before starting off again, listening to the steps behind him, each one seeming to come more slowly than the last. When she paused again a half hour later, gripping her pole, he pointed to the nearest slope.

“We’ll camp on that rise,” he said.

Annika only nodded. Too out of breath to talk.

She didn’t attempt to help him build the snow dome. David thought he’d have to tell her to sit, to let him cut and carry the blocks alone, but she did without a protest, wrapping a blanket around her.

The ragged knot in his chest didn’t ease, even when they were inside. She curled against him beneath her coat. “We did well today,” she said.

“Yes.” Mostly downhill, a relatively easy trek. “Eleven miles, perhaps.”

He felt her nod. Her eyes were already closing. On a yawn, she said, “We’ll find something to eat tomorrow.”

They didn’t. Their tracks remained the only footprints in the snow. They’d rounded the north end of the glacier and were finally
heading south. Boulders and chunks of glacial ice jutted up out of the snow, smoothing out across the valley floor, rising again to the western glacier. Faint tremors shook the ground twice, dislodging bits of snow that rolled into balls before coming to a stop under their own weight. Annika paused more often, but always started again after a minute or two. She fell twice, and regained her feet before he could reach her side. That afternoon, David stopped an hour before the sun had set, terrified that she would walk until she dropped.

The next morning, she did.

He heard the soft
whump!
as she fell. Heart thundering, he plowed back through the snow. She wasn’t getting up this time, wasn’t moving. Voice hoarse, he shouted her name, rolled her onto her back. Her eyes opened. Confusion clouded the brown depths before they cleared.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and sat up, put her hand to her head. “I think I tripped.”

No. She’d fainted. His chest aching, he helped her to her feet, and looked for a place to build a snow dome. They hadn’t planned to stop so early, but she couldn’t continue like this.

They
couldn’t continue like this.

He stared down the valley, across the miles they still had to go. They couldn’t stop now. She wouldn’t be any stronger later. Resolve firmed his jaw. Without a word, he shrugged out of the pack and untied the blankets, and began strapping them to her back.

“David?”

“I’ll carry you behind me.”

“You can’t.”

“I damn well can.” And would. He picked up the pole, crouched in front of her. “On.”

Her voice trembled. “I can stop here while you go ahead—”

“On!”
Fear and determination made it harsh.

But she climbed on. Didn’t argue, didn’t insist she could walk.

She wasn’t heavy, but combined with the pack and the deep
snow, the additional bulk shifted his balance. The pole offered a necessary counterbalance and support. Her arms circled his shoulders, careful not to cut off his breathing. It took a few steps to find his new stride through the snow—slower, but steady.

Twice, she fell asleep, and he held her up with his steel arm angled around behind him. He didn’t stop until orange streaked the western sky, until exhaustion forced him to a halt. He wrapped her in the blankets before building the dome, and knew a moment of utter desolation and panic when he finished and couldn’t wake her. He shook her shoulders, shouting her name, and relief stung his eye with hot tears when her lashes finally fluttered open. He dragged her into the snow house through the tunnel entrance, covered her in their coats. She clung to him, shivering violently, her face against his throat.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t.” So rough, it was all that he could manage.

He must have slept. He woke to the sweet pleasure of her hands cradling his face. With clear eyes, she studied him by the dim light of the lamp, a sad smile curving her lips.

“I love you, David Kentewess.”

Those very words had once filled his heart with utter joy. Spoken now, they stopped it with terror.

He jerked up to sitting, holding her against him when she swayed. “No, Annika.”

“I’ve had so many dreams of you these past few days,” she continued softly. “I’ve lived a lifetime in them.”

“We
will
have a lifetime.” There was no other option. David couldn’t bear any other option. He gripped her arms, gave a little shake. He had to wake her up, make her see. “It will be better than your dreams.”

Her eyelashes fell on a long, slow blink, as if even that was an effort. “Hildegard and my mother will come to Vik. I need you to give her my beads.”

To bury them? Not this. God, please not this. He couldn’t endure it.

“No.”

“David—”

“Don’t you tell me this. Don’t. God, Annika, you can’t ask me to—” The pain splintering in his chest broke his voice. Every breath shuddered, hot and hurting. “I swore that if you left me, I would let you go. But not like this, Annika. Not if you go like this.”

Her breath hitched. With gentle fingers, she wiped the tears from his cheek. “You have to.”

“I can’t!”

His denial thundered in the small dome. She flinched, her shoulders rounding, her body curling in around her stomach as if to hold herself together. Her serene smile crumpled into a desperate, keening sob. “David,
please
. I’m trying to be brave.”

He gave his head a violent shake. “Not for this.”

“I have to be. I have to. I don’t want to end this way, weak and frightened. But I’m so scared. And I don’t want to leave you.”

“Then don’t,” he whispered hoarsely. Then no more words would come, only the helpless anguish as he held her, sobbing in his arms. But she didn’t even have the strength for that. All too soon, she quieted.

She stared up at him, her eyes red, her voice soft. “Everyone has their time, and even rabbits can’t hide when it comes. I have to face it.”

“Not today.” Determined, he reached for her coat. “Not tomorrow.”

“David—”

“Not today, Annika,” he repeated through clenched teeth. “Not tomorrow. Not
any
day, as long as I still live.”

Shoving her into the coat, he wrapped her in a scarf and strapped on the pack. No dragging her through the entrance this time. He
kicked down the side of the dome, hauled her onto his back. She was still strong enough to cling to him.

Every step was an effort. The nanoagents made him stronger, but the strength couldn’t last with nothing to fuel it. He trudged on anyway, fighting past the burning ache in his chest, the muscles that shook when he stopped to rest. A few minutes after noon, her arms fell away from his shoulders. David’s heart didn’t beat again until he felt her thin pulse. Abandoning the pole, he reached behind, bent over and held her against his back. He trudged on.