King and Kingdom by Danielle Bourdon Page B

were on fire, more people were trapped between the boats under heavy pieces of wharf that had snapped like sticks under the weight of the collision. Sander and Wynn were nowhere to be seen. Several people were burned, more were unconscious, and still more floated in the water, flailing and crying. At some point, snow had started to fall, painting the scene in a surreal swirl of flakes and haze.
    She darted between smoking pieces of rubber, around a slab of demolished wood, and down into a crack in the dock. Hopping from one piece to the next, she gripped the sections, thankful for the gloves still on her hands, and slipped closer to the water. Without dipping even one toe in, Chey knew it must be frigid. Those in the water wouldn't last long at all.
    “Hey! Swim over here. Grab this!” She tugged a length of loose pipe free and extended the end toward a struggling swimmer. It wasn't much to hold onto, but other than shredded wood, there wasn't anything else to use. All Chey could see was a shock of wet, red hair, red eyebrows and a wealth of freckles. The splashing woman fought her way closer to the dock, hindered by heavy winter clothes. A nondescript coat weighed down her arms while the ragged end of a scarf trailed on the surface. She went under twice, causing Chey to consider actually going in after her. The tenacious survivor resurfaced both times, fighting her way toward the pipe.
    “Good, good, just grab the end and I'll pull you in.” Chey shouted to be heard over the roar of fire somewhere to her left and the din of panicked voices calling out into the day.
    The woman reached for the pipe and missed. Teeth chattering, a gust of breath rushed from between lips beginning to turn blue from the cold. She surged and reached. Missed again.
    “You've almost got it. Come on!” Chey allowed herself to skid another foot closer to the water. At the sharp angle of the collapsed dock, she was on the verge of falling in herself. Clinging as best she could to an edge, she leaned further, the end of the pipe wavering just out of reach of the swimmer. Finally, the woman grabbed hold.
    Chey hauled her in, bracing her feet and using the grip on the dock as leverage. The soggy coat felt like wet carpet, heavy and awkward to maneuver. Chey went hand over hand, grabbing a sleeve, the lapel, whatever she could to bring the woman to safety. Grunting, breath freezing in her lungs, Chey twisted her body to make room. The redhead flopped down, gasping and wheezing.
    “You climb up right here. Take the pipe if you need help,” Chey said. She decided to come behind the woman and push instead of pull. If she lost her grip, the lady might wind up right back in the water again. Chey put all her weight into providing leverage while the woman sought a more level section of dock.
    It was precarious going, with several setbacks, before the woman made it up to a point where waiting men could haul her the rest of the way.
    Slipping on the damp, slick wood, Chey sought a better hold. Her face felt numb, like her hands, which didn't want to grip things with the strength of even five minutes ago.
    A fisherman leaned over the crack above, beanie askew on his head, beard so thick it obscured his mouth. He shouted at Chey and made 'come here' gestures.
    She scrambled up the wood, or felt like she scrambled. In reality, she realized she was barely moving. How had the wet woman done it? She must have been twice as cold and even more immobile than Chey.
    The dock cracked.
    Chey slipped further. Her feet, then her legs, went into the water. The angle of the damaged wharf was too steep, too slippery. She couldn't get traction and had nothing else to hold onto. The water was even colder than she imagined it would be. Needles of ice pierced her calves and thighs and seeped down into her boots.
    The fisherman shouldered out of his coat, tossed it aside. He peeled out of his suspenders and dangled them down to her, keeping a tight grip through one loop. Flat on