“I’ll go first,” he said, already testing the nearest handhold. “Test the anchors and set up a safety line.”
“Shouldn’t I go first?” Rue gestured to herself. “I’m lighter. If something gives way?—”
“No.” The word came out sharper than he intended. He softened his tone. “Your ankle needs to hold your weight, not mine if I fall. I’ll secure the line for you.”
She looked like she wanted to argue, but finally nodded and slid off his glove, handing it back to him. “Fine. But be careful. Those anchors could be compromised after sitting in ice for who knows how long.”
He clipped into the first anchor, testing it with a firm tug. It held. The rope from the cache was a godsend—new enough to trust with their lives. He secured it to his harness and looked up.
This was going to suck.
twenty-one
The first twentyfeet weren’t bad. The handholds were solid, the anchors secure. But as he climbed higher, the ice became more brittle, forcing him to test each grip before committing his weight. His muscles burned with the effort, and his bare hand grew numb against the frozen surface.
Forty feet up, he paused to catch his breath. Sweat trickled down his spine despite the cold, immediately chilling against his skin. Below, Rue watched his progress, her headlamp beam tracking his movements.
“How’s it looking?” she called up.
“Doable,” he replied, though his shoulder screamed with every pull. The fall had done more damage than he’d admitted, but there was no point in complaining now. The only way out was up.
“I’m coming,” Rue called and clipped into the first anchor.
He watched her climb with his heart in his throat, noticing how she favored her right side. The ankle was worse than she’d let on—of course it was. Rue never admitted when she was hurt until she physically couldn’t stand anymore. It was both infuriating and admirable, like everything else about her.
“Take it slow,” he called down, though he knew it was useless. Rue Bristow had never taken anything slow in her life.
She moved with surprising grace despite the injury, her body finding natural rhythms in the ice that he’d struggled to locate. Where he had muscled his way up, she flowed, conserving energy with each precise movement. Even injured and freezing, she made climbing look like a dance.
“How’s the ankle?” he asked when she reached the anchor point just below him.
“It’s attached,” she quipped, her breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. “Which is more than I can say for some of these handholds.”
A chunk of ice broke away from her grip, tumbling into the darkness below. The sound of it shattering echoed through the chamber, reminding him just how far they’d have to fall.
“Next anchor’s about six feet up,” he said, pointing. “The ice gets thinner. Test everything.”
She nodded and continued upward, following his path. Elliot resumed his own climb, hyperaware of every sound she made beneath him. The scrape of her boot against ice, the soft grunt of effort when she reached for a difficult hold, the creak of her harness as she adjusted her weight. His own body protested each movement, his knee threatening to buckle every time he put weight on it, but he pushed through the pain. He had to keep going. For both of them.
They climbed like that for what felt like hours. The muscles in his shoulders screamed, and blood from a cut on his forehead trickled down, stinging his left eye. At some point, his boot slipped, and for one heart-stopping moment, he dangled by a single hand, the pain in his wrist white-hot. Rue was beside him in an instant, one leg braced against the wall, the other hooking around his torso in a half-bear hug.
“Got you,” she said through gritted teeth, her voice strained with effort.
The warmth of her body pressed against his sent a shock of relief through his system, even as he scrambled to regain his footing. Her leg muscles trembled with the strain of supporting both their weights, and he could feel her breathing hard against his shoulder.
“Thanks,” he managed, finding purchase on the ice again. His wrist throbbed where he’d caught himself, already swelling inside his glove.
“Don’t mention it.” She released him slowly, making sure he was stable before letting go completely. “Though next time, maybe give me a heads up before you decide to take flying lessons.”
The casual joke didn’t hide the worry in her voice. He’d scared her—scared himself, too. One slip like that could end everything.
They continued upward, but the ice grew increasingly unstable. What had seemed solid from below revealed itself to be little more than a crystalline shell over empty space. Twice, handholds crumbled under his grip, sending cascades of razor-sharp fragments into the abyss below.
His headlamp beam caught something above—a different quality of darkness that made his pulse quicken with hope. “I think I see the surface,” he called down.
The final twenty feet were the worst. The shaft narrowed forcing them to press their backs against one wall and their feet against the other. Elliot’s muscles trembled with the effort of maintaining the awkward position.
“Chimney technique,” Rue called up, her voice strained but steady. “Just like Devil’s Tower, remember?”
