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since he’d said good-bye to Nat, and during that time he had searched for Eliza. There had been leads here and there, but none of them had led to his sister.
    He shivered.
    Wes pushed Nat from his thoughts.
    The road ahead was open, the track clear. Black pavement stretched in front of him. Wes opened up the gas and floored it, exhilarated from the speed and adrenaline. As he rounded the turn, he saw a mechanic in an orange heat suit waving the checkered flag to signal the end of the race. The finish line was near.
    But there was no car in front of him.
    Ice. I hadn’t meant to do that.
    He was about to win the race. He’d let his memory of Nat distract him, and now he was still ahead of the other drivers. His opponents—the heat elite, the global execs and the RSA stooges, the casino lords and gangsters, the rich boys from the heated dome cities—were so inept at driving that he had won without even trying.
    Godfreezeit!
he cursed, and Wes didn’t like cursing. His mother had taught him better. He needed to lose, and he needed to lose now. If he won the race, he wouldn’t get paid—not one freezing watt. Those were the rules.
    The white Lamborghini flew past him, sending a shower of snow against his windshield once again.
Cretin.
Wes let off the gas a little—he couldn’t be too obvious—but he needed to get out of the race and he needed to do it soon. He slammed the brake and his car spun, sideswiping the Lamborghini. Two more cars came flying around the bend, the pair of black Ferraris turning sharply to avoid Wes and the Lamborghini as they careened wildly across the track. But their efforts came to no avail, as the pair rolled over each other and crashed into the embankment. A blue Porsche ran past, gunning to win, but it was too late, and it, too, collided with the Mustang in a flash of blue and a burst of snow. As Wes finally spun to a halt, a black Corvette shrieked across the finish line.
    The race was over.
    Wes’s car skidded into the off-road portion of the track, crashing into a flimsy barrier with an awkward bang. He pushed himself out through the driver’s window and fell onto the fresh powder, laughing a little, relishing the look of the other drivers, especially that icehole in the Lamborghini. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed. Ruining the race for some heatbag was the closest thing Wes had to enjoyment, but his laughter faded quickly. The driver of the white Lamborghini was already running toward the control box, complaining to the track manager about Wes’s last-minute maneuver.
    Wes shook the snow from his hair. It didn’t matter. He had done what was required of him. He would get paid. He would eat tonight.
    His back was sore from the impact; the injuries hurt more than he let on. Lately the ice had been getting to him. He felt it in his joints every morning and when he lay awake at night, dreaming of the ocean, his every muscle aching, his mind unable to rest.
    Nat was out there somewhere. The nets were full of stories of ocean attacks and images of the creature that was systematically destroying the RSA’s armada. First the entire Pacific fleet, then the Atlantic cruisers; now a newly formed battalion of grayhawks and supercarriers was rumored to be headed to New Pangaea to meet the monster head-on. Was that what he’d seen? Was that where she was?
    He’d left Nat because he had to, but now he wasn’t so certain. She was all alone, one drakonrydder against many drones. He hadn’t seen any backup, no sylvan archers, no warriors on horseback. Just Nat and her drakon against the might of the RSA.
    Wes pushed his way through the snow, avoiding the other drivers, the victor as well as the losers. He was done for the night. His account would register the watts in a few minutes. When the money arrived, he’d have enough heat for a meal, a drink, maybe two; maybe he’d even be able to share that meal.