ICE COUNTRY

A Dwellers Saga Sister Novel

Book Two of the Country Saga

David Estes

Published by David Estes at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 David Estes

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personalenjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away toother people. If you would like to share this book with anotherperson, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Ifyou’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was notpurchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.comand purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard workof this author.

Discover other exciting titles by David Estesavailable through the author’s official website:

http://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com

or through select online retailers.

Young-Adult Books by David Estes

The Dwellers Saga:

Book One—The Moon Dwellers

Book Two—The Star Dwellers

Book Three—The Sun Dwellers

Book Four—The Earth Dwellers (ComingSeptember 2013!)

The Country Saga by David Estes (A sisterseries to The Dwellers Saga):

Book One—Fire Country

Book Two—Ice Country

Book Three—Water & Storm Country (ComingJune 7, 2013!)

The Evolution Trilogy:

Book One—Angel Evolution

Book Two—Demon Evolution

Book Three—Archangel Evolution

Children’s Books by David Estes

The Nikki Powergloves Adventures:

Nikki Powergloves- A Hero is Born

Nikki Powergloves and the Power Council

Nikki Powergloves and the Power Trappers

Nikki Powergloves and the Great Adventure

Nikki Powergloves vs. the Power Outlaws(Coming in 2013!)

This book is dedicated to my incredible teamof beta readers.

Your kindness, selflessness, and gentlyhonest feedback

has helped craft this series more than youmay realize.

Chapter One

It all starts with agirl. Nay, more like a witch. An evil witch, disguised as a youngseventeen-year-old princess, complete with a cute button nose, fullred lips, long dark eyelashes, and deep, mesmerizing baby blues.Not a real, magic-wielding witch, but a witch just the same.

Oh yah, and a really good throwing arm. “Getout!” she screams, flinging yet another ceramic vase in my generaldirection.

I duck and it rebounds off the wall, notshattering until it hits the shiny marble floor. Thousands ofvase-crumbles crunch under my feet as I scramble for the door. Ifling it open and slip through, slamming it hard behind me. Just intime, too, as I hear the thud of something heavy on the other side.Evidently she’s taken to throwing something new, maybe boots orperhaps herself.

Luckily, her father’s not home, or he’dprobably be throwing things too. After all, he warned his daughterabout Brown District boys.

Taking a deep breath, I cringe as a spout ofobscenities shrieks through the painted-red door and whirls aroundmy head, stinging me in a dozen places. You’d think I wasthe one who ran around with a four-toed eighteen-year-old womanizernamed LaRoy. (That’s LaRoy with a “La”, as he likes to say.) As itturns out, I think LaRoy has softer hands than she does.

As I slink away from the witch’s upscaleresidence licking my wounds, I try to figure out where the chill Iwent wrong. Despite her constant insults, narrow-mindedness, andniggling reminders of how I am nothing more than a lazy,liquid-ice-drinking, no-good scoundrel, I think I managed to treather pretty well. I was faithful, always there for her—not once wasI employed while courting her—and known on occasion to show up ather door with gifts, like snowflake flowers or frosty delights fromGobbler’s Bakery down the road. She said the flowers made her feelinadequate, on account of them being too beautiful—as if there wassuch a thing—and the frosty’s, well, she said I gave them to her tomake her fat.

She was my first ever girlfriend from theWhite District. I should’ve listened to my best friend, Buff, whenhe said it would end in disaster.

Now I wish I hadn’t wasted my gamblingwinnings on the likes of her.

In fact, it was just yesterday morning when Ilast stopped by to deliver some sweet treats, only to hear theobvious sounds of giggling and flirting wafting through the redwood of her father’s elegant front door. Needless to say, I was onthe wrong side of things, and much to my frustration the door wasbarred by something heavy.

So I waited.

And waited.

After about three hours her father returnedhome, and soft-hands LaRoy emerged looking more pleased withhimself than a young child taking its first step. In much less timethan it took for the witch to put the smile on his face, I wiped itoff, using a couple of handfuls of ever-present snow and myrougher-than-bark hands. I capped him off with matching black eyesand a slightly crooked, heavily bleeding nose. He screamed like agirl and ran away crying tears that froze on his cheeks well beforethey made it to his chin.

Hence the big-time breakup today.

Best of luck, witch, I hope crooked-nosedLaRoy makes you very happy.

Why do I always pick the wrong kinds ofgirls? Answer: because the wrong kinds of girls usually pickme.

Since my formal schooling ended when I wasfourteen, I’ve had a total of three girlfriends, one each year.None ended well, as endings usually go.

Walking down the snow-covered street, Imumble curses at the beautiful stone houses on either side. TheWhite District, full of the best and the richest people in icecountry. And the witch, too, of course, the latest girl to add tomy so-not-worth-the-time-and-effort list.

I pull my collar tight against the icy wind,and head for my other girlfriend’s place, Fro-Yo’s, a local pubwith less atmosphere than booze, where a mug of liquid ice willcost you less than a minute’s pay and the rest of your day. Okay,the pub’s not really my girlfriend, but sometimes I wish it was.I’ve been drinking there since I turned sixteen and passed the “ageof responsibility”.

Although it’s barely midmorning, Fro’s isopen and full of customers. But then again, the pub is always openand full of customers. We might not have jobs, but we’ll supportYo, the pub owner, just the same.

Snow is piled up in drifts against the grayblock-cut stone of the pubhouse, recently shoveled after lastnight’s dumping. Yo’s handiman, Grimes, is hunched against the windwith a shovel, clearing away the last of it along the side, leavinga slip-free path to the outhouse, which will be essential later on,when half the joint gets up at the same time to relieve themselves.There are two things that don’t mix: liquid ice and real ice. I’veseen more broken bones and near broken necks than I’d like aroundthis place.

“Mornin’, Grimes,” I say as I pass.

Grimes doesn’t look up, his matted gray haira dangling mess of moisture and grease, but mumbles something thatsounds a lot like, “Icin’ neverendin’ colder’n chill night storms…”I think there’s more but I stop listening when he starts swearing.I’ve had enough of that for one day. And yet, I push through thedoor of the obscenity capital of ice country.