by David Estes
Tossing the gun aside I charge forward and kick his bland face with my heel. He slumps to the side, his own weapon discarded by his weakened fingers. I’ve done it this time. Saved him—saved my father. But I know something’s not right as I realize my sister isn’t by his side like she should be.
As I lean over the face of the man who I immediately know is not my father, the Devil’s eyes flash open, the gateway to a black and soulless human shell.
“Didn’t you know?” the President says. “Your father’s already dead. And you’re next.”
My heart is in my throat as the demon lifts his hand, which is now holding a long glinting sword with a diamond-encrusted hilt, which I either didn’t notice before or which has magically appeared.
As his white-knuckled hand darts forward, I scream. Although I don’t close my eyes, blackness surrounds.
* * *
I’m still screaming and seeing darkness when a pair of strong arms cradles my head. “Shh,” a voice says.
I quiet but I’m still breathing hard, panting like I’ve just run a long way, my chest heaving. An instant later there’s a soft glow as a lantern is lit, casting dancing shadows on the rough, brown tunnel walls. Tristan’s arm is still behind my head, and when he sees me looking at him, he retracts it quickly, his face flush with embarrassment. “You were dreaming,” he says. “I heard you cry out.”
I close my eyes, willing the frantic pace of my heart to slow. As Tristan’s father pointed out in my nightmare, my father’s still dead—nothing can change that. No amount of fresh killing or revenge or trigger pulls will make one bit of difference. And yet the furnace of revenge burns hotly in the pit of my stomach. Kill his father. Kill the President.
I open my eyes and, despite my vengeful thoughts, say, “I’m tired of all the death.”
Tristan’s face worries its way to a tight smile. “Only one more person has to die, right?” The ever-present buzz whenever Tristan is near me hums along my scalp and down my spine. The urge to get as close to him as possible tugs at my arms, but I hide it well, not even flinching.
Even after the disturbing nightmare, I can’t help but grin when I’m talking to him. “Yeah, just your dad—hope you don’t mind.”
He laughs. “He’s no one’s father.”
“Not even Killen’s?”
“Especially not Killen’s,” he says. “We were only ever puppets to him, used to do his dirty work, nothing more.”
It saddens me to hear Tristan talk like that, but I know it’s true. I’d rather have a dead father than a living one like his. I sigh, wishing I had the same boldness now as when I kissed him back in the Moon Realm.
“What was your dream about?” he asks.
I tell him, watching as his hands tighten into fists, curling and uncurling with each sentence. When I finish, I say, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it when the time comes.”
“You’re strong, Adele. I’ve seen it time and time again,” he says, his dark blue eyes never leaving mine.
“Does it take strength to kill?” I ask, almost to myself. “Is that what makes your father strong?”
His hands relax and he folds them in his lap. “It takes strength to defeat evil,” he says wisely. “In any case, I won’t mind being the one to do it when the time comes.”
Despite his more relaxed posture, there’s a thirst for blood in his eyes that I’ve never seen before, which both scares and comforts me. Changing the subject, I say, “So what’s with you and Ram?” I’ve been itching to ask Tristan about his strange relationship with the dark-skinned gargantuan who’s part of our merry little death squad.
“What do you mean?” Tristan says, his eyes giving away his hidden laugh.
“Umm, I don’t know…maybe the fact that he threatened to kill you at the council meeting, and you seemed to find it funny. Does that ring a bell?”
Tristan’s laugh finally presents itself, lighting up his face. I bask in it for a moment as I wait for him to respond. “Let’s just say our friendship has had its ups and downs. Right now we’re on an up.”
I want to ask more but hate to be nosy. And I’m sure Roc knows and I can just ask him later; that is, if I can pull him away from Tawni for a few minutes. Since Roc expressed his interest in my tall white-haired friend the two of them have been practically inseparable.
We’re both quiet for a few minutes, but it’s not awkward, which is one of the things I like about Tristan. Just being near him feels right. It’s been that way since I met him. It’s like all the nerves and nodes and synapses in our bodies thrive on our nearness. At least that’s how it is for me, and how I hope it is for Tristan.
He must be thinking the same thing because he says, “Isn’t it weird that we’re here together?” He laughs and I’m silent, but I know exactly what he means. We saw each other across barren rock, through a barbed-wire, electrified fence, past hordes of his screaming, undergarment-throwing, adoring fans—me in freaking prison and him the prized attraction in a parade—and yet here we are, together; like together together. Weird is the perfect word for it.
“Have you ever thought that maybe it’s more than just coincidence?” he says, his eyebrows question marks.
“Like fate?” I say, trying to hide my surprise at his question. I haven’t told him what my mom said to me before we left the Moon Realm.
It was no accident that you and Tristan met.
“Maybe. I dunno. Something like that.”
My thoughts are coming fast. In my world, the only fate is illness or death. We don’t have much else. However, from the time I laid eyes on Tristan in the flesh, I have felt an indescribable pull toward him, like someone wants us to be together. But despite my mom’s declaration that it wasn’t an accident that we met, there’s no logical explanation for any of it, which doesn’t work for my pragmatic mind. I shake my head. “I don’t think so. It’s just plain random chance.”
It’s no accident that you and Tristan met.
Tristan frowns. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
I stop breathing. Here it comes. For a while now I’ve felt there was something he was holding back, something big—maybe life-changing.
“Did I ever tell you that I fainted once thinking about you?”
Huh? That’s the mind-blowing secret? What does that even mean? “Umm…” Well. Hmm. No?
“I did. Roc and I were training, fighting with wooden swords. This was shortly after I saw you for the first time, mind you. The fight was over and your face popped into my head…” He ducks his head sheepishly and sort of cringes, like he’s wondering why he decided to tell me this, but knows he can’t go back now. “And, well, I passed out right then. In the time between fainting and Roc waking me up, I dreamt that my father murdered you right in front of me. It was creepy.”
My head is spinning. Why is he telling me this? So I made him faint? I don’t know what to say, but he’s not done yet.
“Then I nearly passed out again when I saw you the second time, when you were trying to break out of the Pen.”
I can’t help but laugh now. “Are you sure it wasn’t the fumes from the bombs blowing up all over the place?”
His face is dead serious. “No, it was you. I had a physical reaction to seeing you, almost like my body couldn’t handle it.”
This is definitely not the direction I thought the conversation was going. “I didn’t take many baths while in the Pen so normally I would guess it was my body odor that caused it, but I had just showered that day, so that can’t be it…” I joke.
“Perhaps it was your remarkable beauty,” Tristan says, and I feel my face go warm right away.
“Knock it off, charmer, I thought you were being serious.”
“I was being serious,” he says, which doesn’t help stem my flush.
“Look, you probably just hadn’t eaten in a while, or were dehydrated both times,” I say, trying to steer the conversation away from what he thinks of my looks.
He tilt
s his head to the side, his eyes wandering to the tunnel ceiling. “That’s possible…” he says, but I know he doesn’t really think so.
When he looks back at me, I see resolution in his eyes. Although we’re already sitting close to each other, he slides closer, right next to me. The normal strength of my pull toward him is super-charged, and the only desire I have is to hold him, to be held by him. He must feel the same way, because his arm curls around the back of my neck, dragging my head to his chest. I can feel the warm caress of his breath on the back of my neck, the electricity of his skin as his arm gently presses against mine.
“This is the good part of life,” he says, and I sigh, although I shouldn’t. Not when my dad is dead, my sister maimed. Cole. No, I don’t deserve this, I think. Not now. Not until the President is dead. Maybe never.
Going against every instinct, I unwind my body from Tristan’s grasp, stand up, and walk away with the lantern in tow, wishing I didn’t have to.
“I’ve got to get rid of this gun,” I say over my shoulder, plucking the gun my mom gave me—the gun I failed to save my father with—out from beneath my tunic.