“Elsey’s safe. We have to move.”
Tawni helps me get Tristan to his feet, and I’m about to rope one of his arms around my shoulders when I hear a shout. “You’re not going anywhere!” Killen roars, striding toward me. He probably thinks I’m just a normal, weak girl.
I forearm him in the face and use a sweep kick to trip him up. Still full of rage because of everything that’s happened, I add a couple of kicks to the skull for good measure and to ensure he doesn’t come after us.
I turn my attention back to Tristan, who’s swaying and looks like he might collapse, or vomit, or both, at any second. Tawni is helping Tristan’s friend get to his feet.
The guards that weren’t killed by the bomb are pushing to their knees, trying to regain their feet. I have the urge to pick up one of their dropped weapons, blast them to pieces.
I take a deep breath and the urge passes. I settle on kicking each of them in the ribs so they collapse back on their stomachs.
We hobble away in tandem, just a couple of four-legged, four-armed, two-headed beasts. Me and Tristan. Tawni and Tristan’s friend. As Tawni leads, I remember. “What about Cole?” I say, my eyes welling up once more. I choke, trying to get the words out. “I mean—his body.”
“Adele, we can’t,” Tawni says, her eyes full of compassion. Unlike me, she isn’t crying, isn’t emotional. I don’t understand how she can be so strong when her best friend has been brutally murdered right in front of us.
“But how are you—”
“I’m not okay, Adele. Not even close. I just can’t think about it right now. Please.”
I understand. Somehow she’s blocking out the pain, the anguish, everything. I wish I could do the same.
We get to the stairs and descend from the train platform. Thick, chemically smoke stings my eyes and the smell of fire burns my nose. The station is on the edge of the city, so we’re able to slip down a deserted street and get lost in the maze of intersections. Well, I’m lost. Tawni seems to know exactly where we’re going.
Thankfully, it’s a short trip, because Tristan and his friend are moving painfully slow and getting slower by the minute. We reach a nondescript building with a black door. Bodies are strewn on the street outside. The stone road is all torn up in chunks.
Tawni stops.
“What is this place?” I ask, eyeing the bodies, my stomach threatening to heave.
Tawni shrugs. “Don’t know. The door was wide open. No one was inside. I think…” She doesn’t have to say the rest. They’re all dead. They must’ve been outside when the bombing started, got caught with nothing to protect them. Why are the Star Dwellers doing this?
She helps Tristan’s friend limp up to the door, and knocks firmly three times. A second later the door opens.
“Adele!” Elsey wails, seeing my disheveled appearance and bruised skull. It probably doesn’t help that I’m covered in blood from the cuts on Tristan’s head, which is slumped on my shoulder. I’m a mess.
“I’m fine, El, but these guys need medical attention.”
“I found supplies,” Elsey says, holding the door and letting us pass. When we’re all in, she says, “There’s a basement. We should be safe from the bombing there. Follow me.”
We follow my stalwart sister down a hall to a landing, where crumbling steps lead downwards. She lights a thick candle, which is good, because otherwise we’ll surely break our necks on the crooked, uneven staircase.
The room at the bottom is like a tomb, surrounded by heavy stone block walls. Another candle sits in the corner, shedding soft yellow light on the room.
I’m not sure how she did it all so fast, but Elsey has managed to prepare for our arrival. She has almost everything we need: towels, a bowl of water, some kind of paint-on antiseptic in a black jar, long, thick bandages, crispy wafers for eating, more jugs of water. She’s even managed to find a couple of pillows and two thin mattresses to make things more comfortable for the wounded.
I help Tristan lie on his back and Tawni does the same for his friend. They both groan as they settle in. I know nothing about first aid, but Tawni seems to have it covered.
Inspecting their wounds, she says, “You’re going to be just fine.”
She begins working with what Elsey has provided, wetting a couple of towels and handing one to me. I try to mimic her gentle cleaning motions. Tristan’s friend almost seems soothed by the wet towel, but when I touch Tristan he stiffens. My arm stiffens, too, as pressure builds in my head. It’s different now, though, less intense, as if my body is adjusting to whatever force Tristan is using against me.
I go about cleaning his face first. He has a deep cut above his right eye, which has bled all down his face. Although I’m cleaning all around his eyes, he keeps them open, watching me. His gaze is electric, powerful, and although I try to focus on what I’m doing, my gaze keeps flitting back to his royal blue eyes. Each time they do, I feel more and more drawn to him. It’s the weirdest thing: although neither of us says a word, it feels like we’re getting to know each other, getting comfortable together.
Every time I touch him, even through the wet cloth, bursts and zings of pain shoot up my spine.
The swelling in his face is getting worse, his cheeks puffy, his eyes half-closed. Nothing I can do about that. Time will have to heal his wounds.
I finish with his face and move on to his leg. I’m not sure how to go about it. He’s wearing filthy black pants that look like they’ve been through a war. There’s a long slice in the fabric from his upper thigh to his knee. Between the shredded flaps of cloth I can see a wicked red gash. If I clean the wound through the hole in his pants, it will be too hard to bandage it. There’s really no choice. My face warms as I feel Tristan watching me examine him. I can sense that he’s reading my mind, coming to the same conclusion as me.
I don’t say anything, continuing to “get to know him” without words. I tug at his pants, but they won’t budge because he’s lying on them. Kindly, he lifts his hips, grimacing slightly, and I’m able to pull them off. Thankfully, his dark tunic is reasonably long, covering his undergarments. His legs are long and strong—sinewy muscles run down them. I’m no expert, but I’d say he has really good legs.
Ignoring the flush I feel in my cheeks, and hoping Tristan can’t see it in the dim lighting, I focus on cleaning out the wound. Fresh red blood wells from his skin as I wipe away the dark blood that has congealed on the surface, but I manage to stop the bleeding by applying pressure for a few minutes.
“I’ll do your back after we bandage everything on the front,” I say.
He dips his head in a slight nod, still staring at me. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
Tawni is already finished with Tristan’s friend, whose face is as bad as Tristan’s, but who doesn’t have the added leg and back wounds. She shows me how to apply the antiseptic and helps me bandage his leg. I might’ve felt somewhat jealous when she touches him, but her movements are so professional that it doesn’t bother me at all.
Time for more embarrassment.
“Sit up,” Tawni says, putting an arm behind Tristan’s back. I follow suit, helping to push him forward from the other side. “Arms over your head.”
Obediently, Tristan raises both arms. Robotically, she pulls his shirt off.
I do everything in my power to maintain an indifferent expression when I see his body. Inside I’m thinking wowowowow! His chest and shoulders are sculpted from years of training, his stomach flat and hard—his back looks as if it’s been chiseled from stone, but is mottled with scars—from training I guess. A vicious slash runs diagonally across it, from his right shoulder to his left hip. It’s deeper than the cut on his leg, but not bleeding as much.
He flips over onto his stomach with a grunt, and we get to work cleaning the wound. After applying a generous coating of antiseptic, we bandage his skin, wrapping the cloth around his entire chest to provide support as it heals.
I notice a thumb-size, crescent scar toward the top
of his back, directly on his spine. It looks different than the others, more fresh, more interesting. I want to ask how he got it, but my mouth won’t open.
Finished, Tawni says, “You’ll need to change these every couple of days.”
Finally, Tristan’s friend speaks. “Oh, I don’t think he’ll mind that at all,” he says with a wink. Or at least I think it’s a wink—it’s hard to tell on his battered face.
“Shut it, Roc!” Tristan hisses. Beneath the purple and black of his deeply bruised face, I think I detect a hint of pink added to the palette of colors. I wonder what the son of the president has to be embarrassed about. Not much, I expect.
“Roc—is that your name?” Tawni asks.
“It’s what my mother called me,” Tristan’s friend replies. “I’m Tristan’s best friend, I mean, servant, I mean, only friend.” Roc half-laughs and then cringes from the pain.
“Thank you for your input, Roc,” Tristan says.
“My pleasure, your majesty.”
I find their banter enjoyable, especially after the events of the day being so dark and heavy. It’s a welcome break from it all. But it can’t last.
“Where’s Cole?” Elsey says suddenly.
Everything flashes back into my mind. Rivet’s snarl; the violent way in which he broke Cole’s neck; the sickening crunch of bones; leaving our friend’s body out there, not giving him the respectful burial he deserves. Tears well up again. I’m really getting tired of all the crying.
My reaction is nothing compared to Tawni’s, though. She bursts into tears, throws herself on the floor, weeps into her hands, her body shuddering and shaking. I want to cry, too, to let it all out—or whatever is left of it—one more time. But I know I have to be strong for my friend, like she was for me earlier. It’s her turn to grieve.
I crawl over to her side, sit by her, rub her back tenderly, stroke my hand through her hair. “Shhh. It’ll be okay, Tawni. He’s in a better place now—with his family again.” I don’t know why I say it—I’m not even sure I believe it—but I guess I want to believe it. It’s what Cole deserves: relief from all his subearthly pain.
I glance at Elsey, whose face is stricken, her mouth contorted and her eyes sharp, and say, “El, I’m sorry, but he didn’t make it.”
She looks like she wants to cry but she doesn’t, not so much as a single tear. Even growing up, she was never much of a crier. If she got hurt or disappointed she’d always just go silent, preferring to keep her emotions on the inside. That’s what she does now, shifting to the corner, hugging her knees, staring into empty space.
“Thank you for your help, and I’m so sorry about your friend,” Tristan says. “If we hadn’t chased after you, maybe he would have survived. I feel responsible.”
“No!” I say fiercely. Tristan isn’t going to take the blame for this. Rivet’s the one to blame, and whoever sent him after us—the president, or his advisors, or whoever. “It wasn’t your fault. You tried to help us.”
“We just got in the way,” Tristan says softly, lowering his head.
I shake my head. “This is our life,” I say. “As Moon Dwellers it doesn’t seem to matter who does what, it always ends in tragedy.” Even I am surprised by my words. They sound so defeatist. Perhaps because I feel defeated.
“Maybe we can change things,” Roc says.
“How?” I say blankly. Change is so far from my mind I can barely even focus on it; I’m just trying to survive.
Tristan says, “Use my reach. I might not act like my father, but I’m well known across the Tri-Realms. If I can convince others to join the cause, maybe we can change things.”
“The cause?” I say. “What cause? All I see are Star Dwellers blowing up Moon Dwellers, Moon Dwellers acting like sheep, Sun Dwellers ruling over all. There is no cause.” I am starting to annoy even myself with my pessimism. Snap out of it! I scream in my head.
“We are the cause,” Tristan says. “That is, if we want to be.”
“We?” I say. My mind is racing. My sister is in a faraway place, Tawni is a mess, and I’m talking to two guys, who’ve been beaten to a pulp, about a revolution. This is not at all how I expected things to go with Tristan. I haven’t even had a chance to ask him about why I’ve got a headache again—a headache caused by him.
“Well, I don’t know, we haven’t really thought much about it yet,” Tristan says.
Great, I think. I’m joining an ill-planned revolution now.
“Look, guys, I appreciate what you want to do, but I’m just trying to find my parents.”
“In Camp Blood and Stone?” Tristan asks.
I freeze. “Yes, how do you know that?”
“I know a lot of things. You know, because I’m the president’s son and all.”
“Well, we’re going to be leaving soon to rescue my dad, so…”
“We’re coming with you,” Tristan says.
Coming with me? Why would he do that? Why would he even offer? Here he is talking about revolutions and changing the world, and he’s willing to risk his life to help a random Moon Dweller, who happens to be an escaped convict, rescue her father from a secure prison where he’s being held on charges of treason? I just don’t understand.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because…because…”
“Because he’s been chasing you all over the Moon Realm—of course he’s gonna do it!” Roc exclaims.
“Chasing me? But…but…” I’m about to ask why, but I already know the answer. I’ve known it the whole time, but chose to ignore it.
He feels pain when he’s near me, too.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tristan
Things get pretty awkward after that. No one really speaks, and I barely make eye contact with anyone. Adele’s friend, Tawni, eventually stops crying and we all agree that we need to sleep. Adele and her sister go and find a few more thin pads to sleep on.
My leg and back are throbbing, but their pain is nothing compared to the endless thudding in my head. I can’t help wondering whether it’s from the beating my brother’s goons gave me, or from being near Adele.
When Adele and Elsey return with the sleeping pads, her embarrassment is clear and red on her face. There isn’t much space to stretch out, so we’ll have to cram tightly together.
Does she want to sleep next to me? I hope so. Don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not thinking about trying anything with her—I’m not that kind of guy, plus the room is like a sardine can and I’m in no condition to do more than lie in one place. Consider it more of an experiment. I want to see if my body can handle being near her for an extended period of time.
Tawni seems to know it, too, which only seems to redden Adele’s face further, as Tawni lays her mat near the edge of the room, against the wall. Roc seems to sense the unspoken plan, too, pulling his mattress to the opposing wall, leaving plenty of space. The bastard smirks the whole time he’s doing it.
That leaves Adele, me, and Elsey. Adele could position Elsey in the middle, between Adele and I.
She doesn’t.
“Here you go, El,” she says, helping her sister lay out her pad next to Tawni. She places hers next to mine, while I fill the gap between Roc and her. She leaves the candle to burn itself out.
She sits down slowly and cautiously, as if taking significant care not to accidentally brush past me. She stretches out stiffly, lowering her knees and head to the floor in jerky motions. I lie like a dead person, staring at the ceiling. I’m acutely aware when Adele sprawls out next to me, mere inches from my body. The pain builds in my head and I rub at my temples absently.
Everyone else seems to fall asleep immediately, exhausted from one of the longest days of our lives. I can hear heavy breathing on all sides. I can’t sleep, though. Not with her so close to me. I can’t manage to deepen my breaths, or relax my body, or even close my eyes: all the standard requirements for sleep. The throbbing is still too intense for sleep. So I just lie as still as a stone, my eyes glued t
o the ceiling, which is getting dimmer by the minute as the candle’s wax melts away.
After an hour I’m getting worried I’ll be up the whole night. A lot of good that will do me when my body’s trying to recover so we can break Adele’s father out of jail. So I try to sleep, try to forget who’s sleeping next to me, try to blink away the pain in my skull. Close my eyes. The headache starts to subside, fading into the night. It’s replaced by a buzzing in my scalp, not painful, but not pleasing either. Just there. Something tingles in my spine. Not the icy stabs from before, but a constant shiver. Again, not bad, not good. Just present.
My eyes snap open when I feel something touch my hand, shooting pins and needles up my arm. I jerk my head to the right and stare through the deepening gloom at my hand, which is resting lightly on my hip. I hold my breath when I see what touched it.
Adele’s hand.
Her hand is resting gently on top of mine, her fingers sitting in the cracks between my fingers. It hurts, but like with my head and back, the longer we touch, the more the pain lessens. It’s like our nearness is the antidote to our nearness. Does that make any sense?
I glance over at her. Her eyes are closed, her breathing slow and even. She appears to be sleeping. Is she faking it? Or did she simply move in her sleep, her hand randomly slipping onto mine, a mere fluke of nature?
I feel her fingers push their way between mine, curling inside so they’re touching my palm. My heart leaps to the ceiling and tries to rip out of my chest. It settles back into place and demonstrates its enthusiasm by beating rapidly, sending shivers through my nervous system.
She’s awake, I can sense it. It’s no mistake that her hand found mine. She’s doing exactly what I wanted to do. Experiment.
My instinct is confirmed when I feel her thumb, the only finger not nestled under my palm, start to stroke the top of my hand. Gently sliding back and forth across it, sometimes making circles. Each motion sends shards, then slivers, then pinpricks of pain into my hand. Lessening pain. After a few minutes it starts to feel okay, then kind of good.
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