The Moon Dwellers

by David Estes

  I understand. Somehow she is blocking out the pain, the anguish, everything. I wish I can do the same.

  We get to the stairs and descend from the train platform. Acrid smoke stings my eyes and the smell of fire burns my nose. The station is on the edge of the city, so we are able to slip down a deserted street and get lost in the maze of intersections. Well, I am lost. Tawni knows exactly where we are going.

  Thankfully, it is 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. Tawni stops 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 am a mess.

  “I’m fine, El, but these guys need medical attention.”

  “I found supplies,” Elsey says, holding the door and letting us past. When we are 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 will 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, although I’m not sure why.

  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 am 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 am doing, my eyes keep flitting back to his royal blue eyes. Each time they do, I feel more and more drawn to him. It is the weirdest thing: although neither of us says a word, it feels like we are getting to know each other, getting comfortable together.

  Touching him, even through the wet cloth, I feel warm and tingly. Sort of like I felt in the dream I had about him, when we touched.

  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 is wearing filthy black pants that look like they’ve been through a war. There is 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 is 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 am 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 gash. 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 up from the other side. “Arms over your head.”

  Obediently, Tristan raises both arms. “Want to do the honors?” Tawni asks with a smirk.

  Fresh blood rushes beneath the skin on my face. Of course, Tristan is still watching me. I think he might be amused by my discomfort, but he doesn’t appear to be, or is hiding it well. His gaze is soft but intense, serious yet relaxed, somber and excited at the same time. A whole bunch of contradictions.

  I bite my tongue and pull his shirt off.

  I do everything in my power to maintain an indifferent expression when I see his body. Inside I am thinking wowowowow! A little bit silly, I know, but that’s what I’m thinking. 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. A vicious slash runs diagonally across it, from his right shoulder to his left hip. It is 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 it, wrapping it around his entire chest to provide support as it heals.

  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.

  “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.”

  “My pleasure, your majesty.”

  I find their banter enjoyable, especially after the events of the day being so dark and heavy. It is 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 am 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 is 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 is what Cole deserves: relie
f 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 is 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. It’s not like me, but it is how I am feeling.

  “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 am just trying to survive.

  Tristan says, “Use my reach. I might not act like my father, but I am 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 am talking to two guys, who’ve been beaten to a pulp, about a revolution.

  “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.

  “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 is 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 is 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 am about to ask why, but I already know the answer. I’ve known it the whole time, but won’t allow myself the enjoyment of believing it—not even for one fraction of a second.

  He feels something for me, too.

  Chapter Twenty

  Adele

  Things get pretty awkward after that. No one really speaks, and I barely make eye contact with anyone. Tawni finally stops crying and we all agree that we need to sleep. Elsey and I go and find a few more thin pads to sleep on.

  There isn’t much space to stretch out, so we have to cram tightly together. Determining the sleeping positions is a bit embarrassing, probably not for anyone else, but definitely for me.

  I want to sleep next to Tristan. Don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not thinking about trying anything with him—I’m not that kind of girl, plus the room is like a sardine can. I’ve never even kissed a guy before. Pathetic, I know. I just want to be near him, to bask in the energy that I feel when I’m in his presence.

  Tawni knows it, too, which is embarrassing in and of itself. Right away, she 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. He smirks the whole time he is doing it.

  That leaves me, Tristan, and Elsey. I could position Elsey in the middle, between Tristan and me.

  I don’t.

  “Here you go, El,” I say, helping her lay out her pad next to Tawni. I put mine next to hers while Tristan fills the gap between Roc and me. We leave the candle to burn itself out.

  I sit down, being careful not to accidentally brush past Tristan, who is already sitting on the floor. I stretch out stiffly, lowering my knees and head to the floor in jerky motions. I lie like a dead person, staring at the ceiling. I am acutely aware when Tristan sprawls out next to me, mere inches from my body by my own design. I’ve never slept this close to a guy before. Although there’s a gap between us, it feels like there isn’t, like our arms and legs are touching, or maybe our hips and shoulders. It feels nice. Wonderful, to be exact.

  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 him 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. I just lie as still as a stone, my eyes glued to the ceiling, which is getting dimmer by the minute as the candle’s wax melts away.

  After an hour I am getting worried I’ll be up the whole night. A lot of good that will do me when we are trying to break my dad out of jail. So I try to sleep, try to forget who is sleeping next to me. Close my eyes.

  My eyes snap open when I feel something touch my hand. 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.

  Tristan’s hand.

  His hand is resting gently on top of mine, his fingers sitting in the cracks between my fingers. The feeling is remarkable. Another first for me: my hand touching a guy’s. Not holding, per se. Just touching. I don’t think the feeling would be the same with any other guy. With Tristan the feeling is special.

  I glance over at him. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow and even. He appears to be sleeping. Is he faking it? Or did he simply move in his sleep, his hand randomly slipping onto mine, a mere fluke of nature?

  I feel his fingers push their way between mine, curling inside so they are 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. I feel so warm, so right.

  He is awake, I can sense it. It is no mistake that his hand is on mine.

  My instinct is confirmed when I feel his 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.

  It is weird how good it feels. It is such a simple thing, the mere sliding of a finger across skin, but it sends tingles through my whole body. I close my eyes, like Tristan, and begin slowly running my own fingers across his. We carry on like that for a long time, at least an hour—maybe hours, I’m not sure, I lose track of time.

  Things are moving so fast. I know, I know—it is just holding hands. But it feels like so much more than that. This is going to sound stupid, but it almost feels like we’ve done it, like I’ve lost my virginity through our hands touching.

  The feelings I have for him are remarkable, but I finally realize they aren’t anything supernatural. The whole time I’ve had this weird feeling that some mysterious force is drawing us together. Now I feel silly for thinking that. It is just attraction, plain
and simple. A really, really, ridiculously strong attraction, yeah, but a natural force nonetheless.

  Eventually I fall asleep. I am sure we are still holding hands when I drift away.

  I wake up when Tawni says, “Hey, sleepyhead.”

  I yawn and rub my eyes, opening them to look at my friend. She looks like her normal, perky self—not the devastated girl from the day before. I wish I could cope with things the way she can.

  That’s when I remember the position I was in when I fell asleep: holding hands with Tristan. I sneak a glance down at my hand. It is alone—safe. Whew, I think. It isn’t like I am embarrassed that Tristan seems to have feelings for me—ecstatic would be a better word—but I’m not keen to have everyone know about it just yet.

  I turn my head to see what Tristan looks like when he’s sleeping, but he isn’t there. Roc is gone, too.

  “Gone with Elsey to do some recon,” Tawni says, guessing my question.

  “Elsey?” I say, suddenly worried.

  “It’ll be okay,” Tawni says. “They promised to be very careful and look after her.”

  I nod, still worried.

  I hear quick feet on the steps and then Elsey bounds through the doorway, practically crashing into me. “The bombing finally stopped!” she says excitedly. “We can go rescue Father.” Her smile is a mile wide. I am amazed at her ability to bounce back from the horrific events of the previous day.

  Slower steps thud down the stairs. I raise my head in anticipation of seeing him, hoping it won’t be awkward after our night together.

  Roc’s head pops out. He is wearing a wide smile, too, grinning like a banshee through the cover of his bruised face. I’m not sure what everyone’s been smoking, but I want some—clearly it’s good stuff.

  Tristan follows behind him and my breath catches in my lungs. Despite his injuries—although the swelling has lessened, his face is varying shades of black, blue, and purple—he looks amazing. It isn’t just his face, or his athletic body, but the confident way that he carries himself, his penetratingly blue eyes, the way I feel when I’m around him. As usual, I am drawn to him.