The Star Dwellers (39 page)

A SNEAK PEEK

THE SUN DWELLERS

BOOK 3 OF THE DWELLERS SAGA

Available anywhere e-books are sold in
December 2012!

D
espite her
nondescript gray tunic, the woman sticks out like a sparkling
diamond in a coal mine, her shiny blond hair peeking out from
beneath her dark hood. But it’s not her hair, or her face—which is
remarkably beautiful beneath the dark shadows—that identifies her
as a foreigner in the Moon Realm. Instead, it’s her gait, the way
she carries herself: straight-backed and graceful and regal. Next
to her the passing moon dwellers look hunched, their backs question
marks and their faces turned to the dust.

She’s knows it’s the middle of the day—thus
ensuring the girl will be at school—but the amount of light
afforded by the overhead cavern lights is appallingly minimal, the
near-equivalent of a Sun Realm dawn, or perhaps twilight.

Although she clearly doesn’t belong amongst
the rundown and crumbling gray stone shacks, she doesn’t hesitate
as she strides down the street, ignoring the stares she attracts.
Unable to hold back her nerves any longer, she pauses—just a barely
noticeable stutter step—as she nears her target: a tiny stone box,
no bigger than a medium-sized shed. She wonders how the two most
powerful Resistance leaders could possibly be tucked in such an
unremarkable corner of the Moon Realm. The front yard is barren
rock, full of crisscrossing cracks and stone chips that roll and
slide underfoot as she approaches the thin doorframe.

Before knocking, her eyes are drawn to her
feet, where she stands on the only unmarred stone square. Within
the block is a single word—
friend
—elegantly cut with the
skill of a professional stone worker. A hint of a smile crosses the
woman’s face before she looks up. Despite all her doubts and fears
and indecisiveness while making the decision that’s led her to this
place, that one word chiseled at the entrance gives her hope that
there’s a better life out there for her eldest son—that maybe
things can improve for him and for the Tri-Realms as a whole.

Her life is forfeit—stomped out by a loveless
sham of a marriage, to the President no less—but her son’s…well,
her son’s could change everything.

After a single deep breath, she gathers her
courage in a raised fist. When her knuckles collide with the door,
the sound is final and hollow in her ears, but in reality is only a
thud. Tilting an ear, she listens for footsteps, but is rewarded
with only cluttered silence. The clutter: her mind, tripping and
stumbling over a thousand questions. Is anyone home? Will the door
be slammed in my face? Have I made a grievous mistake? Have I
failed him? Have I failed my son? Have I failed myself?

Unexpectedly and without fanfare, the door
swings open; a dark-haired woman wearing a plain brown, knee-length
tunic fills the gap, her eyebrows raised in surprise. If not for
her information, which she received from a very reliable source,
she wouldn’t believe this woman to be a revolutionary. Except for
her eyes, that is. There’s a fire in her pupils that she’s only
seen once or twice in her life. It’s the same fire she sees in her
eldest son.

When the woman with the jet black hair
doesn’t speak, the intruder realizes her eyebrows are an unspoken
question:
Yes? Why have you wandered onto my doorstep?

Before answering the silent question, she
pulls back her hood, releasing her golden locks and forcing away
the identity-protecting shadows on her face. A spark of recognition
flashes on the woman’s face, but fades just as quickly. Finally she
speaks. “First Lady Nailin—why are you here?”

“Mrs. Rose—I have a proposition for you. May
I come in?”

T
he light gleams off
the barrel of the gun with a brightness that blinds me if I look
directly at it. My hands are sweaty as I clutch the weapon that
once upon a time was so foreign, but now seems so familiar. The
gun’s every detail is burned into my memory, from the temperature
of the cold steel against my palm, to its weight tugging on my
wrist, to the strong yet delicate scent of burning gunpowder.

When I turn the corner and enter the room,
it’s all happening again. My dad is bound and lying prostrate on
the rough stone floor, the executioner’s gun to his head. A half
dozen other sun dwellers bar my way forward. There’s more than the
last time, but it doesn’t matter. A million of them couldn’t stop
me. Not this time.

I raise the gun and start shooting. Six booms
later my foes are all dead, red and warm and blank-eyed. In the
heat of the moment, I continue shooting, this time at the
executioner, but the
click click click
announces that I’m
out of bullets.

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 tilts 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.