Текст книги "The Moon Dwellers"
Автор книги: David Estes
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Something flashes past my field of vision.
I follow her to a standing position and see why she left my embrace so suddenly. At least I hope it’s the reason. It’s too painful to think that she pulled away because she was put off by me—due to the odor that’s been imbued in my skin from hard days on the road, or because of the crazy eyes I was surely making at her.
Her big friend, the one who tackled us, is charging toward Rivet, who is further down the platform, fitting an arrow into his bow. An arrow—that’s what flew past my head. Adele lets out a yell and chases after her friend. “Take El somewhere safe!” she calls over her shoulder to her white-haired friend.
This can’t be happening. I can’t let it happen. Regardless of whether she was turned off by me and will never speak to me again, I have to save her. Rivet will rip them both to shreds. I don’t doubt their fighting ability, but am just being realistic. Rivet is a pro and a sadist. A deadly combination.
I start after her.
* * *
Adele
Why did he touch my hand? His hands are so tender, so electric. As I lie on the hard ground gazing into his deep blue eyes, I wonder what is happening. I can only think of two possibilities. Either he’s mistaken me for someone, or he’s completely lost his mind. I hope it isn’t the latter, because I already have enough craziness in my own life that I don’t think I can bring any more crazy into it. If it’s the former, and he thinks I’m someone else, maybe he’ll never even notice that I’m not that person. I’d be perfectly happy with him calling me by some other name. And yet…that can’t be it. He called me Adele already. He knows my name, probably who I am. And yet he touched me.
Although I don’t want to look away from him, or leave his embrace, I see something moving behind him and I know it is important. Glancing past him, I see Rivet let loose an arrow. Cole lets out a roar as it pierces his shoulder, the sharp tip exiting through his back. Blood spatters from the wound. His entire body torques hard to the left, forcing his head around toward me.
Those eyes. Dark, serious, strong. I know what he’s going to do.
Despite the excruciating pain he must be in, Cole turns and charges Rivet. This is it. All his pent-up emotions: first and foremost, sadness; then anger; misery, loneliness, and desperation follow; all sprinkled with a lust for revenge, hidden well by sarcasm and joviality in stressful situations.
It is suicide—I have to stop him.
I push away from Tristan and race after Cole. Rivet’s next arrow zips past us, narrowly missing Cole’s legs, my stomach, and Tristan’s sprawled-out form.
I brush past Tristan’s friend, whose mouth is opening and closing like a fish out of water. He looks shocked by the whole situation, unable to cope with what is happening. I am probably in shock, too, but I don’t have time to think about it.
So I won’t slip, I avoid stepping directly on the trail of blood that Cole leaves in his wake. Cole is faster than me, reaching Rivet twenty feet ahead. Lifting his bow, Rivet tries to get off another shot, but Cole plows into him, sending the arrow twanging end over end into the air. The bow flies out of Rivet’s hands and clatters harmlessly to the stone.
On top of Rivet, Cole is in a rage, pummeling him with iron fists. Five other men charge out of the thinning smoke, aiming to help their leader. I am ten feet away when I hear Rivet yell, “Get the girl!” in between taking punches from Cole.
His men stop just short of him, hesitate, and then follow his order, rushing past him and toward me. I am running so hard it is difficult to stop, but I manage to plant one of my feet, only skidding slightly on the stone before stopping.
They are already right on top of me. The first one has a sword in his belt, but leaves it hanging, probably in the mood for some hand-to-hand fun against a helpless girl.
Not so helpless.
I duck under his haymaker punch, kneeing him in the groin and then cracking him in the back of the head with my elbow as he flies past. He crumples to the ground. Seeing what I did to the first guy, the other four decide against the idea of fighting fair, and whip out their swords. They are too close for me to run. I have to try to dodge their swords and somehow manage to win. I have to do it for Elsey, for my father in Camp Blood and Stone. For my mother wherever she is. For myself, too.
One of the guys swipes at my arm and I move away from it hard. He wasn’t really going for me, though. It was a fake, a feint, a trick maneuver to get me moving in the direction he really wants. A highly trained swordfighter’s move. Mid-swing, he reverses his blade and sends it slicing in the opposite direction, right into where I am moving. There is no way he can miss.
I close my eyes.
* * *
Tristan
I’m impressed by the big guy. He’s manhandling Rivet like a bear mauling a camper. Then the other guys show up and go straight for Adele. I sprint so hard that I don’t really see how she takes the first guy down, but it looks quick…and impressive. The others pull out their swords.
Adrenaline is a weird thing. I’ve heard of miners who are able to lift massive boulders off of their friends who’ve been trapped by a cave-in. Boulders they have no business lifting and which, after the fact, they can’t budge even an inch. Well, the adrenaline makes me run faster than I’ve ever run before. There are a few steps where I swear I don’t feel my feet touch the ground, as if I’m running on air alone.
One of the guys fakes a move and then attacks in the other direction. It is a professional move, but he is so focused on her that he doesn’t see me coming. Clang! I barely get my sword in front of the stroke before it cuts Adele in half.
I shove her out of the way and jam my sword into my surprised opponent, whose eyes roll back into his head before he topples to the ground. The other three swing at me simultaneously, two getting in each other’s way and missing completely. I parry the third’s stroke and slip my sword between two of his ribs, thrusting upwards for good measure. As he falls, blood bubbles from his lips.
The other two improve their communication in a hurry, circling to opposite sides of me and closing in. One goes for my head while the other aims for my legs. I hop over one sword while blocking the headshot with my blade. Using my off hand, I backhand the guy that tried to cut off my legs, stunning him and knocking him backwards.
The guy that wants my head on a platter continues taking aggressive strokes at my neck, but I block them all, and manage to slash his hand, causing him to drop his sword. He throws his hands up in a request for mercy, but I’m not in the mood so I stab him in the heart.
Searing pain rips through my body as the final guy slashes me across the back. Attacking from behind isn’t particularly fair, but I don’t blame him given what I did to his friends. This is clearly life or death. I am rooting for both life and death. Life for me; death for Rivet’s guys.
I spin around and block his next attack—a jab at my midsection. My back is on fire and starting to spasm, making it hard to hold myself up. I need to end the fight or I’m toast. I swing desperately for the guy’s head, but I’m not as fast as before, my energy waning as the adrenaline burst expires.
He easily ducks my attempt and slashes at my leg, splitting my thigh open and forcing me to the ground. He looms over me, his sword black and ominous under the night sky. Raising the hilt above his head, he prepares to thrust the point through my chest.
Goodbye, Adele, I think, I wish I could’ve gotten to know you.
* * *
Adele
My death is painless. For that I am thankful. The sword makes a weird clanging sound when it contacts my body, like I’m made of metal. Weird. I feel myself being shoved back, tripping, falling to the ground.
I feel fine.
I open my eyes, wanting to see what really happens when you die.
I hear the shriek of metal on metal so I turn my head to see what is happening. Tristan! I’m not dead. He saved me and is battling my attackers, cutting them down, defeating them one by one. I watch in awe until there is only one left, who takes a cheap shot at Tristan’s back. It looks bad, but Tristan reacts well, getting back in the fight.
Then suddenly he is down, on the verge of death, a fish about to be shot in a barrel. “No!” I manage to scream.
Out of nowhere his friend appears, holding a sword in front of himself awkwardly, like a jouster with a long spear. Although the maneuver appears amateurish, it gets the job done. His sword pierces the guy through the back, causing him to drop his sword, which is pointed tip down, right over Tristan’s fallen body.
The sword falls like a guillotine. At the last second Tristan roars and rolls sharply to the side, the sword thudding dully on the stone. His friend kneels beside him, his face white.
I scramble to my feet and head for Tristan, but stop when I see movement out of the corner of my eye.
Amidst my own battle, I forgot about Cole, who was winning against Rivet when I last saw him. I don’t know what happened since then, but the tables have turned, and Cole is on his back, getting smacked around by Rivet pretty badly. With a roar, Cole pushes Rivet off of him and staggers to his feet. Rivet snaps to his feet with a karate move and launches himself fearlessly at Cole, whose nose is bleeding profusely over his lips.
Cole hits him in midair, but Rivet’s forward motion is too powerful, knocking him to the ground.
I want to help—have to help; to freaking do something, anything—but I’m frozen in place, shocked by what is happening.
In one swift motion, Rivet swings around Cole’s back, clamps his arms around his head, and jerks it violently to the side.
I’ll never forget the image, never forget the crunch of breaking bones. Precious, life-giving bones.
“Oh God, please no,” I whisper, my eyes filling with tears. Not him. Please not him. Take me. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s had enough. Oh, Cole. Not Cole. Beautiful Cole. Please come back.
I hear a wailing, an eerie, awful pealing, that sounds more animal than human. I realize it is me. The sound is coming from my throat, unrequested, but appropriate.
I know I’ll never get over this moment, will never cope with the loss I am feeling, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do something about it. For him. For Cole.
No plan, tears streaming down my cheeks, I stride toward Rivet, whose bloodied face is filled with satisfaction, his eyes gleaming, his lips twisted into a deranged smile. With both arms outstretched, he flicks his fingers back to himself, as if to say C’mon! It is unnecessary. I am coming.
He could use one of the weapons hanging from his belt: his sword, his gun, his razor-sharp dagger. But that isn’t Rivet. He lives for the challenge. He stands with his fists clenched, snarling as I approach.
The few times I’ve fought before, I’d used fast, powerful strikes, ending the fight as quickly as possible. This time I try the same tactic.
I aim a kick at Rivet’s groin, but he dodges it with unexpected speed, catching my leg in midair and swinging a kick of his own toward my head. I try to duck, but it is difficult with him holding my leg. Adjusting the arc of his attack in mid-kick, Rivet’s foot slams into my ear. Fierce pain shoots through my skull as Rivet releases my leg and lets me tumble to the ground. My head is ringing and I’m seeing stars.
I look up, and between the flashes of light that disturb my vision, I see Rivet standing over me.
Now he has his knife out.
* * *
Tristan
My attacker is a strange creature, growing a sword from his stomach. At least that’s what my mixed up mind thinks. That is, until I see the spot of blood widening around the blade. He drops his sword.
It is headed straight for my head—my eye, to be more specific—but I’m so shocked I just watch it fall. In my distorted mind it looks beautiful, like a falling star, sprinkling magical stardust on everything in its path. Subconsciously, I know it is a deadly sword, and the stardust is just the reflection of distant lights on the broad side of its steely blade.
Awe battles reason.
At the last second, reason makes a surge and I spin away, narrowly avoiding being impaled by the star, which, of course, is really a sword.
A rough hand pushes my attacker to the side and he falls away. A face appears. My friend—my beautiful friend. Although he looks as white as a ghost, Roc is grinning.
“You look injured,” he says, kneeling down and inspecting the gash on my leg.
“A flesh wound,” I say. “Where is she?”
Roc cranes his neck and then moves aside, points at a fleeing figure, moving quickly away from us. Adele, her long, black hair billowing behind her, runs like the hounds of Hell pursue her. With my eyes, I follow her path to its likely destination and see Rivet watching Adele charge right at him, goading her with his hands, standing overtop a fallen figure. The big, dark guy. Adele’s friend. Oh no.
Based on the crumpled body, the sneer on Rivet’s face, and Adele’s mad dash toward Rivet, I suspect her friend is dead. She isn’t running away from Hell, she is streaking toward it, without regard for her own life. Although I’ve never really talked to her, I am getting to know her through the extraordinary series of events unfolding before my very eyes. Add selfless to her list of desirable qualities.
I hope her friend isn’t dead, but if he is, I certainly don’t want to add Adele to the list of people dead by Rivet’s hand. Ignoring the intense pain that courses through my leg and back, I push to my feet and chase after her, limping badly.
Adele is like a raging beast, attacking Rivet immediately with a kick similar to the one she used to knock me down. He is more ready for it than I was and easily catches her leg and punishes her with a vicious kick to the head. Dread fills my heart as I see Rivet remove a knife from his belt.
I swat away the dread like a pesky mosquito. Nothing can stop me. No amount of pain, no distance, no obstacle can prevent me from getting to her, killing Rivet, saving her.
Or so I think.
My brother appears from the side, seemingly arriving out of thin air, traveling through some crack between dimensions. He is flanked by a dozen men. There isn’t time to ask questions. The whys and whos and whats can come later. I lower my head and charge between two of the men. They are big and strong. It is like hitting a stone block. My feet keep moving, churning, trying to push them out of my way. I am screaming something—I have no idea what—but they won’t move, won’t relinquish their grip.
One of the guys twists around behind me and locks my arms behind my back.
Adele is already dead. Too much time has passed since Rivet pulled out the blade.
It is over, all over. All is lost. My mother. Adele. Roc will be imprisoned—maybe worse. My life is over.
Killen is in front of me, saying something. I can’t hear, don’t care to hear. Nothing he can say will matter to me. All of our childish kicks under the table, our childhood fights, were nothing compared to this. He is no longer my brother in any sense of the word, blood included.
Adele is already dead.
I lunge forward and head-butt his moving lips.
He goes down hard, but is on his feet in seconds, kicking me in the ribs, punching me in the face, spitting and snarling at me. Screaming at me. I still can’t hear him and don’t react to his physical abuse, which makes him even angrier. There is no physical pain that can eclipse the emotional anguish I feel. The only antidote to how I am feeling is death. I hope Killen will finish me off.
Although I’m sure Killen wants to kill me, he doesn’t. But only because he fears my father more than anyone. Bringing home a dead brother won’t sit well with my father, not because he values my life, but because of what I know. He needs to know who, if anyone, I’ve told his secrets to. I could’ve told half the Moon Realm by now. Yeah, me dying will create far too much damage control, which is a headache the President won’t want.
Eventually he stops beating me. Through my bloody, swollen eyes, I see them drag Roc forward. He is badly beaten, too. They sit us next to each other, back to back so that we stay up.
My hearing finally returns in a blast of noise. Bombs are still thundering around the subchapter. Roc is groaning. My brother is speaking. “Why, my dear brother, were you following this filthy traitor all over the Moon Realm? Answer me, or she dies.”
Huh? My head is throbbing so badly and my mind is so muddled that I don’t really understand what is happening. My brother is asking me about Adele, I think, but he is threatening me with her life, which is meaningless. He can’t take something away that is already gone. “Already dead,” I manage to whisper.
“No, brother—not dead. You can add Rivet’s murder to her list of offenses.”
Chapter Nineteen
Adele
I’m not going to die until Rivet does. If we both die, that will still be a victory. A way for me to honor Cole.
Using my legs like scissors, I clamp them around one of Rivet’s legs and roll, forcing his knee to buckle to the side. He lets out a cry of pain as his cartilage twists. I move faster than I’ve ever moved, kicking to my feet in one motion like a ninja, a move my dad showed me countless times, but which I’d never been able to master.
Rivet’s knife falls out of his hand and to the side. I scoop it up and attack, plunging the blade deep into his chest before he has a chance to react. His eyes widen and his lips let out a strange groan, a ghoulish gurgle usually reserved for the damned. Which he is. Or is about to be. Blood trickles from his lips and his life ebbs away swiftly. Justice is served.
I’d hoped my revenge would lessen the pain of the loss, but it doesn’t. Now that Rivet is dead, the pain resurfaces, flowing out of my eyes in rivers of tears. My breaths shorten and I find myself gasping and sobbing. The urge to wrench the knife from Rivet’s chest and plunge it into my own is so strong I see my hands clench around the hilt.
An image of my sister fills my mind. Then my father. My mother. Tawni, my only friend. Tristan. Tristan is last. Someone worth living for.
At the moment my grip loosens on the knife, strong hands pull me up and away from Rivet. I don’t know what is happening, but am powerless to stop it. On both sides of me are gargantuans, guys so big they could’ve only been manufactured by a steroidal experiment. They drag me to a cluster of similar-sized giants.
As they pull me into the circle of bodies, I gasp when I see who is in the center. First I see Tristan’s friend, the scared one, the hero. He is beaten to a pulp, his face puffy and red. Next to him is Tristan, equally battered.
A young boy, no older than fifteen, is talking to Tristan. “…answer me or she dies,” he says.
I hear Tristan mumble, “Already dead,” through bloodied teeth and swollen lips.
“No, brother—not dead. You can add Rivet’s murder to her list of offenses.”
They dump me in front of him. Although his eyes are too puffy to widen, I see a spark of recognition flash across the blue orbs. He really believed I was dead. He must’ve seen Rivet hovering over me with the knife, just before he was captured by these goons. He didn’t see me kill him.
The teenager called him brother. Then that must mean… I pry my eyes from Tristan to take another look at the brat. From the different angle I can see the family resemblance immediately. To Tristan; to the President. Tristan’s brother; his name is Killen, I remember. Clearly not the same type of guy as Tristan. Or at least I hope they are different. Very different. Opposites would be good.
The fierce sound of bombs detonating resonates all around us. It is a full-scale attack on the city.
Tristan is still staring at me, almost smiling—if that is possible in his current state.
“ANSWER MY QUESTION!” Killen roars, kicking Tristan in the stomach with the heel of his boot.
Tristan grunts, drops his head to his knees, spits out a chunk of blood. Lifts his head and speaks through gritted teeth: “I’ll tell you everything once Adele is safe.”
Even in his condition, the way he says it sends tingles up my spine. Not in a nervous/scary way, but in an it-feels-good-to-have-someone-care-what-happens-to-you kind of way.
The bomb explodes so close that the shrapnel should rip us apart. Only it doesn’t because of the wall of burly sun dwellers ringing us.
They take the worst of it.
The men who aren’t killed by the sharp blades of metal spinning in every direction are knocked off their feet by the shockwave that follows. I am, too, getting blasted into Tristan, landing on him hard, kneeing him in the chest and elbowing him in the head. I feel so bad when I see the look of pain on his face.
But there isn’t time for sympathy. We might only have one chance to get away. I start to pull him to his feet, when suddenly another set of arms is helping me.
“Tawni!” I practically shriek when I see my friend next to me. “Where’s—” I start to say.
“Elsey’s safe. We have to move.”
Tawni helps me get Tristan to his feet, and I am 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 has 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 is 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. 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 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.
