Free The Moon Dwellers by David Estes

Tawni and I a re the lead character s in a magical fairy tale, it i s obvious who is the ugly stepsister . Not Tawni.
    I realize Tawni ’s back i s to me ; she i s facing the bed. Thank G od , I think . Using my fingers , I manage to mold my face back into what I think i s close to its normal shape. Just in time, too. She turns around.
    Her eyes blaze with a sort of fire. Not real fire, but determination. It is unexpected. She just looks so thin, so frail. Although she towers above me, I feel so much bigg er than her. At least normally I do. But now she looks strong, like maybe her bones a re made of a tougher ma terial than I thought. I wait for her to speak.
    “Your father is alive, ” she says.
     
     
    Chapter Four
    Tristan
     
    I like calling the Tri-Realms the underworld . For to me, that’s what it i s. At times it feels more hellish than if I were at barbecue with a bunch of demons and zombies, roasting t he undead on a fiery spit.
    I long to feel the wind tousle my hair, the sunlight on my face. Not the fa ke sun my father’s engineers have create d, but the real thing. There i s nothing like it.
    The underworld i s so different. Dark, gloomy—it feels dead to me. Like it i sn’t natural that any form of life other than the spiders and snakes and bats should occupy it. Certainly not humans.
    And if we live in t he underworld, then my father i s the Devil himself, shrewd, evil, self-serving. They say that blood creates an unbreakable bond. If there is a bond between my father and me—created by blood, DNA, or something else entirely—it i s as brittle as talc , cracking and crumbling while I was still in my mother’s womb.
    I see her face again —the moon dweller with the shimmering black hair— so beautiful, so strong, so sad, like s he i s crying invisible tears. Reaching out, I try to touch her, to com fort her. But each time I try, she seems further aw ay, as if some unseen force i s keeping us apart. I ru n, pumping my arms and legs harder and hard er, trying to keep up wit h her, but never able to close the gap . Finally, when I think my legs will collapse beneath me, she stops. I approach , my heart fluttering, my body trembling in anticipation of feeling her skin against mine. I hear a slight whir r and feel a whoosh o f air as something flies just past my ear. A flaming arrow. No! Already a spot of blood i s seeping through her whi te tunic where the arrowhead has pi erced her breast. The flames a re licking at her clothes, charring them. I try to run to her, to douse the flames, to pluck the arrow from her skin and stop the bleeding, but my feet won’t move. At first I think I’m in shock, that I’m simply too weak-minded to gain control of my body, but when I look at my feet, they a re encased in stone. He moves past me. The archer. I can’t see his face, but I’ d recognize his gait an ywhere. My creator. I scream at him to Stop, please stop! but he ignores me, instead blowing softly on the flames, fueling them until they spread. I have to turn away—G od, how desperately I want to turn away— but I ca n’t. C an’t. Ca n’ t even close my eyes. I watch her burn. She is brave—doesn’t even cry out, but I can hear her screams anyway.
    I wa ke up sweating and yelling , thrashing about in my bed. And thinking about the underworld.
    Roc i s by my side. As always. He put s a hand a cross my chest. “Shhh,” he says . “Someone will hear.”
    My legs stop thrashing, my arms stop flailing. I am breathing heavily but not screaming anymore. It was just a dream. I am on my bed; Roc must have carried me.
    “What happened?” I say .
    “You fainted,” Roc says , his lips curling slightly.
    “Does that give you s ome kind of pleasure?” I snap .
    Roc continues grinning. “Given it was brought on by your battle with a ferocious warrior, namely me, I’d say yes, it does bring me a level of pleasure. Especially because it was in the midst of my stunni ng and heroic victory,” he adds