The Sun Dwellers

Surrounding the heart of the throne room are black pillars, not required to hold up the ceiling, but instead intended to give the room a solid beauty. Naturally, my father’s idea. The pillars also make great places to hide. Sanders passes between the pillars on his way to the gap, looking more at his feet than up, probably still reliving and relishing my father’s acceptance of his plan.

I pull back behind the wall, wait for the moment Sanders rounds the bend, his skeleton-like face diminishing further as it falls under shadow. I grab him by the throat, crush his voice box so he can’t make a sound, hiss in his ear, “One noise and you die, understand?”

His already buggy eyes protrude even further from his head, and he nods. His silence saves his life, but not his consciousness. I release him, punch him so hard in the head he’ll feel it for days, catch him lightly in my arms, and then set him down in the outer passage. At least he won’t be inviting the generals in anytime soon.

To Tawni, I say, “We’ll enter first. You come in behind us and duck behind one of the pillars. Stay there.” She nods vigorously.

To Trevor, I raise a fist. He raises his own and bumps it firmly against mine. Game time. Adele and Roc don’t appear to be here, but they may have been captured and taken away already. Either way, I have to find out, question my father. And if it turns out not to be a trap, hopefully kill him, too.

I enter the throne room, not trying to hide my presence, striding toward my father as if I belong there, as if I never left, as if he’s expecting me, which he might be. Trevor’s with me every step of the way and I sense when Tawni moves in behind us, ducks off to one side.

My father, who’s looking at his lap, suddenly looks up, as if sensing our presence. His face lights up with a smile that’s as big as it is fake. “Ahh, Tristan, you made it after all!” he booms.

I eye him warily. “How did you know?”

He laughs. “Are you really so arrogant to think you could enter my kingdom without me knowing? When you killed some of my soldiers you should have killed all of them.”

The men who killed Ram. The ones knocked out but not dead. Although it’s cost us the element of surprise, I know we did the right thing letting them live.

“I was begi

“It was never guts that I lacked,” I say, trying to control my sudden desire to launch myself at the man who created me, jam my sword into his heart; that is, assuming the space within his left breast contains an organ and isn’t just a black and empty cavity.

“Mmm, really?” he says, ru

I immediately feel my blood pressure rise, my head go hot, not from embarrassment but from pure anger, rising to a boil. Through my teeth, I say, “Don’t speak of my mother. She is everything you’re not. Good, pure, gentle, caring. You were never worthy of her.”

“Ha ha ha ha!” my father bellows. “You are so much like her it’s scary. But you misspoke. You said ‘She is everything you’re not.’ I believe you meant was.”

I freeze, my anger falling away like a warm coat, leaving me naked and cold. I shiver. There’s a pit in my stomach. “What the hell do you mean?”

“Surely you noticed your mother’s not around anymore,” my father mocks. A sudden awareness floods through me, causing my muscles to ache, my bones to feel bruised. It’s as if I’ve swallowed shards of glass, which are now cutting me apart from the inside.

“What did you do to her?!” I roar, the anger returning, white-hot and hungry. I take a step toward him.

“Temper, temper, Tristan. What did I teach you about controlling your anger?” He readjusts his sitting position, leans back more casually, one leg crossed over the other. “Where were we? Ah, yes, your mother. She did something very naughty, so I had to punish her—that’s all there is to it.”

I stand there seething, unable to move, my body wracked with a blind fury the likes of which I’ve never experienced before. My father takes my silence and stillness for weakness.

“Cat got your tongue?” he says. “Let me spell it out for you. I killed her with my bare hands! And I loved watching the life drain out of her face; loved kissing her lips as I held her down and she took her last breath; loved feeling her body go cold as we lay in bed together one last time.” He’s almost licking his lips with delight.

A profound sadness wraps around my anger, but I thrust it off. There will be time for grief later. For now, all I desire is revenge.

Adele

Tristan’s voice! We did it! We’ve both arrived at the throne room at the same time, so there’s no need to wait. I’m shaking with excitement as I run the last few feet to where a door stands wide open. Is this it? I mouth to Roc.

Yes, he silently communicates.

We creep into a rounded corridor, hearing the voices loud and clear now. Not just Tristan; someone else, too. Another familiar voice, but one that I’ve mostly heard in my nightmares: President Nailin. The Devil. My father’s executioner. My target.

“What did you do to her?!” Tristan screams, his voice echoing off the walls in the outer hallway. Whatever’s happening, he’s losing his cool. We need to be there for him. I creep another few steps.

“Temper, temper, Tristan. What did I teach you about controlling your anger?” Nailin says, as Roc and I close in on a gap in the wall, off to our left. “Where were we? Ah, yes, your mother. She did something very naughty, so I had to punish her—that’s all there is to it.” Even out of sight, his words are as cold as darts of ice—aimed at Tristan’s heart.

I move closer to the gap, waiting for Tristan’s response, but silence rules. Something clips my foot and I trip, nearly fall, barely manage to catch myself with a hand on the floor.

“You okay?” Roc whispers in my ear.

“I’m fine. I just tripped on something.” I feel around beside me, the tips of my fingers finding a soft lump wrapped in some kind of cloth. I work my way up it, trying to locate something that will identify the object. More cloth, sort of bumpy, and then—

—human flesh. I pull back sharply, barely able to clamp a hand over my mouth before letting out a high-pitched squeal which only makes it as far as the inside of my mouth. “It’s a body,” I say, dreading looking at the face of another dead friend, Trevor or Tawni this time.

Roc flicks on a light, careful to keep the beam focused toward the wall.

A stranger, mousy and thin. “An advisor,” Roc whispers. “Tristan probably knocked him out. His chest is moving, still breathing.” He extinguishes the light.

We hear: “Cat got your tongue?” The president’s voice, full of sarcasm. “Let me spell it out for you. I killed her with my bare hands! And I loved watching the life drain out of her face; loved kissing her lips as I held her down and she took her last breath; loved feeling her body go cold as we lay in bed together one last time.”

Although neither Tristan nor his father have mentioned the name of the woman they speak of, I know who it is. His mother, a woman he loves. Once I promised to help him look for her after this was all over. Now I know that won’t be possible.

Something bad is about to happen—I can feel it. The President wouldn’t be egging his son on if he wasn’t well-protected. And Tristan won’t back off now that he knows the truth. We need to move.