Flip (The Slip Trilogy Book 3) (28 page)

Chapter One

Adele

Present day

S
omething’s happening to my body. There’s a dull ache in my skull and ripples of energy coursing down my spine. It all started when I saw him. I know I should hate him—everyone else around me does.

“Filthy mutt,” I hear one guy growl. “He should’ve stayed above.”

“Yeah,” another guy says. “I’m surprised he’s gettin’ his shoes dirty down ’ere with the rats.”

I’m sitting in the Yard. The Yard is what we call the expansive area outside the Pen’s main building, although I don’t know who came up with the name, because it makes no sense. There’s no yard, just barren rock. Real yards—with grass, bushes, and trees—are magical places that don’t exist in our world.

The high fence surrounding the prison buzzes with electricity and threatens us with barbed wire. Through the fence we can see our town, subchapter 14 of the Moon Realm. And the non-prisoners can also see us, the convicted.

Even as I stare at freedom through the fence, the feeling gets stronger, like a tingling in the back of my scalp; but it really hurts, too—achy and throbbing. I feel…I feel
drawn
to him, in the most painful of ways. Now wait just a minute before you judge me, it’s not love at first sight if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s something else entirely, but I don’t have a name for it. I’d like to think it’s magic, like in the illegal fantasy books my grandmother used to read me, but there’s no magic in the dark, underground world we live in. Nothing but rocks and electrified fences and pain.

The parade passes the Pen, just outside the fence, so close, making all kinds of noise: people cheering, drums thumping, dogs barking.

And Tristan, smiling and waving.

All the girls in my old school are in love with Tristan. Obviously, none of them know him, but like any male celebrity, he captures the attention of young, naïve females. But I’ve always hated him, because of what he represents.

Now, stuck in the Pen, it seems like an awfully big waste of energy—to hate the son of the president, who I don’t even know. Perhaps if I hadn’t hated him in the past, none of this would’ve happened. Perhaps my family would still be together. Maybe it was bad karma. But no matter how much I try to wish it all away, my past is the zit that you pop, watch bleed, watch heal, only to see poking from your skin again a week later.

Tristan is the polar opposite of a recurring blemish. Blond, curly hair. Seventeen but already over six feet tall. Strong, solid frame. A princely face. Big, navy blue eyes. An addictive smile, with right-sized lips and ivory teeth. My brain is telling me to stop staring at him, but for some reason I can’t, like the pain coursing down my spine is only tolerable if I continue facing him. He flashes a smile.

The throbbing grows duller in my head, the buzzing down my spine sharper. My body is telling me something. The pull toward Tristan is getting stronger and more painful. But why?

There are about a thousand of his adoring fans outside the Pen, lining the streets, screaming his name and throwing flowers at his car. I even see one of them chuck her undergarments at him.

“You like him, don’t you?” a voice says from behind.

I turn, unable to stop the look of surprise that blankets my face. A tall, thin girl stands before me. Her strangely white hair is long and straight, reaching all the way to the small of her back. She has porcelain features, as if her face was drawn on by an artist. I can’t help wondering what a beautiful girl like her is doing in a place like this.

“Can I help you?” I say, somewhat rudely.

“I’m Tawni,” the girl says, sticking out her hand.

I stare at her slender fingers like they’re a nest of snakes, hesitate, and then eventually take them. I shiver at her icy touch, but her handshake feels surprisingly firm for how thin she is.

“Sorry. Poor circulation,” she says.

I chew my lip, considering her. “Have a seat,” I finally say with a slight wave of my arm.

Flashing a grin, she takes a seat next to me on the rock bench. “Thanks,” she says.

I grin back. I can’t believe it. I’m actually smiling. Well, sort of. I think it’s a pathetic attempt, but at least my lips are curled up in a crooked, awkward, I-don’t-know-how-to-smile-for-pictures kind of way. You know, like those kids in Year Three who always end up with the worst yearbook photos? The ones with the crazy eyes and fake smiles. That’s me trying to smile at my new friend, Tawni.

“Are you going to answer my question or what?” she says.

I go back to chewing on my lip. “What question?” I say, feigning ignorance.

“C’mon,” she says. “Do you like Tristan or not?”

“I don’t know him,” I say neutrally, internally considering whether she’s one of his crazed fans, obsessive to the point of throwing underwear.

The parade passes slowly—Tristan will be out of sight in a few minutes, moving down another street, probably heading toward Moon Hall, where the local politicians gather to do whatever it is that they do. Mostly screw us over. I crane my neck, trying to get a final glimpse of his smile.

“I don’t think he’s a bad guy,” Tawni says.

“Mmm, really?” I say, only half listening.

“No. I mean his dad’s a jerk, but I don’t think kids should be judged by what their stupid parents do.”

My ears perk up. I glance at Tawni. Her slight grin has melted. Her lips are pursed and thin. If nothing else, her statement has piqued my interest in her. Where she comes from, who she is, what she’s done to land herself in this hellhole. And why she cares about what Tristan and his father do.

Tawni ignores my look and continues watching the parade, so I turn back, too. The lead car, in which Tristan is standing, is about to turn the corner. He’s waving to his fans, smiling his mesmerizing smile, and then…

…he looks at me.

Right at me, like his eyes are gun sights and I’m their target. Despite the distance, it’s like they pierce my soul, sending waves of energy up my back and through my neck, slamming into my brain like a freaking sledge hammer.

“Arrr!” I cry out, flinching. I tear my eyes away from him and settle my head in my hands, massaging my pounding temples.

“What is it?” Tawni asks, putting an arm on my back.

Ignoring her, I glance up at Tristan, who’s still looking my way. The pounding in my skull comes back in droves, but not quite as strong this time.

As I stare at him, his face changes. Gone is the smile. Gone are his piercing eyes. All swallowed up in a frown. At first I think I was rude, that I’ve stared too long, or too crazy, because of my weird spasm, but then I feel a presence approaching from the side—a dark shadow.

Not good.

THE MOON DWELLERS by David Estes is available NOW!