: I.L. Nyberg
: Luna Daughter of the Moon
: Books on Demand
: 9789181141696
: Luna
: 1
: CHF 9.70
:
: Fantasy
: English
: 480
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
Luna runs away from home at the age of 15, from her cruel father. Ten years later, as she wanders through a dark park, late one night, on her way home, she is attacked by a man. However, he does not take her life, but gives her a new one instead. A little later, she meets the man who will become her soulmate, at the same time she decides to take revenge on her father.

The author has always been fascinated by vampires and has now written his first book on the subject. Books 2 and 3 are already written and will be published soon.

Chapter 1


The day had begun like every other—grey, flat, suffocating in its monotony. The sky hung heavy above the city, thick with clouds that seemed to press down on the streets and buildings, as if the world itself were tired of existing. Each breath I drew felt heavy, weighed down by the sameness of it all, the dull repetition of waking, moving, breathing. Even the air smelled muted, lacking life, tinged with the distant exhaust of cars and the faint tang of urban decay.

I woke to the stale smell of my tiny apartment, the faint hum of the city outside, and a familiar weight pressing on my chest. The mattress beneath me sagged in familiar patterns, holding my body like an indifferent observer. Another day. Another stretch of hours to endure. The sunlight that crept through the blinds was pale, filtered, incapable of warming anything, and it seemed to reflect my own lack of vitality.

I moved mechanically, dressing without thought, catching only a glimpse of my reflection. The mirror, grimy and scratched in the corners, offered back the same pale face I had stared at for years. The same dull eyes, tired and lifeless. The same hair, grey and limp from over a decade of neglect and routine indifference. Nothing about me had changed, and yet every day I felt smaller, more invisible, like a shadow slipping unnoticed along the walls. My movements were automatic, my hands brushing over familiar fabrics without care, and I wondered if anyone would notice if I stopped moving altogether.

By the time I left for work, the sky itself seemed tired, as though it had forgotten to shine. Even the morning light was hesitant, fragile, struggling to penetrate the heavy layer of clouds. The streets were damp from last night’s drizzle, slick, and reflective, showing neon signs that flickered weakly, buzzing like faint reminders of life that I had long ceased to feel part of. Puddles mirrored broken images of the buildings above, distorted reflections that matched the fractured sense of myself I carried silently.

Work was a ritual of invisibility. I scrubbed, wiped, emptied, polished, each motion automatic, a performance practiced over years until my hands knew the routines without thought. The trash bins overflowed like careless thoughts, brimming with discarded remnants of people’s lives that I would never touch