She scowled. “As far as I know, that girl hasn’t murdered anybody.”

“I didn’t murder Hunter last night. But that doesn’t make me harmless.”

Scarlet hesitated. “No. I guess it doesn’t.”

After a heavy silence, she changed the netscreen back to the reality show and feigned interest in it.

“I started fighting when I was twelve.”

She slid her attention back to him. Wolf was staring at the wall, at nothing.

“For money?”

“No. For status. I’d only been in the pack for a few weeks, but it became clear very fast that if you don’t fight, if you can’t defend yourself, then you’re nothing. You’re tormented and ridiculed … you practically become a servant, and there’s nothing you can do about it. The only way to prevent becoming an omega is to fight. And to win. That’s why I do it. That’s why I’m good at it.”

Her brow had knit together so tight it was beginning to ache, but Scarlet couldn’t relax as she listened. “‘Omega, ’” she said. “Just like a real wolf pack.”

He nodded, picking nervously at his blunt fingernails. “I saw how afraid of me you were—not even just afraid, but … revolted. And you were right to be. But you said that you like to have the full story before judging, to try to understand first. So that’s my story. That’s how I learned to fight. Without mercy.”

“But you’re not in the gang anymore. You don’t have to fight anymore.”

“What else would I do?” he said, with a humorless laugh. “It’s all I know, all I’m good at. Until yesterday, I didn’t even know what a tomato was.”

Scarlet smothered the start of a grin. His frustration was almost endearing. “And now you do,” she said. “Who knows? Tomorrow you might learn about broccoli. By next week, you could know the difference between summer squash and zucchini.”

Wolf glared at her.

“I mean it. You’re not a dog who can’t be taught new tricks. You can learn to be good at something other than fighting. We’ll find something else you can do.”

Wolf ruffled his hair with a fist, making it even messier than usual. “That isn’t why I’m telling you this,” he said, his tone calmer now, but still discouraged. “It won’t even matter once we get to Paris, but it seemed important for you to know that I don’t enjoy it. I hate losing control like that. I’ve always hated it.”

The fight flashed through Scarlet’s memories. How Wolf had released the other fighter so quickly. How he’d hurled himself off the stage as if trying to outrun himself.

She gulped. “Were you ever the … the omega?”

A flash of insult passed over his face. “Of course not.”

Scarlet quirked an eyebrow, and Wolf seemed to recognize the arrogance in his tone a moment too late. Evidently, the craving for status hadn’t left him yet.

“No,” he said, softer now. “I made sure that I was never the omega.” Standing, he marched again to the window and peered out at rolling vineyard hills.

Scarlet pursed her lips, feeling something akin to guilt. It was easy to forget the risk Wolf was taking when all she could think of was getting her grandma back. Sure, Wolf may have gotten out of the gang, but now he was going right back to them.

“Thank you for agreeing to help me,” she said after a long silence. “No one else was exactly lining up to help.”

He shrugged stiffly, and when it was clear he wasn’t going to respond, Scarlet sighed and started clicking the channels again. She stopped on a newsfeed.

SEARCH CONTINUES FOR ESCAPED LUNAR FUGITIVE LINH CINDER.

She jerked upward. “Escaped?”

Wolf turned and read the ticker before frowning at her. “You hadn’t heard?”

“No. When?”

“A day or two ago.”

Scarlet cupped her chin, entranced by the unfolding news. “I had no idea. How is that possible?”

The screen started to replay the footage from the ball.

“They say someone helped her. A government employee.” Wolf pressed a hand against the windowsill. “It makes one wonder what they would do in such a situation. If a Lunar needed help and you had the ability to help them, even though it would put you and your family at risk, would you do it?”

Scarlet frowned, barely listening. “I wouldn’t risk my family for anyone.”

Wolf dropped his gaze to the cheap carpet. “Your family? Or your grandmother?”

Rage came to her like a spiggot turned to full, remembering her father. How he’d come to her farm wearing that transmitter. How he’d torn her hangar apart.

“Grand-mère’s the only family I have left.” Rubbing her clammy palms on her pants, Scarlet stood. “I could use an espresso.”

She hesitated, not sure what she wanted his response to be when she asked, “Do you want to come to the dining car with me?”

His gaze slipped past her shoulder, to the door, looking torn.

Scarlet met his indecision with a smile, both teasing and friendly. Perhaps a little flirtatious. “It has been almost a full two hours since you ate. You must be famished.”

Something flickered across Wolf’s face, something bordering on panic. “No, thank you,” he said quickly. “I’ll stay here.”

“Oh.” The brief rush of her pulse slipped away. “All right. I’ll be back soon.”

As she was shutting the door behind her, she saw Wolf push his hand roughly through his hair with a relieved sigh—like he’d narrowly avoided a trap.

Seventeen

The train’s corridor was buzzing with activity. Making her way to the dining car, Scarlet passed servant androids delivering boxed lunches, a woman in a stiff business suit talking sternly at her port, a waddling toddler curiously opening every door he passed.

Scarlet dodged them all, through half a dozen identical cars, past the myriad passengers who were on their way to normal jobs, normal vacations, normal shopping trips, perhaps even going back to normal homes. Her emotions gradually started to fall away from her—her irritation with the media for demonizing a sixteen-year-old girl, only to discover that girl had escaped from prison and was still on the loose. Her sympathy for Wolf’s violent childhood, followed by the unexpected rejection when he chose not to come with her. The fluctuating terror over her grandmother and what could be happening to her now, while the train careened too slowly through the countryside, tempered only by the knowledge that at least she was on her way. At least she was getting closer.

Her mind still spinning like a kaleidoscope, she was glad to find the dining car relatively empty. A bored-looking bartender stood inside a circular bar, watching a netscreen talk show that Scarlet had never liked. Two women were drinking mimosas at a small table. A young man was sitting with his legs up in a booth, tapping furiously on his port. Four androids loitered beside the wall, waiting to make deliveries out to the private cars.

Scarlet sat down at the bar, setting her port beside a glass of green olives.

“What will you have?” asked the bartender, still focused on the interview between the host and a washed-up action star.

“Espresso, one sugar, please.”

She settled her chin on her palm as he punched her order into the dispenser. Sliding her finger across the portscreen, she typed,

THE ORDER OF THE PACK

A listing of music bands and netgroups spilled down the page, all calling themselves wolf packs and secret societies.

LOYAL SOLDIER TO THE ORDER OF THE PACK

Zero hits.

THE WOLVES

She knew as soon as she’d entered it that the term was far too broad. She quickly amended it to THE WOLVES GANG.

Then, when 20,400 hits blinked back up at her, she added PARIS.

One music band who had toured in Paris two summers ago.

WOLF STREET GANG. WOLF VIGILANTES. SADISTIC KIDNAPPERS PARADING AS RIGHTEOUS LUPINE WANNABES.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Frustrated, she tucked her hair into her hood. Her espresso had appeared in front of her without her notice and she brought the small cup to her mouth, blowing away the steam before taking a sip.