Scarlet

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,
    T HE O RDER OF THE P ACK
    A listing of music bands and netgroups spilled down the page, all calling themselves wolf packs and secret societies.
    L OYAL S OLDIER TO THE O RDER OF THE P ACK
    Zero hits.
    T HE W OLVES
    She knew as soon as she’d entered it that the term was far too broad. She quickly amended it to T HE W OLVES G ANG.
    Then, when 20,400 hits blinked back up at her, she added P ARIS.
    One music band who had toured in Paris two summers ago.
    W OLF S TREET G ANG. W OLF V IGILANTES. S ADISTIC K IDNAPPERS P ARADING AS R IGHTEOUS L UPINE W ANNABES.
    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.
    Surely if this Order of the Pack had been around long enough to recruit 962 members, there must be some record of them. Crimes, trials, murders, general mayhem against society. She strained to think of another search term, wishing she would have questioned Wolf more.
    “That’s quite the specific search.”
    She swiveled her head toward the man seated two stools away, who she hadn’t heard sit down. He was giving her a teasing, droopy-eyed smile that hinted at a dimple in one cheek. He struck her as vaguely familiar, which startled her until she realized she’d only seen him an hour ago on the station’s platform at Toulouse.
    “I’m looking for something very specific,” she said.
    “I should say. ‘Righteous Lupine Wannabes’—I can’t even begin to imagine what that entails.”
    The bartender frowned at them. “What’ll you have?”
    The stranger swiveled his gaze. “Chocolate milk, please.”
    Scarlet chuckled as the bartender, unimpressed, took down an empty glass. “Would not have been my first guess.”
    “No? What would you have guessed?”
    She scrutinized him. He couldn’t have been much older than she was and, though not classically handsome, with that much confidence he undoubtedly had never had much trouble with women. His build was stocky but muscular, his hair combed neatly back. There was a keenness in the way he carried himself, a certainty that bordered on arrogance. “Cognac,” she said. “It was always my father’s favorite.”
    “I’m afraid I’ve never tried it.” The dimple deepened as a tall glass of frothing