Scarlet

Twenty-Seven

The door thudded shut behind them. Scarlet found herself in the immense foyer of the opera house, almost pitch-black but for warm, flickering candlelight beyond the arches. The lobby was full of silence and dust and chunks of broken marble along the floor. The dust clogged Scarlet’s throat and she struggled not to cough as she moved toward the light. Her footsteps were shockingly loud in the empty, hollow building as she passed between two massive columns.

She gasped. The light was coming from one of two statues that flanked a grand double staircase. It depicted two women draped in billowing fabric atop a pedestal, each holding aloft a bouquet of torches. Dozens of wax candles glowed and flickered, casting a haunting orange film over the lobby. The staircase, carved from red-and-white marble, was missing random balustrades, and a companion statue to the first was missing her head and the arm that had once held her own candelabra.

Scarlet’s foot splashed into a puddle and she drew back, first looking down at the broken marble floor, then up. Three stories of balconies rose above and in their center, where the light barely reached, was a painted ceiling with a square window in its center. The window, it seemed, had long been missing.

Hugging herself, Scarlet turned back to Wolf. He lingered between the columns.

“Maybe they’re sleeping,” she said, attempting nonchalance.

Wolf peeled himself out of the shadows and prowled toward the staircase. His body was as tense as the statues that watched them.

Scarlet’s gaze darted over the railings above, but she saw no movement, no sign of life. No garbage. No smell of food. No sound of talking or netscreens. Even the sounds of the street had disappeared beyond the massive entry doors.

She clenched her jaw, anger flaring up inside her at the sickening sensation of being trapped like a mouse to be preyed upon. Stomping past Wolf, she marched toward the stairs until her toes pressed against the first riser.

“Hello?” she yelled, craning her head. “You have visitors!”

Her words echoed back to her, harsh and defiant.

No sound. No alarm.

Then, from the silence, a familiar chime. Scarlet jumped at the sound that echoed between the marble pillars, despite being muffled within her pocket.

Heart racing, she pulled out the portscreen just as the computerized voice began to speak. “Comm received for Mademoiselle Scarlet Benoit from L’hôpital Joseph Ducuing in Toulouse.”

Scarlet blinked. A hospital?

Hand shaking, she pulled up the comm.

30 AUG 126 T.E.

THIS COMMUNICATION IS TO INFORM SCARLET BENOIT OF RIEUX, FRANCE, EF, THAT AT 05:09 ON 30 AUG 126, LUC ARMAN BENOIT OF PARIS, FRANCE, EF, WAS PRONOUNCED DEAD BY ON-STAFF MEDICAL PRACTITIONER ID #58279.

PRESUMED CAUSE OF DEATH: ALCOHOL POISONING

PLEASE RESPOND WITHIN 24 HOURS IF YOU WOULD LIKE AN AUTOPSY TO BE PERFORMED FOR THE COST OF 4500 UNIVS.

WITH SYMPATHIES,

THE STAFF OF L’HÔPITAL JOSEPH DUCUING, TOULOUSE

Confusion reigned, her heart thumping erratically. The message didn’t want to compute, her brain turning it over and over. She pictured him the last time she’d seen him, raving and tortured and afraid. How she’d screamed at him. Told him she never wanted to see him again.

How could he be dead, only twenty-four hours later? Shouldn’t she have received a comm when he’d been admitted into the hospital? Shouldn’t there have been a warning?

Swaying on her feet, she peered up at Wolf. “My dad’s dead,” she said, her whisper barely filling the enormous space. “Alcohol poisoning.”

His jaw flexed. “Are they sure about that?”

His suspicion was slow to filter through her encroaching numbness. “You think they sent the comm by mistake?”

A touch of sympathy flickered in his eyes. “No, Scarlet. But I do think he was in danger of something much worse than a fondness for drinking.”

She didn’t understand. He’d been tortured, but the burn marks wouldn’t have killed him. The insanity wouldn’t have killed him.

Through the fog in her brain, a gentle, caressing instinct told her to look up. So she did.

Behind Wolf, framed by two pillars that held unlit sconces, was a man. He was willowy and lean, with wavy dark hair and near-black eyes that burned in the candlelight. He would have had a pleasant smile if Scarlet hadn’t been so startled—by his presence, his silence, the fact that Wolf did not seem surprised he was there, did not even bother to face him though he undoubtedly felt him too.

More terrifying than all that was his clothing. He wore a crimson red coat that flared at his waist and had long, bell-shaped sleeves. Gold-embroidered runes sparkled along the hems. It was almost like a child’s costume, an imitation of the horrible Lunar court.

Fear thumped against Scarlet’s rib cage. This was not a costume. This was the stuff of nightmares and horror stories told to keep children from misbehaving.

A thaumaturge. A Lunar thaumaturge.

“Hello,” the man said, in a voice as sweet and smooth as melted caramel. “You must be Mademoiselle Benoit.”

She stumbled back onto the first step, catching the rail for balance. In front of her, Wolf dipped his eyes and turned around. The man acknowledged him with a polite nod.

“Alpha Kesley, so glad you’ve made it back safely. And if I am to correctly understand the comm the lady just received, Beta Wynn’s task in Toulouse must be finished as well. It seems we will soon be a full pack again.”

Wolf clamped a fist to his chest and gave a slight bow. “I am glad to hear it, Master Jael.”

Gulping, Scarlet pushed her hip into the rail. “No,” she said, finding her voice on the second try. “He brought me here to find my grandmother. He’s not one of you anymore.”

The man’s smile was warm and understanding. “I see. I’m sure you are quite eager to see your grandmother. I hope to reunite you shortly.”

Scarlet clenched her fists. “Where is she? If you’ve hurt her—”

“She is quite alive, I assure you,” said the man. Without any change in expression, he slid his attention back to Wolf. “Tell me, Alpha, were you able to meet your objectives?”

Wolf lowered his hand to his side. Obedience hung from him like a thin, absurd disguise.

A headache pounded at Scarlet’s temples. Her nerves hummed as she waited, hoping and wishing he was going to tell this man that he’d left their ridiculous pack and he was never coming back.

But the hope couldn’t be entertained for long. It was being shucked off before Wolf even opened his mouth.

This man was not a rebellious criminal, some member of a vigilante gang. If he was truly a thaumaturge, a real thaumaturge standing before her, then he worked for the Lunar crown.

And Wolf—what did that make Wolf?

“I have questioned her to the best of my ability,” Wolf said. “She has a single, vague memory, but I doubt both its usefulness and its reliability. Time and stress seem to have had an effect on her recollections, and at this point I have no doubt she would create falsehoods if she believed they would benefit her grandmother.”

The thaumaturge tilted his chin up, considering him. Alpha Kesley.

Scarlet’s heart hammered against her collarbone, ready to choke her.

I have questioned her to the best of my ability.

“Wolf.”

He did not turn to her. Did not flinch or sigh or respond. He was a statue. He was a pawn.

The thaumaturge made a sad sound. “No matter.” Then, after a silence in which Scarlet felt the stairs crumbling beneath her, he said, “Omega Kesley was to inform you that our objectives have changed. Her Majesty is no longer concerned with identifying Selene.”

Wolf’s fingers twitched.

“Nevertheless, it has become clear to me that Madame Benoit has not yet given up all her secrets. Perhaps we can find another use for the mademoiselle.”

Wolf’s chin lifted, just slightly. “If she’d had any additional information, she would have told me. I am sure her trust was complete.”

Scarlet half slumped onto the marble rail, grasping the base of the headless statue to keep from sinking to the ground.

“I’m sure you’ve done very well,” said the thaumaturge. “Don’t be alarmed. I will see that your efforts are given proper recognition.”

“Who’s Beta Wynn?” said Scarlet. “What was his task in Toulouse?” Her voice was weak, filled with disbelief as she teetered on the stairs. She struggled to believe this was all a nightmare. Soon she would wake up on the train, in Wolf’s arms, and this would all happen very differently. But she did not wake up, and the thaumaturge was eyeing her with dark, sympathetic eyes.

“Beta Wynn’s task was to kill your father in a manner that would not raise suspicions,” he said, with no more reservation than if he were giving her the time of day. “I did offer your father a chance. If he had found something useful on Madame Benoit’s property, I think I truly would have considered letting him live, perhaps kept him as a slave. But he failed in the time we gave him, so I was forced to have him silenced. He knew too much about us, you see, and he had served his usefulness. I’m afraid we have little tolerance for useless Earthens.”

He grinned, the look twisting Scarlet’s gut—not because it was a cruel smile, but because it was a kind one. “You appear to be ill, Mademoiselle. Perhaps you will need some rest before you’re fit to see your grandmother. Rafe, Troya, won’t you see the lady to her prepared room?”

They emerged from the shadows, two men who were nothing but blurs in Scarlet’s consciousness. They lifted her by her elbows, not bothering with ties or cuffs.

Her mind flashed and before she knew it, she was reaching for her waistband.

Wolf’s hand was there first, one arm brushing against her side. Her breath caught and she was frozen, staring wide-eyed into his face. His emerald eyes hollow as his fingers lifted the back of her sweatshirt and pulled out the gun.

He was going to kill them.

He was going to protect her.

Flipping the gun around so that he gripped the barrel, Wolf held it out to one of her captors.

When his severity melted, hinting at something like regret, Scarlet set her jaw. “A Loyal Soldier to the Order of the Pack?”

She saw the pain in his gulp. “No. Lunar Special Operative.”

The room spun.

Lunar. He was Lunar. He worked for them.

He worked for the queen.

Scarlet turned her head away and forced her legs to be strong, refusing to be carried away like a child as they guided her to another set of stairs, stairs that led down to the opera house’s sublevels. She refused to give them the pleasure of a struggle.

The thaumaturge’s voice followed behind her, all benevolence. “You have my leave to rest until sunset, Alpha Kesley. I can see that your trials have wearied you.”