Scarlet

Eleven

The egg hissed as it slid into the melted butter, its vivid yolk drizzling into the white. Scarlet brushed a tufted feather off the next egg before cracking it open with one hand, simultaneously pushing the spatula across the bottom of the pan. The oozing whites grew opaque, fluffed up, developed a crackling film near the pan’s edges.

Otherwise, the house was silent. She’d checked in on her dad when she’d gotten home from the fight and found him comatose in her grandma’s bed, a bottle of whiskey stolen from the kitchen left open on the dresser.

She’d emptied the rest of the whiskey into the garden, along with every other bottle of liquor she could find, then spent four hours tossing in her own bed. Her head was full with the previous evening: the burn marks on her dad’s arm, the terror in his face, his desperation to find whatever her grand-mère had hidden.

And Wolf, with his tattoo and his intense looks and his almost-convincing tone: It wasn’t me.

Letting the spatula balance on the edge of the pan, Scarlet pulled a plate from the cabinet and sliced a hunk of stale bread from the loaf on the counter. The horizon was glowing and a clear sky promised another sunny day, but a wind had kicked up in the night, tossing the cornstalks and whistling past the chimney. A rooster crowed in the yard.

Sighing, she spooned the eggs onto the plate before sitting down at the dining table. She shoveled the food into her mouth while her hunger was stronger than her nerves. With her free hand, she reached for the portscreen on the table and established a netlink. “Search,” she muttered through a half-full mouth. “Tattoo L-S-O-P.”

UNABLE TO IDENTIFY COMMAND.

Grumbling, she typed in the terms and swallowed the last of the eggs while a stream of links came up: Extreme tattoos. Tattoo designs. Virtual tattoo models. The science behind tattoo removal. The latest in tattoo technology, virtually painless!

She tried: TATTOO LSOP962

No matches found.

She picked up the bread and ripped out a hunk with her teeth.

FOREARM TATTOO NUMBERS

A collection of images filled the screen, arms skinny and bulky, pale and dark, covered with garish drawings or displaying small, tiny symbols on their wrists. Thirteens and Roman numerals, birthdates and geographical coordinates. The first year of peace, “1 T.E.,” was popular.

Jaw beginning to ache, Scarlet dropped the rest of the bread down on the plate and rubbed her palms into her eyes. Street fighter tattoos? Kidnapper tattoos? Mafia tattoos?

Who were these people?

She stood up and started a pot of coffee.

“Wolf,” she whispered to herself as the water began to percolate. She let the word linger, feeling it on her lips. To some, a wild beast, a predator, a nuisance. To others, a shy animal who was too often misunderstood by humanity.

An uneasiness still lingered in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t get the memory of him out of her head, nearly killing his opponent amid all those spectators, before running out into the fields like a man possessed. At the time, she’d believed that the howl she’d heard minutes later had been a true wolf prowling the farms—they certainly weren’t uncommon, not after the species protection act that had been enforced centuries ago—but her certainty was failing.

They call me Wolf at the fights.

She put her plate and the empty fry pan into the sink, running cool water over them while she scanned the fields’ swaying shadows through the window. Soon the farm would be filled with life—androids and workers and genetically enhanced honeybees.

She poured the coffee before it was finished, topping her mug with a splash of fresh milk, and sat back at the table.

WOLVES

An image of a gray wolf filled the screen, fangs bared, ears flattened. Snowflakes clung to its thick coat.

Scarlet dragged her finger across the screen, sending the picture away. The images that followed were more peaceful: wolves tumbling with their mates, cubs sleeping piled on top of one another, regal white-and-gray-pelted wolves creeping through autumn woods. She chose a link from one of the species preservation societies and scanned the text, pausing when she came to the section on howling.

WOLVES HOWL IN ORDER TO GAIN THE ATTENTION OF THEIR PACK OR SEND TERRITORIAL WARNINGS. LONE WOLVES WHO HAVE BECOME SEPARATED FROM THEIR PACK WILL HOWL IN ORDER TO FIND THEIR COMPANIONS. OFTEN, THE ALPHA MALE IS THE MOST AGGRESSIVE HOWLER OF THE PACK. HIS AGGRESSIVENESS CAN BE DETECTED IN HIS LOW-PITCHED, ROUGH HOWLS WHEN HE APPROACHES A STRANGER.

A chill shook Scarlet so hard her coffee splashed up over the rim of her mug. Cursing, she stood to grab a towel and mopped it up, annoyed at being spooked by a stupid article. Did she honestly think the crazy street fighter had been trying to communicate with his pack?

She threw the towel into the sink and grabbed the portscreen, skimming through the rest of the article before following a link about pack hierarchy.

WOLVES TRAVEL IN PACKS, GROUPS THAT RANGE FROM SIX TO FIFTEEN MEMBERS AND HAVE AN ESTABLISHED HIERARCHY. AT THE TOP OF THE SOCIAL STRUCTURE ARE THE ALPHA MALE AND ALPHA FEMALE, A MATED PAIR. THOUGH THEY ARE FREQUENTLY THE ONLY WOLVES IN THE PACK WHO WILL BREED AND PRODUCE A LITTER, ALL OTHER PACK MEMBERS ASSIST IN FEEDING AND RAISING THE PUPS.

MALES WILL ESTABLISH THEIR ALPHA RANK THROUGH RITUAL COMBAT: ONE WOLF MAY CHALLENGE ANOTHER, RESULTING IN A FIGHT THAT DETERMINES WHICH WOLF IS SUPERIOR. REPEATED VICTORIES WILL EARN RESPECT FOR THE MALE WOLF, AND ULTIMATELY DECIDE THE PACK LEADER.

THE NEXT STEP IN THE PACK HIERARCHY ARE THE BETA WOLVES, WHO OFTEN HUNT AND PROVIDE PROTECTION TO THE CUBS.

THE OMEGA WOLF IS THE LOWEST RANKING IN THE PACK. OFTEN TREATED AS A SCAPEGOAT, THE OMEGAS ARE OCCASIONALLY PICKED ON BY THE REST OF THE PACK. THIS CAN LEAD TO THE OMEGA DRIFTING TO THE EDGES OF THE PACK’S TERRITORY AND, ON OCCASION, LEAVING THE PACK ALTOGETHER.

A flurry of clucking startled Scarlet.

Setting the port on the counter, she peered out the window. Her stomach flipped.

The shadow of a man stretched across the yard, the gathered hens skittering away from him toward their coop.

As if sensing her, Wolf glanced up and spotted Scarlet in the window.

She spun away. Swallowing the rising panic, she ran into the foyer and snatched her grandmother’s shotgun from its corner beneath the stairs.

Wolf hadn’t moved by the time she’d thrown open the front door. The chickens were already growing familiar with the stranger, pecking around his feet in search of falling seed.

Scarlet settled the gun in her arms and released the safety.

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“What do you want?” she yelled, startling the hens away from him. The light from the house spilled around her onto the gravel. Her shadow shifted across the drive, almost brushing Wolf’s feet.

The madness from the fight was gone, and the bruises on his face were nearly invisible. He seemed calm and unconcerned with the gun, though he didn’t move toward her.

After a long silence, he raised both hands to either side of his head, open palmed. “I’m sorry. I’ve frightened you again.” As if to make amends, he backed away. Two, three steps.

“You have a gift,” she deadpanned. “Keep your hands up.”

His fingers twitched in acknowledgment.

Scarlet paced out from the door, but she stopped when the gravel bit into her bare feet. Her senses prickled, waiting for Wolf to make any sudden movement, but he was as still as the stone house behind her.

“I’ve already commed the police,” she lied, her thoughts stretching back to the portscreen left on the kitchen counter.

His eyes caught the light, and Scarlet suddenly remembered her dad sleeping upstairs. Was it too much to hope that her raised voice could dislodge him from his stupor?

“How did you get here?”

“Walked. Well, ran, mostly,” he said, hands still raised. The wind was making messy patterns in his hair. “Would you like me to leave?”

The question took her off guard. “I want you to tell me what you’re doing here. If you think I’m afraid of you—”

“I’m not trying to scare you.”

With a glare, she peered down the barrel to make sure she still had him in line.

“I wanted to talk about what you said at the fight. About the tattoo … and what happened to your grandmother. And your father.”

Scarlet clenched her jaw. “How did you find out where I live?”

His brow furrowed, as if in confusion. “Your ship has the name of your farm on it, so I looked it up. I don’t mean you any harm. It just seemed like you needed help.”

“Help?” Heat flared in her cheeks. “From the psychopath who tortured my dad? Who kidnapped my grandmother?”

“It wasn’t me,” he said, his tone unwavering. “There are other tattoos like mine. It was someone else.”

“Oh, really? Like you’re part of some cult or something?” The feathered body of one of the chickens pressed against her leg and she started, barely managing to keep the gun level.

“Or something,” he said with a flinching shrug. One foot crunched against the gravel.

“Don’t come any closer!” Scarlet yelled. The chicken clucked and dawdled away. “I will shoot, you know.”

“I know.” A flicker of kindness passed over him and he pointed at his temple. “You’ll want to aim for the head. That usually makes for a fatal shot. Or, if you’re feeling shaky, the torso. It’s a larger target.”

“Your head looks pretty big from here.”

He laughed—the expression changing everything about him. His stance relaxed, his face warmed.

A disgusted growl vibrated in Scarlet’s throat. This man had no right to be laughing, not when her grandmother was still out there.

Wolf dropped his arms and folded them over his chest. Before Scarlet could order them up again, he was speaking. “I’d been hoping to impress you last night, but it seemed to backfire on me.”

“I’m not usually impressed by men with anger management issues who kidnap my grandmother and follow me around and—”

“I didn’t kidnap your grandmother.” For the first time, his words were sharp, stealing the tirade out of Scarlet’s mouth. His attention fell down to the gaggle of chickens as they tramped around the door. “But if it really was someone with a tattoo like mine, I may be able to help figure out who did.”

“Why should I believe you?”

He took the question seriously, contemplating for a long while. “I have no proof other than what I told you last night. I’ve been in Rieux for nearly two weeks—they know me at the tavern, they know me at the fights. If your father were to see me, he wouldn’t recognize me. Nor would your grandmother.” He shifted his weight, like he was growing anxious from too long standing still. “I want to help.”

Frowning, Scarlet squinted down the double barrels. If he was lying, then this was one of the men who had taken her grandmother from her. He was cruel. He was evil. He deserved a bullet between his eyes.

But he was her only lead.

“You’ll tell me everything. Everything.” Pulling her finger off the trigger, she lowered the shotgun so that it pointed instead at his thigh. A nonfatal target. “And you’ll keep your hands where I can see them at all times. Just because I’m letting you into this house doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“Of course.” He nodded, all compliance. “I wouldn’t trust me either.”