As far as murderous stares get, I think this one might be winning.

After sneaking out―just for hot chocolate, relax―and making my way to a 24-hour café I saw earlier today, my eye caught on something. And then, out of nowhere, I stumbled right into a slender body.

Émilie. Glaring at me. Her electric blue eyes, lined in black liner, narrowed as I apologize.

And, if you're wondering, sorry is unfortunately a part of my vocabulary. And I do know how to use it when I'm in the wrong―like not paying attention to what's in front of me.

"Sorry about that," I mumble. I'm already looking past her, trying to see the coffee shop. An indie little bar with bead curtains and disco lights and crystal balls.

But she doesn't move. She doesn't even blink.

"Jude Barrow," she says coldly.

What―is she mad I won the poker game?

"Move, please," I say politely. Or, really, as polite as I can muster with my teeth gritted and my eyes fixed on hot chocolate.

It must be close to four in the morning. After Tommy and I finished watching Legally Blonde and White Chicks―compromise, okay?―he left. Hunter disappeared at the part in Legally Blonde where Warren introduces her to his new fiancée. I know―it was just getting good.

But because Tommy left a few hours ago, and I haven't been able to sleep since, and the fact that Hunter still isn't back, I decided I wanted hot chocolate. Sue me.

Émilie is still staring at me. Murderously, if I haven't mentioned it.

"What?" I finally snap.

She takes a step closer. The girl I saw only the other day, with her confident and easy grin, her mischievous eyes, is gone. Now that we're alone . . .

Well, I can really only describe it one way. She's furious.

I'm starting to think this runs a little deeper than poker.

"Derek has two broken ribs, a concussion, and a bullet wound," she says.

Derek. Shit. Is it bad that I forgot about him?

After knocking him out and dragging him into the ladies bathroom . . . well, I'm sure that would be an embarrassment on the part of any male chauvinist.

There's no one around us. Whoever is working at the coffee shop or any of the little booths around here is miraculously gone. Probably avoiding the conflict.

Damn. I'm a little late, if everyone else saw Émilie coming from a mile away.

"Congratulations," I say. "It's too bad I'm a little short on gold medals."

Émilie's glare becomes more dangerous. If that's possible. I see her fingers tighten on the gun at her waistband, and maybe I wasn't awake two seconds ago, but I can and will take her down in a fight.

Try me, I think. But she doesn't get the chance.

The girl who must work at the coffee shop suddenly comes into view, and her eyes widen in surprise. Her mocha-brown skin, scarlet lipstick and matching bandana, are startlingly familiar.

Oh, shit. Gianina.

The girl I stole the key card from. Who . . . may have actually bought my boyfriend story. This really can't get any better.

And then Émilie says, "You screw with my boyfriend and you screw with me."

She's . . . Derek's girlfriend.

"Gianina!" I blurt out.

I expected something hostile, but her expression only brightens. I realize then that she has no idea I'm the one who took her key card, and why would she? I doubt Hunter would have told her, and if she works here, maybe she's not an active gang member. Just the family of one.

I'm not sure. All I know is I'm glad she doesn't hate me.

Because I'm pretty sure Émilie was ready to hide my dead body somewhere.

"Jude!" she says, and I brush past Émilie as though she isn't burning holes into my back. The red booths are surprisingly soft as I sit down, and I lean towards the counter.

"Hot chocolate," I say. "Please."

Once Gianina slides a mug of steaming, rich brown hot chocolate to me, her eyes darken with worry.

"Was that Émilie Spare?" she asks.

Émilie, who has now vanished and hopefully out of hearing distance, is someone I don't really want to make an enemy out of. I can tell she's sharp-witted, clever. Intelligent.

But then again, she's dating Derek. I think that speaks for itself.

"Yeah," I say, although I didn't know her last name was Spare. "She kind of hates me, in case you couldn't tell."

Gianina props her elbows up on the counter. The Underground―or at least the floor we're on, which is a labyrinth of coffee shops, restaurants, and fine dining―is empty. It's just us, and as Gianina purses her full, crimson lips together, I feel a tugging sensation in my stomach.

Gianina is pretty. Sexy, even. With those dark lashes and round eyes and that plump mouth . . . I could like her. I could really like her.

Especially as she says, "Émilie's always been a bitch. Ever since we were young."

"You've known her for a while then?"

Gianina seems wistful. "Yeah. Some of us grew up here, born into the Underground, but others . . . well, my brother took me here when I was twelve. Protecting me, I guess."

"But . . ." She's making it sound like the Underground is a city. And while it's big enough to be one . . . "I just don't understand," I say. "What do you guys do here? What about school? A career?"

But even as I say it, I think of a nine-to-five job. I think of living in the suburbs, getting married to a middle-class white man, having two kids, and dying all behind that white-picket fence.

"It's unconventional," Gianina admits. "I mean, you have to work a certain amount of hours a month to pull your weight. But once you do that . . . well, you can do anything, really."

I must seem confused, because she adds, "I'm actually really into criminology. I'm studying for the LSATs. I want to go to law school."

Pretty, genuine, unassuming Gianina? I picture her with a razor-sharp grin, cross-examining witnesses on the stand. A lawyer.

"Don't you need a university degree for that?"

"I have one. The Toulouse Academy, a bachelor of science."

"Wait." That's my school. "Isn't that university aboveground?"

She gives me a strange look. "It's funded by the Wolves. Of course, only half of the students really know that, but anyone down here is able to enroll. They even teach a few classes on the ninth floor."

The Wolves . . . the Mafia . . . fund a university. Anise is the leader behind them, which must mean―well, shit. Anise supports a college education.

This isn't really helping my hatred for the Wolves. I don't know how to dislike these people when they so clearly seem . . . like they're not the bad guy.

Focus. "So I can still attend class down here?"

Gianina brightens. "Yeah, what are you majoring in?"

"Biology." The hot chocolate is rich on my tongue, warm and spiced with cinnamon. "And criminology." At least it gives us something in common.

"There's a class for criminology tomorrow morning! I can take you, if you want." She seems suddenly shy, and I wonder what it would be like to fall in love with her. Probably easier than certain other people.

I grin at her. I know this one will make Hunter furious. "Deal."

Okay, fine, I didn't think Hunter would be mad about my university degree.

But I did think she wouldn't be happy―especially given the fact that I don't tell her where I'm going when I leave the next morning.

By this point, I've missed a week's worth of lectures. I mean, sure, I'm in student debt―but nobody's taking attendance.

Gianina meets me on the ninth floor, and I have to keep myself from gasping.

She loops her arm through mine. I stumble forward.

"How is this . . . one floor?"

I could see how you would never want to leave. The Underground seems more like a palace right now―or a real university. This floor is built from the same ancient, gothic stone, with the beautiful stone architecture. Arched doorways and gargoyle statues, with a ceiling as tall as a school gymnasium.

Jesus. I feel like I'm at Hogwarts. This has to be magic.

Gianina only laughs. "Excellent structural design, right? Piedro Something made it maybe fifty years ago, after he immigrated here from Sicily with Mafia old money."

All I can think to say is, "Damn."

Other students flow past us, all around our age, carrying textbooks and loose papers and pens. This place―I guess you could call it a campus―is even more lively than the real one. The one aboveground.

Suddenly, I am remembering the expression of the police officer the day I went to report my mom missing.

Her fear at my mention of Toulouse Academy.

How many people know about this place? How many people keep this secret?

"Yeah," Gianina agrees. "They're actually renovating a few floors. I wouldn't go down to the forty-ninth."

"That's . . . oddly specific."

Gianina shrugs. "That one is being done by some ex-Mafia boss. She's doing it as a surprise, dedicating it to her girlfriend." She pauses. "Actually, I think it's her fiancée."

I've always thought architecture was cool, although it isn't my suit. Writing is more my thing―I mean, not that you noticed or anything.

"Oh, look!" Gianina says, excitement flushing her face. She drags me through a bronze stone archway, into a sculpting classroom. "There she is!"

"The fiancee or the ex-Mafia boss?" I say, and then I fall short.

"Well, they're both technically ex-Mafia bosses but . . ." I'm no longer listening.

It takes me a second to recognize her. Short-cut blonde hair, blue eyes, and that easy smile. A flash of the night when I stumbled out into the street, after Derek drugged me: her hand, helping me to my feet.

It's her. It's the same girl.

Does she recognize me? Her blue eyes flit over me, and I see the faintest pause. The faintest confusion. She must not know where she recognizes me from. But she does.

"Hey, Professor," Gianina says. "This is my friend, Jude."

"Jude," says the professor, her eyes twinkling. She is dressed in white, flowing clothes, and she pulls it off with kind of grace that belongs on the runway. She seems confident, sure of herself. "Are you a student here? What do you take?"

"Criminology," I stammer out.

"Jude takes biology, too," Gianina adds.

"Any art classes?" The professor's face is glowing, and I almost wish I did.

"No," I say. "Creative writing."

She looks thoughtful. "For criminology . . . who do you have?"

The memory of Lunetta, with her wild, curly hair and her abstract outfits, comes back to me. I shudder with distaste and tell her.

The professor grins, and it reminds me how young she really is. Maybe a couple years older than me. "Lunetta? A right old bitch, you think?"

I'm about to agree when I hear a voice that makes me stiffen in fear. Lunetta herself.

"I heard that, young lady!" she calls out from across the hall, standing in the doorway of what must be my classroom. But she seems to be laughing, as though they're friends.

"I wanted you to!" the professor calls out. Even Gianina laughs.

Once Professor Lunetta swishes back into her class, the girl with blue eyes gives me a conspiratorial look. "Oh, we had this big feud when I first started her class. She was my first teacher at the Accademia. Although I did a have little bit of an attitude problem . . ."

She chuckles, and I realize Accademia is Italian. I'm about to ask when Gianina tugs me towards Lunetta's class.

"See you later!" she says to the blue-eyed teacher, and we duck into Lunetta's classroom.

I can't help thinking of the dreams I've been having lately.

My mom, mentioning the Wolves. My dad, cursing them.

Was Anise right? Am I more connected to these gangs than I think? Somewhere in my past, is there a way to unlock the truth about why the Saints took my mom? Has it been hidden inside me all along?

These thoughts―the questions that swirl like snow in a churning storm―hover in front of me throughout the lecture.

First degree murder is the . . .

The psychology behind the brain of a . . .

As you'll see here, demonstrated by Bundy and Dahmer . . .

And this unusual case, where the criminal was not made but born . . .

Which is exactly how, when Lunetta says, "Who was the most prominent serial killer in the 20th century?"

Her eyes hunt through the class of students, searching, searching.

She sees me. A flicker of recognition.

Shit.

"You," she says. "With no notes or laptop."

Well, I'd have asked my kidnappers for a laptop and some paper but . . .

I bite my tongue. "Ted Bundy?"

"No!" she barks out. "Controversial subject! Subjective answer! There was a large amount of publicity on dozens of these criminals and I could even say, boldly enough, that the Zodiac Killer . . ."

Someone taps my shoulder.

I turn around.

Soft, uptilted eyes―Japanese descent. Straight black hair. A look of shock.

It takes me a second to remember her, and a second longer to remember her name.

"Mikayla," I say. "Mik."

>>>

Does anyone remember Mikayla? Coffee shop? I like my men how I like my coffee? I definitely thought that was funnier than it was.

AND DO YOU SEE WHAT I DID? HAVE YOU GUESSED YET?

From the moon and back,
Sarai