UNIVERSITY STUDENT FROM TOULOUSE ACADEMY IS MISSING. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION, PLEASE CONTACT THE POLICE.

Posters have been plastered everywhere. Images of a girl I don't recognize, someone with smooth brown skin and dark-lashed eyes.

On the sidewalk of the library, I slow down.

The memory of the outstretched hand flickers in my mind. The deep red of blood, sinking into the carpet.

I only saw her hand, but could it be her?

KACY BELL. 5'4, BLACK-HAIRED, BLACK EYES, 115 POUNDS. IF YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT HER DISAPPEARANCE, DON'T HESITATE TO CONTACT US.

Beneath it, a phone number is listed. I write it down.

But I called the police. I told them she was dead. Why would there be missing posters of a dead person?

It can't be the same girl.

And yet, isn't it worse if it isn't her? How many people are missing around campus? Why are the students disappearing?

I've only been here for less than two weeks. And already, I've seen a killer on the loose.

It should terrify me. It should make me tremble and hyperventilate and cry. But . . . I'm familiar with death. Too familiar. I've had my fair share of it. I looked it in the eyes and I walked away. And if I did it once, I can do it again.

The murder should faze me. But it doesn't.

I don't know if that makes me empty. Emotionless. But I know it's giving me strength right now, as I knock on the door of the Crescent sorority house.

One minute. Two.

It's a girl with red hair and a bright smile who opens the door. She wears skimpy pink pajamas, barely there, and I can see her white skin through them.

Now this, this, is what I imagine a sorority to be like.

She holds her hands at an awkward angle as she waves, and I notice her fingernails are a fresh pink, still wet.

Yes, this is what I thought university would be like. Girlish sleepovers and pink pyjamas and talking about boys late at night.

Not kidnapping and cults and dead bodies in the living room.

Hey, those could be lyrics in a Lorde song.

"Hi," says the red-headed girl brightly. "Can I help you? I'm Julia."

Be nice. Be nice. I'm going to have kiss serious ass if I want the help of these people. "I'm Jude. I was wondering if I could speak to the sorority president?"

It's only a bet that the green-eyed girl is the president. With the way the other girls looked to her, almost worshipping, I think I'm right.

Julia's face flickers, almost imperceptibly.

Recognition.

Shit. If I've made a name for myself already, I'm done for.

This club—or cult, whatever it is—must be like the Dead Poets Society. At least, that's what I'm hoping. They'll have connections in higher places, connections I can use. I need these people if I want the resources to help my mother.

"Jude . . ." The girl hesitates, looking back over her shoulder. Like she's unsure if she should let me in. "I . . ."

And then I hear her: the green-eyed girl. Her voice.

"Who's at the door?" Arrogant. Lazy. Bored.

Julia swallows.

"Jude," she says, so low I almost can't hear. I don't know how the green-eyed girl does, but I see a glimpse of her as her head snaps up. "Barrow."

"Jude Barrow."

I know she recognizes me as she waves Julia aside. Her steps are long, loping, graceful. It's almost two in the afternoon. She is dressed like a model, with a low-cut V-neck and billowing pants. Her white-blonde hair shines sleek and smooth, framing her face.

She's even more beautiful than I remember. And she hates me.

Her glare is startling against her prim, dainty features. "What are you doing here?"

It's just us now. Julia retreated into the living room.

It hits me suddenly―their carelessness. Their unbothered expressions.

There was a dead body in their living room yesterday.

Why aren't they mourning, grieving, panicked? Why aren't they hysterical? Why are they still here?

They don't even look like they've seen anything traumatic.

And their house . . . the Crescent sorority house.

Why isn't taped off? Why aren't the police here, swarming in and out, looking for the killer? What about the crime scene?

Something isn't right.

Something is very, very wrong.

"I want to be a part of your stupid cult," I say. And wince―that probably could have come out better.

Come on, Jude. Persuasion.

"I need your help," I add.

"Why would I help you after you tried to kill me yesterday?"

I scowl. "Holding a knife to your throat isn't me trying to kill you."

"Really? Just a little foreplay?"

Simply, I say, "If I wanted you dead, you would be dead."

But―shit. After someone was just murdered, I can't say something like that. I can't make myself a suspect, not when I need every last bit of help on my side. My mother is gone, and I need to get her back.

Her eyes darken.

Is she thinking what I'm thinking?

What happened to the corpse in your living room?

And . . . why aren't you worried?

Every part of me is telling me to run. To back away from this house and its club and this girl.

But I don't.

"Why did you kidnap me?" I ask. Because I'm curious. Of all the girls on campus who would have loved the opportunity tot participate in some cult-like initiation, why me?

She sighs, and this time it's with exhaustion. "Because they asked us to."

They? Who is they?

The same people who took my mother?

Could this be a coincidence?

"Who? Who asked you?"

Her eyes dart around the street behind me, and she yanks me forward into the house. Slamming the door shut behind me.

Only minutes ago, the living room was teeming with girls. And now, strangely enough, we're alone.

My eyes wander to the white carpet.

The memory of the outstretched, lifeless hand surges up in my mind. The wine-red blood, soaking into the rug.

But it's like it never happened. The carpet is white. Untouched.

Did I imagine it?

"Listen, Jude," she hisses. I still don't know her name. "If you know what's good for you, you'll get the hell out of here. Before she finds you."

I give her a withering look. "Where am I supposed to go? Kentucky? Start over in Louisiana?"

She doesn't even seem to notice me. Her eyes are wild, frantically darting around, and her voice has become too low. As though she is worried someone is listening.

"Just go anywhere," she says. "Get out of here. Get out of New Orleans. Because once she finds you, there will be no running. No hiding."

"Who's she? Who's looking for me?"

"She's only the beginning. There's a price on your head. A bounty. You need to go, okay? I'm telling you for your own safety."

I take a step closer. "This is bullshit. Do you think you're going to scare me with some half-assed horror story? I'm not going anywhere."

But she's still shaking her head at me. "No, you don't understand. The wolves want you. They want you, Jude."

"The wolves?" I sneer.

"The Wolves," she says.

I roll my eyes. "Come on. You can do better than that. I'd be more afraid if you said―"

She grabs my shoulders. "It's not a joke, Jude! The Wolves are looking for you and so is she."

"She?"

"Hunter," she whispers. "The Alpha."

I don't give a damn about cults and clubs and sororities.

But there's something in the way she says it―The Wolves―that makes my blood chill. The Wolves. The Alpha. It sounds ridiculous, even stupid . . . and yet. True fear lines her face, and her hands are shaking.

"Fine," I say. I can play along. "Whatever. There are Wolves looking for me. And what do they want?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know. All I know is that she asked for you―she wanted us to initiate you. She wants to keep an eye on you."

Great―the leader of some private school club wants to keep tabs on me.

But that doesn't make sense. I only moved here a month ago. My mother and I don't have any close friends around here and―well. I haven't had any real friends since the accident.

Who would care enough to want to watch me? To keep an eye on me?

The answer comes to me immediately.

The same people who took your mother, Jude.

I don't know why they have her. Or what their interest in us is. But whatever the fuck an Alpha is, whoever she is, I want to see her. Now.

"Listen," I say, pausing because I don't know her name.

Her green eyes harden, and I am reminded that while she might be warning me―she is no friend of mine. "Sylvie."

Sylvie. I will have to watch out for her.

"I want to see these Wolves, or whatever―"

She stands up in a burst of outrage. "No! Do you have a death wish?"

"Only sometimes," I mutter. "And they're messing with the wrong person. Those nerdy little elitist assholes are going to pay for kidnapping my―"

Her brows draw together in inexplicable confusion. Her eyes dart around, and she seems to be scanning the halls. Making sure no one is close.

"They're not who you think they are," she whispers.

"Come on," I snap. "Just tell me what house they're from. Waning, Waxing . . . what's that other one? Gibbous? Come on."

All the blood drains from her face.

"They're not from here," she whispers.

I roll my eyes. "What? Are they from the other university? Because if this is some school rivalry, I'll―"

"No, please," Sylvie says. "Just trust me."

"Well, kidnapping seems to be a theme around here, so I can hardly help―"

"They're not a part of this university, or any other one," she says quietly. "They're not students."

"Then what are they? Middle-aged men from an accounting firm? Be serious, Sydney."

Her eyes flash. "Sylvie," she corrects.

"Whatever, Sylvie," I say. "Just point me in their direction, and I'll be on my way."

I've got what I need from her. And now, I'm going to get my mother back.

What if you're wrong? What if they don't have her?

I tell the small voice to shut the hell up.

This is all I've got. And I'm going to get my mother back―she's all I have left.

"No," she says, urging me backward. I step back, until I'm back at the doorway. "I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't? What are you so afraid of?"

She is still shaking her head as she pushes me outside. "I'm sorry, Jude. I wish I could help, but I can't."

No, no, no―

"You can't just kick me out!"

Her eyes narrow. "This is for your own good. And mine."

The door slams shut.

Sylvie didn't give me anything substantial. A phone number. An address. Even a goddamn email. But I have enough―the name.

The Wolves.

Whatever that is, I can look around. I can find them.

As I walk back across campus to my dormroom, I find Angela sitting cross-legged on her bed. Her brows raise as she looks at me.

"Jude," she says. "You didn't come home yesterday."

Nosy bitch is my immediate instinct. But I clench my shaking fists and force myself to breathe out. I'm stressed―that's all. My mother has disappeared. The police won't listen. I saw a dead body yesterday, and now no one seems to even be affected.

There's something wrong with this city. This place.

"I visited my mom," I say casually. Rummaging through my bags, I finally manage to find it: my faithful, trusty shotgun.

I pull it out and Angela freezes.

"Oh, relax," I say. "I'm not going to shoot you."

Unstable? I might be.

"Um, Jude, what are you―"

I shove the shotgun into my backpack. "Just some spring cleaning."

"We're two weeks into September."

"Fall cleaning?" I try.

She swallows and turns back to her English lit book. Wuthering Heights―nice. But I don't think she'd appreciate small talk about Emily Bronte.

"See you later," I say, slamming the door behind me.

She won't report me. I've seen her meth collection. Sweet little Angela is the campus drug dealer.

Along with the shotgun, I also snagged my favourite―and only―dress. A tight, black thing that clings to my curves and just barely touches midthigh.

I'm not sure that it'll work, but it won't hurt.

I need answers, and I don't give a damn how I get them. Whether it's from the help of a pretty dress or a switchblade―or both―I'm not particularly picky. Not when it comes to my mom.

An hour later, I'm sitting in a bar. It's not even close to nighttime―it must be early afternoon―but it's still packed with roaring, halfway-to-drunk old men.

"A margarita, please," I order as I slide onto the barstool. My stare drifts to the man next to me, his hat tucked low over his eyes, his gray hair bristly over his jaw. He takes a swig of beer, and as he reads something from his phone, his gaze darkens.

He doesn't like a good person to ask. But I'll be damned if I don't question every single person in this small town. And if that doesn't work, I'll go downtown, to the real city of New Orleans.

It seems I won't have to get that far, though. Not as the man's eyes flick up towards me and his jaw tightens.

"What do you want?" he growls.

I lean over, knowing my bare skin is smooth and glowing under the light, accentuated by the black of the tight fabric. I'm not above seduction.

"Look, sir, I was wondering if you knew where to find something called―" Here, I hesitate. Remembering the look of sheer terror in Sylvie's eyes. But I press on anyway. "The Wolves."

His entire body goes rigid.

"Why would a nice young lady like you be looking for something like that?" It sounds like something that should be said casually, confidently.

But the way he says it―tense and full of barely restrained jittering.

Something is wrong here.

"You know what they are," I say. Not a question.

"I have n-no idea," he says. Abruptly, he stumbles back from the bar stool, leaving his half-empty beer. "I've got to go. I'll just―uh―I'll be―" He takes off, barrelling through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd.

Almost instantly, I deflate.

If I can't get anyone to talk to me, how will I find them? How will I get my mother back?

But something seems strange. If the Wolves are just some college club, then why did that forty-something man know about them? Why would he be afraid of some elitist student group?

Maybe it's because everyone in this town seems rich. Maybe he doesn't want to offend the son or daughter of someone he works with.

That would make sense, and yet . . . something doesn't feel right.

I sidle over to the next stool, to a thirty-something woman. I recognize her―one of the professors at the university across town.

"Hello," I say politely. Sipping my margarita.

The lady looks startled, but she smiles formally. "Hi," she says warmly. "Do I know you? You look familiar. Are you in my psych class?"

"Oh, no, I actually go to the Toulouse Academy of Fine Arts."

"Ah, the Toulouse Tigers. It's nice to meet you . . ."

I don't want to tell her my name. To give her anything to remember me by. "I had a question," I push on. She looks surprised, but I continue, "I was wondering if you knew . . . what the Wolves were?"

She swallows. Her face turns into an icy mask―cold, distant. As though moments ago, she wasn't warm and welcoming.

"It's for a school project," I say. "It would be so helpful if you knew . . ." If you knew anything of assistance.

But I don't get to finish. She grabs her purse, looking both ways through the crowded bar as though searching for someone, and then she hurries away from the counter.

Shit. Shit.

What the hell is going on?

Before I can think about this, the bartender waves at the air in front of me. There's an easy smile on his face, but something about it is―wrong. Predatory. And then I realize this isn't the same bartender who gave me the margarita five minutes ago.

Relax, Jude. They must have had a shift change.

The bartender's name tag reads Derek.

"I couldn't help but overhear," he says in that same casual tone. "That you were looking for something?"

This, at least, is something. "Yes," I rush on. "The Wolves. It's for a school project and I―"

Then I notice something. His teeth. Sharpened into honed points.

It reminds me of something―someone I once knew. A girl.

I shake my head. "I was just wondering if you could help me, if you knew anything . . . ?"

"What do you need?" A slender, arched eyebrow.

"I would just like to become acquainted with someone called the Alpha."

His teeth bare into a snarl, and shadow swallows the light of his eyes, turning them a sickly black as he lunges towards me―

But in the next moment, his hands are gripping the counter and he is casually pouring me a drink.

Did I just imagine that?

The lights around me blur. Dizzy.

"The Alpha," he says calmly. "What do you know about the Alpha?"

"Just that―" But I can't finish. The world is suddenly wobbling, and my eyes are rolling back. Shit.

This feels like the moment when I woke up, eight years ago, in the hospital. Pumped to the brim with morphine. Drugs.

Drugs.

Oh. Shit.

I try to stumble back, pushing myself off the bar stool―trying to get somewhere, anywhere, away from the bartender and his sharp smile, but―

Too late. My knees buckle and the world slides out from beneath me.