My bucket list has nineteen things on it.

Here are five:

19. Vandalize the Statue of Liberty

18. Run away from the FBI

17. Rob a French bank and get away with it

16. Spend the night in jail

15. Fuck someone in a Venice gondola

Probably not what you were expecting. I mean, if I had to assume what some crazy bitch's bucket list looked like, it would probably be along the lines of skydiving, bungee jumping and jet-skiing. Not that I have anything against those things.

It's just that my bucket list is a little different.

For one, I made it when I was twelve. I had just started writing my first book when I stopped mid-sentence and realized that, if I wanted to write―really write―then I had to live first.

So I resolved to do all the crazy shit my characters would. I made myself a bucket list so wild and crazy that when my mother found it―and yes, she did see number 15―she lost it.

Well and truly lost it. As in, she took my computer and all the unsaved drafts of my stories, and she threw it against the wall.

I forgave her. I think.

What I didn't mention on my bucket list is number 6―but of course, you already know what that is. Get kidnapped. I don't know what on earth was going through my twelve-year-old brain, but I thought for certain that was one thing I'd never end up doing.

And yet, twice in two days, I have been kidnapped.

I wish I could say it felt good to cross it off my list.

When I wake up, it's in the hazy bliss of a high.

I'm half-conscious. But I can still hear the voices that talk in low tones somewhere nearby. My eyes won't open.

A man's voice. The bartender―Derek. I recognize that voice. The one who slipped something in my drink. "I took her for your sake! She was asking around!"

"Is it a crime to have questions?" A warm, furious, female voice.

"When it's about us, about what we stand for, yes!" I wish I could say I have excellent hearing, to be eavesdropping on all this, but the man is loud. Roaringly loud.

A temper. He must have a temper.

I hear the sound of a fist crashing into a wall.

The female doesn't sound happy. "I don't want her."

"She knows we kidnapped her! I can't just let her go!"

"Sure you can. Who will believe her?"

Her voice echoes, and it's almost familiar. Who will believe her? Who will believe her?

The grip of my unconsciousness tugs at me. Nobody, I think. Nobody will believe me. And then I sink back down into sleep.

"Get up," a rough voice says, and the rough clutch of the ropes on my wrists is a burning sensation. I wince at the unfamiliar pain.

"Shit," I moan, blinking awake. I'm tied to a bedpost in a small, white room.

It's Derek. The man from the bar. I'm too dizzy, too weak, to fight back as he drags me roughly to my feet. I stumble through the hallway as he forces me through a house that blurs past me.

"My mom," I mumble. "Where's my mom?"

He gives me a scornful look. Like I'm not even worth a reply.

I'm too faint to muster up my sarcasm. All I can do is plant my feet on the ground as we exit outside a tall apartment building. Fresh night air soaks into my lungs.

We're in the heart of the city. We're in New Orleans.

"My mom," I rasp. "Christine Barrow."

No recognition. No knowledge. But that can't be right. Because he's a Wolf, and if the Wolves have my mother, then why doesn't he know about it?

He's a brute, I console myself. A mean-tempered brute. He doesn't know better because he's not high enough up in their ranks.

The ropes come undone and with a sneer, Derek shoves me into the middle of the road.

My heart pounds, but―there's no cars. There's no one here. It's the middle of the night.

As I look back, he is going back into the apartment building, chuckling to himself.

"Sick bastard," I mutter, staggering towards the other side of the street.

I don't look back at the apartment―all I can see of is its sleek black exterior. Here, across the road, there is a pastry shop and a bookstore and a florist. But all of it blurs as I trip over myself, trying to get as far away as possible.

I'm no quitter. But when I'm in the middle of the city late at night―or morning, I don't even know―with drugs still circulating through my system?

I'm done for. I'm easy prey.

And while I pity the man who tries anything on me while I'm sober, if anyone gets a hold of me right now, I'll be capable of nothing but swearing.

Frantically, I pat my pockets and―there it is. My switchblade. My gun.

They didn't take my weapons. They must not have thought I was a big enough threat.

It stings my ego that they were right.

Drugged, half-unconscious, and in unfamiliar territory, maybe I wasn't a threat. But I vow to myself that I will come back here. And I will get my mother back.

Lost in a vengeful frenzy, I don't notice the puddle until it splashes up to my knees. I go stumbling forward, my hands splayed to catch me against the rough pavement.

I feel bits of gravel lodged in my palms. Beneath the skin.

It burns. Frustrated tears spring to my eyes.

The city lights blur above me, turning into a smear of colour. I hear music playing and drunken laughter. Brokenly, I wonder if maybe I should just let myself fall here. If I should just wait it out until morning. If I should take my chances.

You can do this, Jude, my father's voice whispers.

But it's so hard.

And then a soft, tentative female voice is asking, "Are you okay?"

For a second, I think it is the voice of the girl who was talking to Derek. But she doesn't have that same fire, that same ferocity.

She sounds . . . gentle. Concerned.

I look up. A woman who can't be much older than me is offering her pale, slender hand. She is wearing a dark trenchcoat, and her blonde hair is cut to her shoulders.

"Um . . ." I don't know how to accept help from a stranger―even if she is a petite blonde woman with her hand outstretched.

She raises a slender eyebrow, and the city lights are reflected in her crystal blue eyes. "Of course you need help," she says, and she pulls me to my feet with surprising strength.

"I can't . . ."

One arm looped beneath me, helping me walk, she tugs me in the direction of the city's heart. New Orleans grows blurrier with every step.

"Are you okay?" she asks. "Why are you out here?" She scans me―the dazedness in my eyes, the drunken tilt to my steps. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong," I slur.

"Is there someone I can call?" she asks, her soft voice growing increasingly agitated. "There has to be someone I can call."

The truth is―there isn't. With my mom gone, I have nobody.

For a moment, the thought is so unbearably sad that I freeze.

Her face flickers to mind again―a little girl with mismatched eyes―and I blink it away. I can't be imagining things now.

"No," I mutter.

"What's your name?" she asks.

I hesitate. I can't give it to her―and I can't be wasting time here. I can't trust anybody―especially not kind, sweet young women who are the only thing preventing me from toppling over.

With the last of my energy, I yank away from her arm.

I can do this.

I can stand.

Swaying on my feet, I summon the last of my strength.

"I―" I swallow roughly. "I don't have a name." At this point, I don't even know what's coming out of my mouth.

Then I back away and begin to run.

Sunlight is jagged through the windows, cutting across the floorboards. I blink at the stabbing burst of white, and what comes out of my mind is half-moan and half-choking.

How did I get here?

I'm in my mother's bedroom, sprawled out over the empty sheets where she was taken. Morbid, maybe―but I miss her.

She wasn't always the best mother. But she did try.

"Get up, get up, get up." Her voice, rousing me. Her hands are hard as she rolls me out of bed, and I'm so angry at the sudden intrusion that I can only growl.

"It's the middle of the night, Mom!"

"We have to go to the hospital."

This startles me. "We . . . why?"

"There was an accident." And finally, finally, I can see the tears in her eyes.

That night, as they operate on my brother and father, my mother holds my hand. Slumped on the hospital chairs, there is no choice for us to wait. And as the sun rises, the doctor finally comes. And when he pronounces Don Barrow and Jeremy Barrow dead, I break down into sobs. My mother squeezes my fingers, and she doesn't let go.

I need to get her back. But now, as I wake―unsure of the time or the day―I only breathe in her lily scent and sigh out through my nose.

The Wolves. I still have to find them.

Now I know where they are. Or, at least, where they bring their hostages.

But first―I do have class.

"Oh, my god, Jude! Are you okay?"

It's Angela's soft voice that breaks me out of my daydream. She comes up the aisle, clapping her hands over her mouth.

The lecture is about to start. And I don't have time to deal with this―she's making a scene.

"I'm fine," I say briskly.

"Your face!"

"It's a modeling gig," I say. "Make-up. You know how they like it in Milan―that bruised, beaten-up look."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I painted on these cuts. Cool, right?"

Her eyes are wide. She's definitely high. "Cool," she agrees, and moves on.

The student next to me―a dark-haired girl with short hair―gives me a doubtful look. A single raised eyebrow. I can't help the chuckle, but I don't say anything and the lecture begins.

It's not the same professor I remember teaching criminology. Instead, it's this woman with a long mane of curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses.

On the board, it says Professor Lunetta.

"Who's that?" I whisper to the girl next to me.

She shrugs. "A supply?"

The teacher's loud voice shrills up through the classroom. "I'm a transfer from Toulouse Academy's sister school―Santa Lucia Accademia."

"Why is she here two weeks into the semester?" a boy mumbles from behind me.

I don't know how the Professor hears, but her hawk-eyed glare fixes on me. "Did you say something?"

Two seconds. Three. Is she talking to me? Oh, shit.

"No, I didn't." If she's going to try and bully me, she picked the wrong person.

This time, it wasn't even my fault. I didn't say anything.

She turns away and begins to write on the board. Criminology 101.

Her voice has a faint Italian accent. "After the retirement of your previous criminology teacher, I was extended an invitation to teach here at the Toulouse Academy of Fine Arts. Previously, I was a Sculpting teacher."

"Great," I mutter. So we have an artist teaching us law.

She swivels back around, her round-eyed glare narrowing down over the class. "I was personally invited by a former student of mine―the director of art over the board―and I will not tolerate disrespect. Do I make myself clear?"

Who does she think is going to answer? I roll my eyes.

This is going to be one long class.

The girl with short-cut black hair introduces herself as Mikayla.

"Mik for short," she says breathlessly, as we walk across campus in the chill autumn hair. "I'm majoring in Art History."

"I'm majoring in English Literature," I explain as we duck into the crowded cafe.

"What do you want to do?"

"Write," I say simply. "What about you?"

"I want to teach," she says. "I want to be a professor one day."

We take a seat at a small round table. I order a hot chocolate and Mikayla orders her coffee black. "You don't like coffee?" she asks.

I grimace. "Not at all."

She laughs.

"So . . ." I say. "Why'd you decide to apply here? Where are you from?"

Mik's dark eyes are slanted, full of rich dark colour. "I'm half-Japanese," she says. "But I was born in Korea. One of my teachers recommended me here. It's a pretty cool place, don't you think?"

Besides the dead body and the kidnapping and the weird, cult-like vibe? Definitely. "I agree," I say, as the waiter sets down our drinks.

"And you? Why are you here?"

"Fresh start," I say easily, blocking out the memory of the mangled car and my hands on the steering wheel. "I used to live in California."

"California," she says wistfully. "Sun and surfing and tanned guys."

I laugh. "Pretty much. Except tanned guys aren't really my type."

"No? Do you prefer pasty white men?"

I spit out my coffee. "Not even close. I like my men the same way I like my coffee."

Confusion tugs at her mouth. "But you don't even like . . ." It hits her, and she tilts her head back, her a laugh a soft chime. "You like your men the same way you like your coffee."

I motion to my hot chocolate. "Not at all."

When her laughter subsides, my gaze drifts to the window. The autumn campus is beautiful, I'll admit that―gold and red leaves, smearing together as the wind swirls around the old willow trees. The gothic gray building of the university stands tall and proud. The statues of the winged creatures perched on the rooftops seem smug almost.

Even if there's something wrong about this place, it's still stunning.

>>>

Does anyone remember Professor Lunetta? I'm actually curious. Also . . . I may or may not have laughed at my own joke.

And hopefully I don't make this obvious, but who do you think the woman was?

From the moon and back,
Sarai