That night, I dream of my mother.

She is ripped out of bed by masked strangers, flailing, begging for help through the hands they shove over her mouth.

Her wide, frightened eyes meet mine.

Please, Jude.

I am standing in the corner of the bedroom. Incapable of moving.

Mom! Mom! I want to scream.

Her nose is bleeding. Bright red droplets splatter over the pillow.

They force her to sit down at her desk. To write the note that says Don't look for me. I love you. Mom.

With shaking hands, my mother scribbles it out. They set it on the pillow.

Jude . . .

They pull a mask over her head, and the world goes black.

Before I moved to California, the thing I hated most in the world―and I doubt you'll believe me―was dogs.

In all honesty, it's the only thing I remember of my life before the accident.

My hatred of dogs.

I don't know where it came from, but all I can remember is my mother and father muttering, Damn mutts. The sound of howling, late at night. And a blue-eyed Alaskan malamute named Astrid.

That's all I have any memory of―my life before the crash. Hating dogs with no real reason.

Well―that's not entirely true. The bite-shaped scar on my wrist speaks to that.

But it's all I can think of now, as I walk through the city and hear the sound of barking. Downtown New Orleans is something of a wonder―there is a festival on the horizon. Someone must be preparing for a new parade, because banners and purple silk is littered all over the streets.

I'm trying to find my way back.

Stupid, I know.

I was drugged and it was the middle of the night―when they let me go, I left in the first direction I could. If that girl with the blonde hair and blue eyes hadn't held me up, I might have just fallen asleep right then and there. To hell with the nightly crime.

All I can remember, as I retrace my steps, are what I saw on the opposite street of the apartment building. A florist. A cafe. And something else I can't remember . . .

This is hopeless.

Around me, the city is filled with the noise and chatter of everyday life. Nearby, a woman walks in clipping high heels, her white pantsuit remarkably sleek. A mother argues, pulling along her two children whose faces are smeared with ice cream. An old man is sitting on a bench with a newspaper out in front of him, but he's looking at a group of teenage girls who order from a smoothie shop instead of reading.

None of this compares to California.

Already, I miss my beaches and the ocean and the surfboard shack. I miss the sun and the hot wind and the cars with their windows rolled down.

It doesn't mean I don't think this place isn't striking―it is. The city is something I never imagined I'd find myself in. But it's not home.

"Damn! Goddamn!" a woman on the phone curses, balancing it on her shoulder as she wrestles with five dogs on a leash.

I make sure to give her a wide berth as I pass her on the sidewalk.

Except, it's really no use.

Because as soon as I walk by―her hold on the leashes slips. And the dogs escape.

Howling, barking―desperate for freedom―the five of them run off in separate directions. Including mine.

I don't have time to say, "Oh, shit!" before the littlest one, a fluffy white dog, pounces on me.

I fall back onto the sidewalk as it yaps viciously, biting down hard―way too hard for a dog that's the size of my own hand―and gasp.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" The woman is suddenly bustling towards me. "Oh, goodness! Dear!"

I scramble away as fast as I can from the ferocious, nipping dog.

My heart is pounding in my ears as I hit something behind me, in my feverish escape backward.

No. No, no, no―

There's no way this could be any more embarassing.

Until I look up.

At the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.

In California, I dated one girl. Her name was Aimee, and she broke my heart into a million pieces.

If you had asked me, two seconds ago, who the most beautiful girl I had ever laid on eyes on was . . . I would have said Aimee.

But Aimee―cheating, lying bitch―has nothing on this woman.

Her dark eyes glitter dangerously as she looks at me, with honey-light hair that is wavy and silky soft in the midday sunlight.

But besides those features―the soft eyes, the soft hair―the rest of her is hard. Sharp.

Every inch of her radiates cold confidence. A dark, unwavering assurance. As though she should be wearing a crown, as though she is striding towards her throne with an army of soldiers behind her. But as she looks at me, an eyebrow raised, she is all alone.

"Are you alright?" Her voice is lush. Unwillingly, my eyes drift down to her mouth.

And I realize I was wrong.

Because her lips must be her softest feature.

She runs her tongue over her bottom lip, and I force myself to look up into her muddy-brown eyes. "I'm fine," I say, bolting to my feet.

I feel the scrapes and scratches all over me. The little white dog snaps at my heels, and I jump in surprise.

In a single motion, the girl kneels down and picks up the dog.

Immediately, it calms down, huffing excitedly in her hand.

"Oh, you're a good boy, aren't you?" she coos. And it's so strange―such a contrast from her hard appearance, that I take a step back.

Maybe I need to revise my opinion. Maybe she isn't as dark and dangerous as she seems.

And yet, even as I watch her pet the dog on the nose with her fingertip, I still see it: the cold, casual arrogance that swirls around her. The powerful set to her shoulders. No, whoever she is, she is important.

I shake myself. I can't know that.

"Um, thanks," I say. Blushing.

Nothing, and I tell you nothing, has been more embarassing.

The dog-watcher hustles over to where we stand. Four out of five dogs have been found, and this girl holds the last one.

To me, the woman says, "Goodness, dear, I'm so sorry about that."

I wave it away, although there are stinging cuts all over me. "No problem."

Really, it's not like I have a paralyzing fear of dogs or anything.

The girl with the honey hair hands over the fluffy white dog. Its evil eyes narrow into me, piercing into my soul and promising me that my impeding doom will arrive soon.

Or maybe I just imagined that.

Either way, the woman disappears with a huff, her five dogs once more leashed as she struggles to cross the street.

I blink away the sunlight.

"Thanks again," I say.

Why am I still standing here?

Because you can't walk away.

"Really, it was just a harmless little thing," she says, her hard eyes crinkling.

"I beg to differ." I show her the bloody arms I hid from the dog-water, who I knew would feel too guilty to leave me alone.

The girl's mouth slashes into a smile. "Impressive, for a small thing."

"I'll say." I start to back away, finally in control of my feet. I can see a glimpse, in the distance, of a florist sign that looks familiar―could it be?―and I need to get there, to find the Wolves.

But before I can say a hasty goodbye and make a run for it, the girl flashes me an irresistible grin.

"How about I patch you up? I know a little about First-Aid."

"I don't know . . ." Everything in me screams yes. Yes, to the beautiful girl. Yes, to the promise of any kind of First-Aid.

"Come on," she says, and there is a looseness to her shoulders that wasn't there before. Something that makes me believe she is just a girl. "I can't, in good conscience, leave you on your own like that. Really, you'll be practice for me."

"Well, if you insist . . ."

She motions towards me, and as we begin to walk, she flashes me a quick smile. And suddenly, I am reminded of a wolf.

"Hunter," she says. "My name is Hunter. What's yours?"

>>>

And so we meet the elusive Hunter...

Anything you've noticed about her?

From the moon and back,
Sarai