"That dog sure can bite."

I catch a glimpse of Hunter's white teeth as she grins that familiar crooked grin. Her hair brushes over her face as she leans down, patting my cuts with alcohol and bandaging them.

We sit in what must be her apartment―a small but expensive-looking place in one of the sleek black buildings.

I am on the kitchen table. For some reason, there are no kitchen chairs because hers broke. Of course, this sounds . . . ridiculous, to say the least. But I don't question it.

She looks up at me, her brown eyes bright. "You're not hissing or grumbling or anything, I'm impressed. Alcohol stings like a bitch on open wounds."

I lift my shoulder in a shrug. "Tough skin, I guess."

If she saw the scars on my back, my ribs, my chest―she'd know the real reason I have such a high pain tolerance.

"So . . . what are you doing today?" she asks. "What brings you to the city?"

"What? Is it that obvious I'm not from here?"

She raises an eyebrow. "It's not obvious, but . . . the tanned skin. The clothes―speaking of, it's fall. And you're dressed like you're ready for a beach party."

My mouth drops open. I'm wearing a warm, long-sleeved red dress. "This isn't summer attire!"

"Have you been outside? It has to be below zero."

With that, she secures the last bandage over the deepest of the wounds. And the rest are good―I'm good.

I've wasted a lot of time here. I need to get going.

And yet . . . I hesitate.

My eyes flicker down to her lips.

"I'm looking for something," I blurt out, before I can think better. Why not ask her about the Wolves? About their mysterious leader?

Maybe she doesn't know. I'm hoping she doesn't know. Because I don't want her to be involved in this, whatever this is.

A light in her eyes go out, and I see it: the almost imperceptible shift into coldness. Her full lips harden into a line, and I want to trace the curve, feel the smoothness of her lower lip―

I shake myself. And ask, in a hesitant voice, "Do you know anyone called the . . . Wolves?" It sounds almost silly, saying it here in the daylight. As though the Wolves should be reserved for nightmares and stories after dark.

But although it's early in the day and she should know nothing about them, her eyes shutter. Darken. And she says, "What do you want to know?"

She knows.

She knows?

"Where they are," I say quickly. I don't want to think about what it means, that she knows who they are. "Their location."

She smiles again, but this time, it doesn't reach her eyes. "You'd be better off staying away."

"I can't," I whisper.

Her eyes search mine, and I don't know what she sees―but it must be enough to convince her. She sets her chin in a nod.

"I can do one better," she says. "I can take you to them."

"Are you sure?" I ask. "I don't want to inconvenience you or . . ."

This is better than I imagined. At least, if she takes me to them, I'll have help. And if she knows this much about the Wolves, then she must know more.

"Are you ready? We can go now."

I don't know why this surprises me, but it does. I blink―once. Twice. "Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go."

As we walk, I finally gather up to the courage to ask, "Who are they?"

She glances back. We've been walking towards an older part of the city. Less people walk here, and for now, the street is entirely empty except for us.

Even though it's broad daylight, I shiver.

Hunter's lips curve. "They're a gang."

I stumble in my tracks. "A . . . what?"

I should have known. I should have realized.

The frightened looks when I asked the people in the bar . . . the unwillingness to tell me about them . . .

I should have no known the Wolves were no ordinary college club.

"In so many words, a gang," she agrees.

"Isn't that a little . . ." Outdated? When I think of gangs, I think of Al Capone. Drug-trafficking.

Why would a gang want my mother?

"More specifically, the Mafia," she continues.

At this, I almost choke. "The Mafia?" This sounds too surreal to be true. "We're not even in Italy!"

The streets are empty, and my voice echoes. Hunter's eyes cut to the building―as though someone is watching us through the closed shutters.

I shut up.

"Well, the gangs here have Italian heritage," she finishes in a low voice. "They call themselves the Mafia. Mobsters. Either way . . . whatever they are, no one talks about them."

"Why are there even gangs?" I sputter. "Twenty-first century, right? What's the point?"

"Protection," she says. And this time, I have a feeling she won't say more.

Protection from what?

I don't have the chance to ask, because suddenly, we are in front of the apartment building I remember from last night. Across the street, I note the florist, the cafe.

Yes, this is the right place.

"We're here," she says in a soft voice.

Suddenly, I'm too terrified to breathe. This is where, just last night, I was kidnapped. Where I stumbled around, lost, afraid.

Shit. I have to be brave.

I have to find out where my mother is.

"Are you ready?" Hunter asks.

No. "Yes," I whisper.

Hunter's eyes dim as we cross into the shadow beneath the apartment.

The memory of Derek―his sneer, his outrage―beckons. I shove it away.

I have to focus. I can't get distracted.

She leads me towards the side of the building, and I reach out for her hand. Her skin is warm under my touch.

"Wait," I whisper. It feels, somehow, like the sun is gone. The sounds of the street have already faded. Ahead, there's a ladder and a side entrance, hidden by a dumpster.

"What is it?"

"Why aren't we just going in . . . the right way?" Something about this feels strange. Should I really be trusting this girl, who I don't even know?

Relax, Jude. You're paranoid.

My mom needs me. I have to do this.

And yet.

Hunter opens the door to the side entrance, and I hold back my questions: Why aren't you knocking? Why do you know how to get in here?

She bandaged my wounds―she helped me up, when she didn't have to. Why would she lead me into danger now? What would be the point?

So I duck down into the entrance and follow her through the shadowed halls. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. This place looks like something out of The Shining, and a chill prickles down my back.

"Come on, just a little farther," Hunter says. Her dark eyes glitter dangerously in the dim light, and I resist the urge to back away.

The entire apartment seems empty. Abandoned.

Until Hunter pulls aside a door and―

A stairwell?

"What―" I begin, all the sarcasm sapped from me. But she just motions down into the darkness, and finally, finally―I hear it. Sound. Music. Laughter.

People.

A stairwell . . . that leads where? What is this?

Hunter holds out her hand, and my eyes flicker down to her scarred knuckles. An offering. And . . . I don't refuse it.

As she closes the door behind us, swallowing us in the darkness of the stairwell, her hand is hot against mine. Her slender fingers are tucked tight over mine. It's ridiculous―ludicrous, but . . . with her hand on mine, my breathing becomes even. The fear dissipates. I feel safe.

The steps seem to take ages, but with every move downward, the sound of people grows louder.

It must be some kind of basement. Some kind of party.

But I know that's not right. Because as we approach, the echoing grows louder and as we reach the bottom, I finally see.

It's not a basement. Not even close.

"They call it the Underground." Hunter's voice is soft in my ear, her breath warm against my neck. I try not to shiver at the prickle of heat that races up my skin.

"The Underground," I repeat in a breath.

And it fits. We have reached a space in front of an elevator, and around us is what seems to be a foyer―with a receptionist, a counter, and sleek black marble all around us.

"Can I help you?" the woman at the counter says. Her posture is loose, but with the way she holds herself? I have a feeling she would be one hell of an opponent in a fight. No wonder she's here, guarding the elevator―because it is obvious, that it's what she is doing.

Hunter lets go of my hand, and I feel the sudden loss like an icy pang.

She strides forward, and the black light slips over her like silk. Her honey hair seems reddish in this light, and everything about her radiates power. Pure, unfettered control.

"Oh," the receptionist gasps. "Pardon me . . . my mistake. I'm sorry, I'll just . . ."

The elevator opens, and Hunter walks in without hesitation. I follow her, sparing the receptionist one last glance―she looks terrified out of her mind.

As the doors slide shut, Hunter presses 10.

How deep does this place go? I don't have time to marvel. The image of the receptionist's face is still fresh in my mind: Why was she so afraid?

"Hunter," I begin.

The elevator doors open.

A heavyset man wearing a sleeveless jacket gives me a predatory grin as he steps on. His defined biceps are wrapped with flowing ink, and his sneer becomes pronounced as he lingers on my body beneath the dress.

A flush rises in my cheeks. My fists curl.

Before I can give him a punch, Hunter lifts her chin―and this movement draws his attention. "She's with me." Calm. Cold.

Like a knife, his smug expression is pierced. Gutted. The predatory gleam in his eyes fades, and he tenses in the corner.

He gets off at the next stop.

"Holy shit," I breathe. "All he had to do was look at you and he was scared shitless." Who are you?

The tenth floor lets out a ring. The doors slide open, revealing an enormous expanse of silvery floor and flashing lights―music, people dressed in scraps of silk. A club.

"Hunter," I say, as she steps off. She looks back, her brown eyes unnaturally dark.

"What is it, Jude?"

But I can't speak. I have too many questions. I just follow her, this strange girl, as she leads me into the throng of people. An undulating swarm of leather and lace.

The music thrums beneath my skin, shuddering in my blood. I try not to lose sight of Hunter as she weaves through the crowd, but within minutes, I can't see her honey hair and sharp smile anymore.

Lost. I'm lost.

Shit.

I try not to panic. This is unfamiliar territory, and everyone is shoulder to shoulder, skin to skin, mouth to mouth. This is not something you'd find in a PG-13 movie. I find myself stumbling into people until I back up into a large, warm chest and swivel around.

"Sorry," I mutter, trying to move away.

Strong hands tighten on my shoulders, and I'm forced to look up―into the eyes of a man that isn't handsome, but beautiful. His jaw flexes as he watches me, and unlike the hungry smile of the man from before, he seems . . . more kind, almost.

"You seem lost, little lamb." His deep voice thrums in my chest. He's so close I can taste his scent―evergreen and pine.

"I am lost," I snap. "But I'm no little lamb. Let go of me."

He releases me instantly, and I relax. But then he moves forward and says, "Calm down―I'm only dancing with you. We can't take up too much space."

He's right. This is a dance floor. But I still don't feel comfortable.

"I don't want to dance," I say. "I'm looking for someone―I lost my friend."

He raises an eyebrow. "I'd say your friend lost you."

"Either way," I continue, "I need to find―"

His eyes flicker―as though he's looking at someone. And then he leans down and sears a hot kiss onto my lips, slow and deep.

It takes me a second to realize what he's doing. My arms are rigid at my sides, and his strong hands tighten on my shoulders.

It takes me another second to realize what this is. What's happening.

And it takes a second to late for me to push him off me.

I stumble back. Touching my lips with tentative fingertips. "What was that for?"

Then I hear Hunter's voice, echoing mine with something like a spark, a flame: "Indeed," she purrs. "What was that for?"

>>>

Does something seem a little off about this? No? Just me?

From the moon and back,
Sarai