“I don’t need your protection.”
“Yes,” he said, the word biting over the synthesized noise of a music video on a nearby billboard. “Yes, you do.”
Scarlet darted in front of him, planting her feet. He stopped just shy of plowing into her.
“No,” she said. “What I need is to know that I’m not responsible for whatever they’ll do to you. You need to stop being stupid and get out of here. At least give yourself a chance!”
He peered over her head at some place in the distance. Scarlet tensed, wondering if he’d picked up on the presence of a fourth pack member, or even more. Gulping, she glanced at the man by the café, who was stroking his ear and watching them with obvious amusement.
“What’s stupid is not that I’m going to try and protect you,” Wolf said, pulling his focus back down to her. “What’s stupid is that I almost believe it will make a difference.”
He stepped around her, shrugging off the hand that reached out to stop him. Her thoughts teetered, knowing she had a choice. She could run away with him, leave the city, and never come back. She could choose not to go in search of her grandmother after all, and maybe save his life.
But it was not really a choice. She barely knew him. Despite the ache in her heart, despite everything. She would never be able to live with herself knowing that she’d abandoned her grandmother when she was this close.
She turned back only once, as they were rounding a corner, and saw that the man by the café was gone.
A block later, the memory of the Fourth World War caught up to them all at once. The scorch marks and crumbling facades of a city pummeled by war. There weren’t enough of the beautiful old buildings left to draw the interest of the conservationists, and the sheer amount of destruction must have been too overwhelming for reconstruction. Unable to demolish the city’s history, the government had left this quarter alone. The districts, though separated by only a few streets, seemed worlds apart.
With a gasp, Scarlet recognized the massive building stretching along the opposite side of the street, with its shattered arched windows and the statues of men in old-fashioned clothing, many with broken limbs and some alcoves missing their statues altogether. The Musée du Louvre, one of the few sights her father had taken her to as a child. The building, half collapsed on the west end, was too unstable to go inside, but she and her father had stood together on the sidewalk while he told her about the priceless artworks that had been destroyed in the bombings, or the lucky few that had become spoils of war.
Many had still not been found, over a century later.
It was one of the few pleasant memories she had of her father, and she’d forgotten it until now.
“Scarlet.”
She snapped her head around.
“This way.” Wolf angled his head toward another street.
She nodded and followed him without looking back.
Despite the district’s tarnish, it was clear that these ancient streets weren’t entirely abandoned. A small motel advertised “come stay the night with the ghosts of fallen civilians” in the window. A thrift store displayed headless mannequins garbed in a rush of vibrant fabrics.
At an intersection, Wolf paused on a concrete city square with a boarded-up entrance to the subway and a sign that indicated the platform was closed; the nearest could be found on the Boulevard des Italiens.
“Are you ready?”
She followed his transfixed gaze up to a towering, gorgeous building before them. Angels and cherubim stood guard at massive arched doorways.
“What is this?”
Wolf followed her gaze. “Once it was an opera house and an architectural marvel. Then the war came and it was converted into storage for artillery and, eventually, prisoners of war. Then, when no one else wanted it, we took over.”
Scarlet frowned at that word. We. “Seems a little conspicuous for a secret street gang, don’t you think?”
“Would you ever suspect something horrible was living inside?”
When she didn’t answer, he backed away, scrutinizing her as he approached the massive theater. Again, he asked, “Are you ready?”
Catching her breath, she examined the carvings—faces grim and beautiful, the chalky busts of men staring down at her, a long balcony missing half its balusters. Clenching her jaw, she crossed the street and marched up the steps that spanned the length of the building, past the silent, unpreserved angels, beneath the shadowed portico.
“I’m ready,” she said, eyeing the mess of graffiti across the doors.
“Scarlet.”
She turned to face him, surprised by the gruffness in his voice.