Scarlet (The Lunar Chronicles #2) - Marissa Meyer Page 0,48
inside a circular bar, watching a netscreen talk show that Scarlet had never liked. Two women were drinking mimosas at a small table. A young man was sitting with his legs up in a booth, tapping furiously on his port. Four androids loitered beside the wall, waiting to make deliveries out to the private cars.
Scarlet sat down at the bar, setting her port beside a glass of green olives.
“What will you have?” asked the bartender, still focused on the interview between the host and a washed-up action star.
“Espresso, one sugar, please.”
She settled her chin on her palm as he punched her order into the dispenser. Sliding her finger across the portscreen, she typed,
THE ORDER OF THE PACK
A listing of music bands and netgroups spilled down the page, all calling themselves wolf packs and secret societies.
LOYAL SOLDIER TO THE ORDER OF THE PACK
Zero hits.
THE WOLVES
She knew as soon as she’d entered it that the term was far too broad. She quickly amended it to THE WOLVES GANG.
Then, when 20,400 hits blinked back up at her, she added PARIS.
One music band who had toured in Paris two summers ago.
WOLF STREET GANG. WOLF VIGILANTES. SADISTIC KIDNAPPERS PARADING AS RIGHTEOUS LUPINE WANNABES.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Frustrated, she tucked her hair into her hood. Her espresso had appeared in front of her without her notice and she brought the small cup to her mouth, blowing away the steam before taking a sip.
Surely if this Order of the Pack had been around long enough to recruit 962 members, there must be some record of them. Crimes, trials, murders, general mayhem against society. She strained to think of another search term, wishing she would have questioned Wolf more.
“That’s quite the specific search.”
She swiveled her head toward the man seated two stools away, who she hadn’t heard sit down. He was giving her a teasing, droopy-eyed smile that hinted at a dimple in one cheek. He struck her as vaguely familiar, which startled her until she realized she’d only seen him an hour ago on the station’s platform at Toulouse.
“I’m looking for something very specific,” she said.
“I should say. ‘Righteous Lupine Wannabes’—I can’t even begin to imagine what that entails.”
The bartender frowned at them. “What’ll you have?”
The stranger swiveled his gaze. “Chocolate milk, please.”
Scarlet chuckled as the bartender, unimpressed, took down an empty glass. “Would not have been my first guess.”
“No? What would you have guessed?”
She scrutinized him. He couldn’t have been much older than she was and, though not classically handsome, with that much confidence he undoubtedly had never had much trouble with women. His build was stocky but muscular, his hair combed neatly back. There was a keenness in the way he carried himself, a certainty that bordered on arrogance. “Cognac,” she said. “It was always my father’s favorite.”
“I’m afraid I’ve never tried it.” The dimple deepened as a tall glass of frothing chocolate milk was set in front of him.
Scarlet clicked off her port and picked up her espresso. The scent seemed suddenly too strong, too bitter. “That actually looks pretty good.”
“Surprisingly high in protein,” he said, taking a drink.
Scarlet took another sip from her cup and found that her taste buds disapproved. She set it back down on the saucer. “If you were a gentleman, you would offer to buy me one as well.”
“If you were a lady, you would have waited for me to make the offer.”
Scarlet smirked, but the man was already beckoning to the bartender and ordering a second chocolate milk.
“I’m Ran, by the way.”
“Scarlet.”
“Like your hair?”
“Oh, wow, I’d never heard that one before.”
The bartender set the new drink on the bar, then turned away and upped the volume on the screen.
“And where are you traveling to, Mademoiselle Scarlet?”
Paris.
The word clunked into her head, filling up her thoughts with its weight. Her attention danced to the netscreen on the wall, checking the time, calculating their distance, their arrival.
“Paris.” She took a long drink. It wasn’t fresh like the milk she was used to, but the thick sweetness was a rare treat. “I’m going to visit my grandmother.”
“That so? I’m heading to Paris too.”
Scarlet nodded vaguely, suddenly wanting the conversation to be over. Sipping at the thick beverage, it occurred to her that she’d gotten it through manipulation, subconscious as it may have been. She wasn’t interested in this man, had no curiosity about why he was going to Paris or if she would ever see him again after this moment. She had only needed to prove that she could garner his interest, and