Chapter 4 — THE NIGHT BEFORE THE NIGHT (1)

The first thing Luna learned about werewolves was that they make absolutely terrible suspects.

"Name," she said.

"Kane."

"Last name."

"Voss."

"Occupation."

A pause. Kane Voss sat across from her at the safehouse kitchen table, hands folded, looking like a man who had been summoned to the principal's office and was mildly considering eating the principal. "Captain."

"Captain of what."

"The Nightveil Guard."

Luna wrote it down in her little notebook. Underneath, she drew a small star. Ten out of ten for effort, zero out of ten for explaining anything.

It was morning. The howl from before dawn had not come back, but neither had the feeling that it left behind — the skin-prickling sense that the city had woken up on the wrong side of its own bed. Kane had let her sleep until nine, which she found suspiciously considerate for a man who slept outside her door. Now they were at her request: she had put a chair across from his chair, set two mugs down, and announced that they were doing this the normal way.

"Explain the Nightveil Guard," she said.

"We keep the edges of this city."

"The edges of this city."

"Most wolves pass. Some don't." He said it flat, like reading a weather report. "The Guard finds the ones who don't. Before the humans notice."

Luna's pen stopped. "Before the humans notice."

"You noticed."

"That's because I'm stubborn, not because I'm observant." She tilted her head. "So you're, what. A night security guard for a species problem."

"Something like that."

"And yesterday." She leaned forward. "The truck. The three drunk guys. The dogs that lie down when you lift your hand. That's all you."

"Yes."

"That's not protection." Luna smiled her polite smile. "That's a whole lifestyle."

He looked at her for a long moment. Gold flickered at the edge of his irises and was gone before she could be sure it wasn't the kitchen light. "It's called protection."

Oh, we're quoting now. "It's called a lot of things," she said.

"Ask me something else."

"Fine." She flipped her notebook. "How many. How many of you. In this city."

"Enough."

"That's not a number."

"It's the number you get."

"Are there more of you than students at BMU."

"Less," he said. Then, after a beat: "Mostly less."

Luna wrote that down. Mostly less. Comforting. "And the ones who don't pass. The ones you hunt. What happens to them."

"They get locked up."

"Locked up where."

"Basements."

She blinked. "Basements."

"Steel doors. Sunrise." Kane said it flat. "It's how we survive the full moon. We lock the ones who can't hold it in the basements. The Guard makes sure they stay there."

"So every month," Luna said slowly, "half this city locks itself in a basement, and you're the man with the key."

"Yes."

"For how long."

"Since I was old enough to hold the door."

Luna's pen stopped. She looked up at him. The man who sat outside her door at night. The man who healed from bottles. The man who, every full moon, went out into the dark and dragged his own people back into the cages.

That's not a job, she thought. That's a sentence.

The front door hit the wall.

"REPORTING FOR DUTY—" Gregory burst in, red-faced, wearing an oversized hoodie that had seen better decades, clutching a bag of something orange and crinkly. He skidded to a stop when he saw Luna, and his eyes immediately filled. "Miss! I brought— I brought a peace offering! Because I messed up! And I've been thinking about it and—" He held up the bag. "Chips. The spicy ones. I remembered you liked the spicy ones."

Luna blinked. "You... remembered."

"Chips of kindness, never forgotten—" Gregory's voice wobbled. "That's what they say, right? In the Guard. When someone feeds you, you owe them forever. It's in the bylaws."

"It's not in the bylaws," Kane said.

"It is in my bylaws." Gregory set the chips reverently on the table, next to her notebook. Then he snapped to attention, saluted badly, and started crying. "I'm on probation, miss. Captain said if I mess up again I get forty laps and a written apology. I just want you to know I'm reformed. I'm an informant now. Intel. I'm the intel guy."

Luna opened the chips. The smell hit her — cheap, salty, burning. She offered him one. He took it with both hands, like it was a communion wafer.

"Intel guy," she repeated. "Okay. Gregory the intel guy. Tell me something useful."

Gregory swallowed. "Oh. Useful. Um." He thought so hard his whole face scrunched. "There's a scholarship ceremony tomorrow. At the gate. The Cross Foundation is giving out money to students. Everyone important will be there. It's not about scholarships."

Luna and Kane exchanged a look.

"Go on," Luna said.

"It's a trap." Gregory whispered it like the walls might be listening. "Eliot Cross. He's— the heir. He wants you visible. Tomorrow. In public. Where the pack can see exactly where you are." He looked miserable. "I'm sorry. I had to tell you. It's my probation."