Chapter 4 — THE NIGHT BEFORE THE NIGHT (3)

NEW SUSPECT NOTE: He's not lying when he says he doesn't know. Which means whatever I am, even the scariest man in this city doesn't have the full manual.

She didn't say it out loud. She was still deciding how she felt about that.

The afternoon was stranger. Kane walked her to class like usual — fifty meters back, pretending not to — and The Trio fell in around her at the gate, phones held high and solemnly upside down.

She stopped on the steps of the humanities building and turned around.

"Hey," she said.

The biggest one froze. "Miss."

"Your phones." She nodded at them. "They're upside down. Again. This is the third time."

"We know," he said.

"You know."

"It's a cover," he whispered. "If we hold 'em right-side up, looks like we're on lookout. Upside down, it looks like we're... tourists. Confused tourists. On their way to a museum."

"There is no museum."

"Also confused."

Luna stared at him. The other two of The Trio had the good sense to look slightly into the distance. She was about to let them off with a warning — she really was — when the middle one leaned in and stage-whispered: "Miss. Heads up. Silver sedan across the street. Tinted windows. Hasn't moved in twenty minutes. We clocked it at nine-fifteen."

"Thank you." Luna didn't turn to look. "What kind of car?"

"Cross family."

Of course it was. She filed that away under Eliot is not being subtle, and walked into her lecture with her head up and her hand in her pocket, closing around the sealed envelope she'd brought with her. She hadn't opened it yet. She wanted a seat, a window, and a clear view of the street before she did.

In the library, between lectures, she finally opened it.

Effective immediately, you will embed yourself in close proximity to the Moonblood asset. Maintain her trust. She is to be delivered, unharmed, to the Ritual Ground on the night of the full moon. This is a direct order from the Alpha. Acknowledge.

The photograph was of Kane. Ten years younger, maybe sixteen, standing across the street from a foster home. Watching.

Luna read the sheet twice. Then she read it a third time, very slowly, because the alternative was getting angry about something she wasn't sure was real.

He's been following me for ten years. He was ordered to get close. He's been playing me this whole time.

Except — and this was the part that kept her reading it a fourth time — except it didn't line up.

If Kane had been ordered to deliver her unharmed to the Ritual Ground, why had he spent three days buying her snacks, fighting her kidnappers, and sitting outside her door in the rain? Why had his whole fridge been mapped to her preferences? A man executing a delivery order didn't read books about anxious people eating breakfast. A man executing a delivery order didn't freeze when she put a band-aid on his hand like she'd handed him a live wire.

This document is real paper, she thought. It's just not real history.

Someone had forged it beautifully. The formatting was right. The wax stamp was right. The photograph was real — she'd give them that, the photo was definitely real, a sixteen-year-old Kane watching a foster home across the street — but a real photo taped to a fake order was still a fake order.

Eliot, she thought. The silver sedan. The scholarship trap. The man who smiled like a late-night host and talked about her like she was an appetizer. You don't want to kill me. You want me to walk to the altar by myself, hating the only person who would've stopped you.

It was, Luna had to admit, elegant. She almost respected it.

She looked up. Across the library, Kane stood by the window, fifty meters away, hands clasped behind his back, staring at a streetlight with the patience of a man who had stood in a lot of streetlights.

Her wrist, under her sleeve, went cold instead of hot.

Oh, she thought. That doesn't feel right.

She folded the document back into the envelope, tucked it into her bag, and smiled her professional smile at the window.

Three nights to the full moon. And somebody had just handed her a very convincing reason to stop trusting the only person in this city who hadn't lied to her to her face.

She pulled out her phone. Texted Jax: You know anyone who can spot a forged scholarship file without asking questions.

Three dots. Three dots that lasted a suspiciously long time.

Jax: why

Luna: Just tell me yes or no.

Jax: yes. But luna? If this is about the captain? Be careful. The people who forged that paper? They're the same people who want you to stop asking questions.

That, she thought, is not the comforting answer.

She closed her notebook.

Let's see if this document survives the week.