I glanced at Kyle’s timetable and compared it to my own. Every day of the week was scheduled, though evenings were considered “free time” until curfew. We had the same morning classes, but our afternoon work details—physical labor assignments to help us build character and the camp save money—were all different.
“Self-control,” said Kyle, reading off this morning’s class. “Sounds . . . cheery.”
I looked up, a reply on my lips, and caught a glimpse of white on the path ahead.
One of the male program coordinators had stopped to talk to a counselor. According to the orientation speeches, the tan-clad counselors oversaw classes and work details while the program coordinators designed the curriculum and made bigger decisions—like who got to stay and who ended up being transferred.
We weren’t supposed to talk to the program coordinators directly, but if anyone could tell me where Serena was, it would probably be one of them. I tugged on Kyle’s sleeve and glanced meaningfully in the man’s direction. Kyle nodded and we slowed our pace, falling back to the end of the line and then falling out completely.
“Excuse me?” I said as we approached the pair. The coordinator turned. I had a second to register his sandy-blond hair and a birthmark like a thumbprint on his cheek before my gaze slid to the woman at his side. A lead weight settled in my stomach as I recognized the counselor from last night: Langley.
She stared at us and her mouth pressed into a line that was ruler straight. I had never seen her before arriving at Thornhill, but I had the distinct impression she hated me—hated anyone interned here—on principle.
I swallowed and focused on the coordinator. He held a computer tablet under one arm and he seemed very young—maybe as young as his midtwenties—for his position. Somehow, I hoped youth would make him more sympathetic. Determined to get my question out before the guard leading our group noticed Kyle and I were missing, I spoke in a rush. “One of my friends was held back last night and she wasn’t at orientation this morning. I was wondering where she was?”
“A few wolves were over eighteen. They were transferred this morning.” He turned back to Langley, clearly dismissing us.
“She was seventeen,” interjected Kyle. “They didn’t hold her back until after we were through admissions.”
Langley’s eyes narrowed. “I suggest you spend less time worrying about others and rejoin your group.”
“But . . .” I started to object, and Kyle placed a warning hand on my arm. Our guard had brought the others to a halt and was making his way back down the path toward us.
I knew we should walk away—quickly—but I still hesitated.
A flicker of annoyance crossed the coordinator’s face. He lifted the tablet. “What are your names?”
A chill swept through me. He hadn’t said or done anything threatening, but he had the power to move either of us to another camp if he decided we were troublemakers—the warden had said as much herself. I shook my head and backed away. “Never mind. Sorry to have bothered you.” The words were cardboard and paste in my mouth as I turned and followed Kyle back to the line.
The guard scowled and rested his hand on the top of his holster as we rejoined the group. Thankfully, his ire seemed only to last until Langley and the program coordinator looked away, then he muttered something about not being paid enough and headed back to the front of the line.
I slipped my hand into Kyle’s as we passed a dorm and a few classroom buildings. “Do you think she’s all right?”
“Serena’s tough,” he replied.
It wasn’t an answer.
We reached a large white building with the personality and charm of a shoebox. I dimly remembered walking past it last night.
The guard’s voice rang out. “Dining hall. You’ve still got twenty minutes for breakfast—assuming the other wolves left you any.”
Waves of conversation and the smell of burned eggs crashed over me as Kyle and I followed the others into a cavernous cafeteria. The whole room seemed to be shades of brown and beige: brown tile floors, brown painted walls, long beige tables. The rest of the camp had risen while we were in orientation and there had to be close to three hundred wolves inside.
The last thing I felt like doing was eating, but Kyle headed for a stack of trays—brown, of course—and pushed one into my hands. I tried to object, but he just said, “You won’t be any help to Serena if you pass out from hunger.”
I tried to remember the last time I had eaten. The only thing that came to mind was the coffee I’d had yesterday afternoon.
Yesterday.
I followed Kyle down the line, mindlessly accepting helpings of food without realizing—or caring—what any of it was. How was it possible that so much had changed in less than twenty-four hours?
“I asked her to come to Denver.” The words carved a hollow in my chest. “I’m responsible. If anything happens to her, it’s my fault.”
“I know the feeling.”
We reached the end of the line. I lifted my tray and glanced up at him. “You didn’t ask me to come after you.”
Kyle held my gaze for a handful of heartbeats and then shrugged. “But you’re still here.”
Before I could respond, he headed for an empty table at the far end of the room.
My sneakers squeaked against the linoleum floor and I could feel curious eyes on me as I crossed the cafeteria. Eve sat at a table with a bunch of kids I dimly recognized from last night. At orientation, we’d been told that packs were banned in the camp—like Thornhill was a big, happy family or one of those colleges that outlawed sororities—but it looked like the Eumon wolves were intending to stick together.
I slid into a seat across from Kyle and halfheartedly pushed my food around with my fork. “The program coordinator didn’t seem big on answering questions,” I said, stating the obvious.
“None of the staff are.” A boy with a blond crew cut was suddenly towering over my right shoulder. “Cool if I sit?” Without waiting for a reply, he set his tray—and himself—next to me.
Kyle made introductions. “Mac, this is Dex. He’s in my dorm.”
The boy turned his head and I bit back a gasp.
He had the kind of rugged jaw you saw in shaving commercials and wide-set brown eyes that a girl could lose herself in, but his right cheek was covered in a network of intricate white scars. It looked like someone had carved symbols into his flesh with a scalpel.
“Freakish, isn’t it?”
“Umm . . .” I had seen some horrible scars before—Kyle’s back, Ben’s chest—but never anything like this. They had the pull of a car wreck on the side of the highway: I didn’t want to stare, but I couldn’t look away. “Are those . . . letters?”
“I think so.” Dex rubbed his cheek with a hand big enough to palm a basketball. “But don’t ask me what language it is or what it says. A werewolf decided to use my face as a Post-it after I broke into his car.”
“What . . .” I swallowed. “What happened to the wolf who did it?” There were other questions I wanted to ask—things like Were you conscious?—but I figured I was better off not knowing the answers.
“Curtis dealt with it.” Eve slid into the seat next to Kyle and snagged a piece of toast from his plate. I had been so focused on Dex’s scars that I hadn’t noticed her arrival until she sat. “The wolf wasn’t one of ours, but the Denver packs have an agreement not to draw attention to ourselves.”
“And my face is pretty high profile.” Eve started to object, but Dex swept her words aside. “It’s not like I haven’t seen a mirror, Evelyn.”
She shook her head and a smile flashed across her face. “Damn, it’s good to see you. I think I even missed you calling me that.”
Dex pressed a hand to his chest. “Don’t tell me you were actually worried about me.”