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.
“I’m sorry.”
He was careful not to touch her as he passed.
Her mouth went dry, warnings cluttering her head as Wolf pulled the nearest door open and stepped into the shadows.
Twenty-Seven
The door thudded shut behind them. Scarlet found herself in the immense foyer of the opera house, almost pitch-black but for warm, flickering candlelight beyond the arches. The lobby was full of silence and dust and chunks of broken marble along the floor. The dust clogged Scarlet’s throat and she struggled not to cough as she moved toward the light. Her footsteps were shockingly loud in the empty, hollow building as she passed between two massive columns.
She gasped. The light was coming from one of two statues that flanked a grand double staircase. It depicted two women draped in billowing fabric atop a pedestal, each holding aloft a bouquet of torches. Dozens of wax candles glowed and flickered, casting a haunting orange film over the lobby. The staircase, carved from red-and-white marble, was missing random balustrades, and a companion statue to the first was missing her head and the arm that had once held her own candelabra.
Scarlet’s foot splashed into a puddle and she drew back, first looking down at the broken marble floor, then up. Three stories of balconies rose above and in their center, where the light barely reached, was a painted ceiling with a square window in its center. The window, it seemed, had long been missing.
Hugging herself, Scarlet turned back to Wolf. He lingered between the columns.
“Maybe they’re sleeping,” she said, attempting nonchalance.
Wolf peeled himself out of the shadows and prowled toward the staircase. His body was as tense as the statues that watched them.
Scarlet’s gaze darted over the railings above, but she saw no movement, no sign of life. No garbage. No smell of food. No sound of talking or netscreens. Even the sounds of the street had disappeared beyond the massive entry doors.
She clenched her jaw, anger flaring up inside her at the sickening sensation of being trapped like a mouse to be preyed upon. Stomping past Wolf, she marched toward the stairs until her toes pressed against the first riser.
“Hello?” she yelled, craning her head. “You have visitors!”
Her words echoed back to her, harsh and defiant.
No sound. No alarm.