Luna: New Moon

‘Could you just give me a moment?’ There are no possible jokes, no levities here.

The dress has stuck to her skin. Marina dabs the fabric with cooling tea to loosen the scabbed blood. Her underwear is soaked through. She peels it all off, there in the kiosk behind the teahouse; all of it, off her. She can smell herself. Marina gags. If she throws up now she’ll never stop. Print-fresh, the leggings, the hoody feel religiously clean against her skin.

‘Come on.’

Carlinhos takes her arm and she lets him guide up to a quiet room on the ninth floor. Sofas, fake fur throws, space to lounge and curl.

‘Drink?’

Carlinhos holds a Blue Moon in either hand.

‘How can you …’ Marina cries. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’

Carlinhos sits down beside her, sprawls. Marina huddles, arms around knees.

‘You did good.’

‘I just did. That’s all. I didn’t think about it. There was nothing to think about. Just do it.’

‘Something takes over. It’s not body, not spirit, something else. Instinct, maybe, but we’re not born with it. I don’t think we have a word for it. Something instant and pure. Pure action.’

‘It’s not pure,’ Marina says. ‘Don’t call it pure. I can see him, Carlinhos. He looked so surprised. Like this was the last thing he expected. Then, annoyed. Frustrated, that he was going to die and wouldn’t see if his plan had worked. I can still see him.’

‘You did what you had to do.’

‘Shut up, Carlinhos.’

‘You do what you have to do. That’s what I mean about it being pure. It’s necessity.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it, Carlinhos.’

‘You did good.’

‘I killed a man.’

‘You saved Ariel. He would have killed her.’

‘Not now, Carlinhos!’

‘Marina, I know how you feel.’

‘You don’t know anything,’ Marina says and then her breath catches because truth lies in the eyes, the muscles, even the scent of the sweat; unconscious truths we read intimately. ‘You do. Oh God you do. Get away from me, get away. I smell blood on you.’

Marina pushes Carlinhos away. Moonbeam muscles shove him hard into the wall, hard enough to bruise.

‘Marina …’

‘I’m not like you!’ Marina screams. ‘I’m not like you.’ Then she runs.

The wolf is not a lone hunter. Wagner Corta is. He has realised a truth about his two natures that his pack mates haven’t, for all their identities and arguments over pronouns and nés: he doesn’t change from mundane to wolf and back again. There are two Wagner Cortas, light and dark, each a separate and distinct self, with unique personalities and characteristics, skills and talents. Mundane Wagner Corta died twelve years in the sun-dome of Boa Vista. Survived by the wolf and the dark one.

He folds himself into the post-match crowds shouldering along Falcon West 73rd. His familiar is likewise folded deep into the Queen of the South security grid. He worked for hours coding the hack that allows him to follow Jake Sun. He has spent days observing the man, his habits and his rituals, his patterns and his predictabilities. Rafa has called, again and again: Ariel; Ariel has been critically injured in a stabbing. Come to João de Deus. Now. He must push that aside, focus. Concentrate on the hunt.

Jake Sun is one block ahead, a level down, winding back from the game in the Taiyang Arena. Tigers 34, Moços 17. Another kicking. A terrible result for Rafa’s Boys. Rafa has more to think about. The fans are in the best of humours. Jake Sun jokes with his friends; he is happy, relaxed, unsuspecting. Wagner can take him easily. The friends suggest a drink, dinner. Jake will refuse. He has an engagement lined up with Zoe Martinez, his Queen of the South amor. And here is where he will take the elevator down to 33rd. Wagner rides the parallel car down, one level behind. Zoe Martinez’s apartment is down a side street off 33rd, shadowy and discreet. Wagner tightens step and closes on his victim. The prey turns in to the quiet district.

‘Jake Tenglong Sun.’

Jake turns and sees the knife in Wagner Corta’s hand. There is a flash, more pain than Wagner has ever known and he is on the ground, rigid. Hands have reached inside his body to shred every muscle. He rolls on to his back to see a ring of knives pointing down at him. Sun security.

‘You’re far too predictable, Little Wolf.’ The taser sparks in Jake Sun’s hands. ‘The August Ones saw you coming a week back. And you’re getting far too close. Sorry about this.’

The narrow street explodes with howls. For an instant the Sun killers are distracted. The instant is enough. Figures drop from balconies, whirl out of doors, vault up over the rail from the level below. Bodies fall, a boot comes down on the side of a head. Wagner rolls clear as a knife stabs for his eye. The tip jams in the soft surface of the street. In the split second it takes the security guard to wrench it free a woman in sports gear has run a blade through his neck. Hands grab Wagner’s wrist, pull him clear, drag him upright. Two Sun assassins are down, the rest, outnumbered, cover Jake Sun’s retreat.

‘You okay?’