She handed me a pair of pants, blue and stiff, the fabric so dense and perfect it made my fingers ache. I stared at them, not sure what to do.
“They’re called jeans,” she said, amusement flickering at the corners of her mouth. “Slide ‘em on. Zipper in front.”
The shirt was next, black and printed with a red wolf’s head, the cotton smooth as a secret. I put it on, fumbling with the holes, not sure where my arms were meant to go. The woman watched, patient as a midwife, then reached over to help, threading my hands through the sleeves and smoothing the shirt down over my hips.
“There you go,” she said. “First day in the new world, and you’re already dressed better than most of these idiots.”
I didn’t know what to say. My mouth worked, but no words came out. The woman just smiled, then brushed the hair out of my face.
“You got a name, honey?” she asked.
“Scarlette,” I managed.
“Well, Scarlette, I’m Edda. You ever need anything, you come find me. Club always takes care of its own.”
She stood, then whistled to another Bastard, a skinny kid with a shock of blue hair. “Hey, get the lady a drink, would you?” The kid nodded, jogged off to one of the bikes, and returned with a bottle of water. He handed it over, eyes wide and curious, but didn’t linger.
I took the bottle, stared at it. It was clear as crystal, capped with a twist of blue plastic. I had seen glass bottles before, but nothing like this. I twisted the cap, and it came off with a pop. The water inside was so cold it made my teeth ache, but I drank anyway, desperate to scrub away the taste of blood and fear.
Edda watched me, then grinned. “You’re a quick learner.”
I looked down at the jeans, at the way they hugged my hips, the seams straight and flawless, the stitches so fine I could barely see them. The shirt was just as strange, printed with a picture so clear it looked alive. I touched the wolf’s head, feeling the smoothness, the slick surface of the ink.
“Who makes these?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
Edda laughed, not unkind. “Machines, mostly. But don’t worry, you’ll catch up.”
The clearing had emptied out, the Ghouls already forgotten. Some of the Bastards stripped the bodies, looking for anything useful. The rest smoked, or checked their bikes, or just stood together, arms folded, silent as gravestones.
Moab found me then, knelt beside me, and looked me over. He took my hand, turned it over, inspected the fingers as if checking for breaks. His touch was warm, grounding.
“You good?” he asked.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure it was true. “Yes.”
He squeezed my hand, then looked at the jacket, the jeans, the shirt. “You look like you belong,” he said.
Something in me wanted to believe it.
I glanced at the ring of oaks, the ancient stones, the bloody mess at their feet. I thought about the world I’d left behind, Ashburn, the church, Sir Aldric’s sneer, the endless parade of men who called me a witch and never thought I might be more than their fears.
Now I wore the skin of the future, or maybe just the skin of another kind of animal. The Bastards were no different than the knights, not really, but they bled for each other, and for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be wanted by a pack.
Moab brushed a strand of hair from my face, then helped me to my feet. I stood, taller than I’d ever felt, the fabric of the jeans stiff but strong against my thighs.
Edda clapped me on the back. “Let’s get you out of here, Scarlette,” she said. “You’ve seen enough of the old world for one day.”
Vin and Shivs limped over, both bandaged but upright, Shivs wearing a smile with only half his teeth. The Bastards formed up around us, the sound of engines already starting up again, the promise of movement and speed humming in the air.
I looked at Moab, at the pack, at the world that waited just beyond the trees.
Vin handed Moab a set of keys, metal glinting in the palm. Moab nodded, clapped Vin on the shoulder, and started toward me, the swagger in his step less a performance than a law of physics. I shivered, not from cold, but from the way his gaze locked on me and didn’t let go.
He stopped a few feet away and jerked his chin at the row of bikes lined up in the dawn. “Time to ride,” he said.
I looked at the machines, the shiny metal and black leather, the brutal logic of their design. Each bike looked like a puzzle only a god could solve. There were pipes and wheels and a thousand moving parts, all humming and alive. I shook my head, unable to find the words.
Moab grinned, wolfish. “Nothing to it.” He held out a hand, palm open.
