Twelve

Twelve

Benedikt was tiring of the city’s talk, tiring of the fear that a new madness had erupted.

It had. There was a new madness—that was already certain. What good was jabbering on about it, as if discussing the matter would increase one’s immunity? If it was supposed to be a coping mechanism, then Benedikt supposed he had never been much good at taking advantage of coping mechanisms anyway. He only knew how to swallow, and swallow, and swallow, until a black hole had grown in his stomach to suck everything away. Until it was all pushed somewhere else, and then he could forget that he never knew what to do with himself in the daylight hours anymore. He could forget the argument with Roma this morning, about the rumors that he was working with Juliette Cai, and then his confirmation that they were not mere rumors but truth, that Lord Montagov had set them to become allies.

Benedikt wanted to break something. He hadn’t touched his art supplies in months, but recently he had been entertaining the urge to destroy it all. Stab his paintbrush right through his canvas and hope that the damage would be enough to make him feel better.

For all that they had done, the Scarlet Gang didn’t deserve clemency even in the face of a new madness. But then who was Benedikt to have any say in this?

“Benedikt Ivanovich.”

Benedikt looked up at the summons, his hands stilling around the pocketknife he was testing. He wasn’t in the main Montagov headquarters often, dropping by only to swipe a few new weapons and rummage about the cupboards a little. Even so, in all the times he had been here previously, he had caught incensed discussions from Lord Montagov’s office, usually about the new threat of madness and what they were to do if an assassin let loose monsters on the city. It always ended the same way. Ever since the Podsolnukh, they paid the demands that came.

Today was the first time in a while that the floor above was silent; instead of voices wafting down, a White Flower was leaning on the handrail of the staircase, waving for his attention.

“We need extra hands to install a wardrobe,” the White Flower said. Benedikt didn’t know his name, but he recognized the other boy’s face, knew that he was one of the many occupants in this labyrinth of a house. “Do you have a moment?”

Benedikt shrugged. “Why not?”

He stood and slipped the pocketknife away, following the White Flower up the stairs. If Benedikt continued climbing, he would approach the fourth floor, where his former bedroom used to be, where Roma and Alisa still resided. It was the core wing of the house, but instead of continuing up in that direction, the White Flower he was following pivoted left and ventured deeper into the middle rooms and hallways, squeezing by bustling kitchens and ducking under poorly installed ceiling beams. Once one walked farther away from the main wing of the headquarters and into the parts that used to be different apartments, the architecture became a fever dream, more nonsensical than logical.

They came upon a small room where three other White Flowers were already waiting, holding up various panels of wood. The boy who had summoned Benedikt quickly grabbed hold of a hammer, securing one of the panels from a White Flower who was visibly sweating.

“If you—ow! Sorry, if you could get the last few panels over there?”

The first boy pointed, then put the thumb of his other hand to his mouth. He had accidentally caught it in the path of his hammer.

Benedikt did as he was told. The White Flowers working on this wardrobe seemed a rumbling cauldron of activity, throwing instructions at each other until their voices overlapped, comfortable in their routine. Benedikt had not lived in this house for years, and so he recognized none of the faces around him. There weren’t many Montagovs left in this household, only White Flowers who paid rent.

Really, there weren’t many Montagovs at all. Benedikt, Roma, and Alisa were the last of the line.

“Hey.”

Benedikt’s eyes flickered up. The White Flower closest to him—while the others were arguing about which way the nail went in—offered a wan smile.

“You have my condolences,” he said quietly. “I heard about your friend.”

His friend. Benedikt bit his tongue. He knew little of those in this household, but he supposed they knew of him. The curse of the Montagov name. What was it that Marshall had said? There’s a plague on both your damn houses. A plague that ate away at everything they were.

“It is the way of the blood feud,” Benedikt managed.

“Yes,” the White Flower said. “I suppose it is.”

Another panel was hammered in. They tightened the hinges, jiggled about the boards. As soon as the wardrobe was standing on its own, Benedikt excused himself, letting the others continue with their task. He backed out from the room and wound along the floor, walking until he found himself in a vacant sitting room. Only there did he lean against the fraying wallpaper, his head going light, his vision flooding with absolute white. His breath came out in one long wheeze.

I heard about your friend.

Your friend.

Friend.

So why couldn’t he mourn his friend like others had? Why couldn’t he keep going like Roma had? Why was he still so stuck?

Benedikt thudded his fist hard against the wall.

Sometimes, Benedikt was half-convinced there was someone else’s voice in his head: a miniature invader relentless against his ear. Poets spoke of internal monologues, but they were supposed to be nothing save metaphors, so why was his so loud? Why could he not shut himself up when it was just him?

“. . . non?”

An unfamiliar murmur floated along the hallway then, and Benedikt’s eyes snapped open, his mind silencing at once. It seemed he couldn’t shut himself up, but oddities in his surroundings certainly could.

Benedikt surged out from the sitting room, his brow furrowing.The murmur had sounded feminine . . . and nervous. He knew he was out of touch with the White Flowers, but who in the gang fit that description?

“Alisa?” he called hesitantly.

His footsteps padded down the hallway, hands trailing across the banisters erected along an awkward staircase that went into a half story between the second and third. Benedikt kept walking, until he came upon a door that had been left slightly ajar. If memory proved correct, there was another sitting room on the other side.

He pressed his ear to the wood. He had not misheard. There was a Frenchwoman in there, mumbling incoherently, as if she were in tears.

“Hello?” he called, knocking on the door.

Immediately, the door slammed closed.

Benedikt jolted back, his eyes wide. “Hey! What gives?”

“Mind your business, Montagov. This does not concern you.”

That voice was familiar. Benedikt pounded his fist on the door for a few seconds more before a name clicked in place.

“Dimitri Petrovich Voronin!” he called. “Open this door right now.”

“For the last time—”

“I will kick it down. So help me, I swear I will!”

The door flung open. Benedikt barged in, looking around for the source of the mystery. He found only a table of European men playing poker. They all stared at him with annoyance, some putting their cards down. Others folded their arms, sleeves crossed over the white handkerchiefs poking from the chest pocket of their suit jackets. Merchants, or bankers, or ministers—it didn’t matter; they were allied with the White Flowers.

Benedikt blinked, puzzled. “I heard crying,” he said.

“You misheard,” Dimitri replied, in English. Perhaps it was for the benefit of the foreigners at the table.

“There was a woman,” Benedikt insisted, his jaw clenching hard, remaining in Russian. “A crying Frenchwoman.”

Dimitri, lifting the corner of his mouth, pointed to the radio in the corner. His shock of black hair whipped after him as he spun and adjusted the volume, until the speakers were loudly running a program in the middle of a play. Indeed, there was a Frenchwoman reading her lines.

“You misheard,” he said again, walking toward Benedikt. He didn’t stop until he was right in front of him, placing his hands on his shoulders. Benedikt was about as close to Dimitri as Roma was: not very. This manhandling was hardly fitting for a fellow White Flower, and yet Dimitri had no qualms about pushing Benedikt toward the door.

“I don’t know what you have going on,” Benedikt warned, staggering to the entranceway, “but I am monitoring your funny business.”

Dimitri dropped his smile. When he finally switched to Russian for his response, it was as if a change had come over him, a look of complete scorn marring his expression.

“The only funny business,” he hissed, “is that I am maintaining our connections. So do not butt in.”

Fast as the fury came, it was gone again. Dimitri leaned in suddenly and feigned placing an exaggerated kiss on Benedikt’s cheek, the way that relatives sent off children. A chmoc! echoed through the room before Benedikt grunted in indignation and shoved Dimitri aside, shoved his hands off of him.

Dimitri was hardly fazed. He smiled, and returning to English, commanded, “Now, run along and play.”

The door slammed closed.

Tyler Cai was picking at a bāo, rolling up little bits of the dough into mini pellets, and throwing them at the men who were slacking off.

“Come on, no snoozing!” he shouted, aiming another mini bun pellet. It struck one of the assistants right on his forehead, and the boy chortled, opening his mouth so it trailed down his face and dropped in.

“Why don’t you help out?” the boy shot back. Despite his tough talk, he quickly straightened out of his nap and ducked to lift a big bag beneath the table, throwing it across the  room.

Satisfied, Tyler leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the foreman’s desk. The foreman was nowhere to be seen. He had run off an hour ago, when Tyler came down into the lab to run inspections, and had yet to return, likely passed out in some brothel. Never mind that it was two in the afternoon.

No matter. That was what Tyler was here for after all—he’d do a much better job of overseeing the vaccine creation than a man with half their drug supply dusted in his beard.

“What does that say?” one of the scientists muttered over the worktable. “I can’t read any of this English; the letters are in horrendous shape.” He showed it to the man working opposite him, and they both peered at the copied sheet, squinting at the handwriting that some hired Scarlet help had copied over twenty times for every scientist in the facility, down to the flicks and dots.

Tyler wandered over, extending a silent hand. The scientists hurried to pass the sheet to him.

“Cadaverine,” Tyler read aloud.

“What does that mean in Chinese?”

He tossed the sheet back, furrowing his brow. “Do I look like a translator to you? Go find it in one of the dictionaries.”

“How are we to re-create a vaccine when we can’t even read the damn notes?” the second scientist muttered beneath his breath, scribbling something into his notebook.

Tyler continued walking, picking up a ruler and smacking it on the tables when it looked like the assistants were fooling around. It was a habit learned from his father: that ever-constant sound following him when he was young to keep him on task when the tutors were around. It was never supposed to be a threat: it was a reminder, a little shock to the senses whenever he started to doze, staring off into space to wonder what present was coming for his birthday next week. The tutors used to think he was so disciplined, but that was only because his father was always overseeing the lessons.

Until he wasn’t anymore.

Tyler halted in his inspection of the room, catching one of the younger assistants waving for him. He almost ignored it, but then the waving turned more frantic, and Tyler approached with a sigh.

“Is something wrong?” He flicked the ruler absently. How much pressure would it take to snap the wooden instrument? A hard thwack over a wrist? A sudden bend down the middle?

“Don’t look too fast, shàoyé,” the boy said quietly, “but I think we have spies.”

Tyler stopped. He dropped the ruler. Slowly, he followed the boy’s line of sight, up to the small panel windows at the topmost part of the far walls. Those windows provided the only light for a facility located deep enough underground to stay hidden beneath a restaurant but not so deep that the smells of Chenghuangmiao’s food stalls couldn’t float in. Where the view was usually only the feet of the shoppers perusing Chenghuangmiao, right then, there were two faces peering in instead, taking inventory of the space.

Tyler retrieved his pistol and shot at the window. The glass fractured immediately, splitting in every direction as the two faces jerked back. All the scientists in the room cried aloud in surprise, but Tyler merely spat, “White Flowers” and ran out, sprinting up the steps into the restaurant and out the main door.

The White Flowers were already some distance away, nearing the Jiuqu Bridge. But in their haste, they had cleared a path through the crowds of shoppers, leaving Tyler a direct shot . . .

He aimed.

“Tyler, no!”

The command came too late. By then Tyler had pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession, two White Flower heads cracking with an explosion of red, crashing to the ground. Chenghuangmiao erupted with a wave of screaming, but most shoppers reacted quickly and hurried out of the way, in no mood to be caught in a gangster dispute. They didn’t have to worry. This was no dispute; there were no other White Flowers nearby to retaliate.

A hard shove landed on Tyler’s back. He whirled around, his hand coming up to block the next hit, arms colliding with Rosalind Lang’s clenched fist.

“You have no heart,” she spat. “They were retreating. They wanted no fight.”

“They were about to take Scarlet information,” Tyler shot back, shaking Rosalind off. “Don’t get righteous.”

“Scarlet information?” Rosalind shrieked in echo. She pointed to the windows, hardly visible from the exterior, if not for the bullet hole now studded into the glass. “I was watching them, Cai Tailei. I already had my eye on them to make sure they weren’t going to be trouble, and they cannot hear anything from out here. What could they have taken with them?”

Tyler scoffed. “All they need is one leak. And then the White Flowers are on the market before we are.”

It was already bad enough that his cousin was messing with the White Flower heir again, by Lord Cai’s command. Tyler had guffawed when a messenger reported that Juliette had been sighted at the racecourse with Roma Montagov, sure that he had finally caught her this time. Only when Tyler had reported it to Lord Cai, Lord Cai had waved him off, apathetic. We must make compromises, Lord Cai had said. It was a fool’s task—each and every one of the White Flowers were underhanded and quick, taking and taking, and any lesser Scarlet than Tyler would scarcely notice.

“Do not lie to save your honor.” Rosalind pointed a sharp fingernail. “You kill because you enjoy it. I’m warning you. Your name cannot protect you for long.”

In a flash, Tyler reached out and grabbed Rosalind by the chin, forcing her to look at him. Rosalind did not flinch, her jaw locked hard, and Tyler did not let go. They were all like this. Rosalind. Juliette. Pretty, loud, terrible girls who threw accusations braced knee-deep in the guise of morality, as if they weren’t just as guilty of this city’s teachings.

“I don’t need my name to protect me,” Tyler hissed. He eyed the smattering of glitter dancing across Rosalind’s cheek. “I protect my name. Just as I protect this gang.”

Rosalind managed a choked laugh. Her hand came up around his wrist and squeezed, threatening to claw her nails into his skin. Tyler felt the pain, felt the five sharp points dig in like blades, and then the cool wetness of blood dripping once down his sleeve.

“Do you?” she whispered.

Tyler finally let go, shoving Rosalind away. She regained her balance easily, never off-kilter for more than a flash of a second.

“Don’t get righteous, Lang Shalin,” he said again.

“It is not righteousness.” Rosalind eyed the red spreading on his sleeve. “It is goodness. Of which you have none.”

She pivoted fast, sparing one glance at the bodies near the bridge before marching away, her lips thinned in horror. Tyler remained, crossing his arms with a swallowed wince, trying not to touch the throbbing wounds at his wrist.

Goodness. What was goodness at a time like this? Goodness did not keep people fed. Goodness did not win wars.

Tyler leaned over and thudded a fist against the outside of the panel windows, waving for Scarlets to come out. They had to move the bodies. This part of Chenghuangmiao was White Flower territory, and if White Flowers caught wind of their own being gunned down and arrived for a fight, it could put the Scarlet facility at risk.

Goodness. Tyler almost laughed aloud as the Scarlet men came outside and started in the direction of the two dead White Flowers. What was the Scarlet Gang without him? It would crumble, and no one seemed to realize that, least of all Juliette and her miserable cousins. Hell, Juliette herself would be dead without him, from that very first time they were ambushed by White Flowers and she froze, unwilling to shoot.

“Back to work!” one of the assistants shouted from the restaurant door, summoning the Scarlets who weren’t needed around the corpses. Tyler watched them trek back, his head humming with sound. They all nodded his way in passing, some throwing a salute.

The Scarlet Gang recognized Juliette across Shanghai because they painted her face on advertisements and creams. The Scarlet Gang recognized Tyler because he knew this city, because the people had seen him at work, pushing for their victory at every turn, no matter how brutish his tactics were. Everyone else be damned, his people came first. That was what his father had taught him. That was what his father had died for, raging for the Scarlets in the feud, and for as long as Tyler lived, he would make that spilled blood mean something.

All the Scarlets eventually filtered back into the building. The rest of Chenghuangmiao resumed its bustle, its hawking and its sizzling, its infinite smells.

“You need me,” Tyler said, to no one in particular, or perhaps to everyone. “You all need me.”