Twenty-Six

Twenty-Six

Juliette practically slammed into the two Scarlets guarding the door to the burlesque club, narrowly halting before a collision. Kathleen was close behind, her breath coming fast.

“Let me through.”

“Miss Cai.” The Scarlets exchanged a glance. “We can’t—”

“Stand aside. Now.”

One of them shifted out of her way, drawing a glare from the other, but that small gap was enough for Juliette. She squeezed past and pushed through the door, barging into the dark interior of the club, the smell of smoke bringing an immediate sting to her eyes.

And inside, all she could hear was screaming.

For a moment Juliette was frozen in shock, uncertain what she was witnessing. The club had been cleared out, the tables and bar emptied of patrons and workers. The only people present were her father’s men, seated around him and at the ready while he lounged at one of the largest tables, arms splayed across the velvet of the half-moon couch.

He was facing forward.

Facing the stage, where Rosalind was being whipped.

The lash came down again on her back, and Rosalind cried out, her whole body shuddering. They didn’t allow her to crumple to the floor: there were four Scarlets around her, two to hold her upright, one with the whip, and one standing just to the side.

“Oh my God,” Kathleen whispered. “Oh my—”

Juliette charged for the stage. “Stop it!” she demanded. She was upon the platform in three fast steps. When the Scarlet standing guard tried to stop her from lunging in Rosalind’s direction, Juliette was faster, pushing at the arms that tried to grab her. The guard tried again, and Juliette immediately struck her fist across his face. He stumbled away, finally letting Juliette throw herself before Rosalind, her own body a shield for the next lashing.

“Xiao Wang, stand down.”

At Lord Cai’s call, the Scarlet who held the whip frowned. Droplets of blood were splattered across the front of his shirt, but he seemed not to notice. He didn’t stand down. His arm pulled back, half-prepared to strike again, as if he would release the whip.

“Go ahead,” Juliette said, her words curling into a sneer. “Whip me, and see how many pieces I’ll cut you into afterward.”

“Xiao Wang.” That was Lord Cai again, his voice rising over Rosalind’s whimpers. “Stand down.”

The Scarlet listened. He lowered the whip, and Juliette spun around, hands outstretched for Rosalind. As soon as the Scarlets released their hold on her, she collapsed, and Juliette scrambled to catch her cousin, softening her fall onto the stage. By then Kathleen had reached them too, cursing and cursing under her breath.

The burlesque club was silent. Waiting.

“Rosalind,” Juliette said. “Rosalind, can you walk?”

Rosalind mumbled something beneath her breath. Juliette couldn’t hear what Rosalind was saying, but by Kathleen’s stricken expression, she had understood immediately.

“Deserve what?” Kathleen asked, her voice a mere rasp. “Why would you say that?”

It was only then that the mumble registered to Juliette. I deserve it, I deserve it.

“Because she does.”

Juliette’s head snapped up, seeking her father. He had spoken in such plain declaration, without room for dispute nor debate.

“Bàba,” she whispered, horrified. “You know Rosalind. You know who she is.”

“Indeed,” Lord Cai replied. “And so she should have known better. She should have had more loyalty, but instead she has been feeding Scarlet information out.”

Juliette felt her throat grow tight. When she shifted her hold on her cousin, her palm came back entirely slick with blood, the mangled gashes in Rosalind’s qipao weeping bright and red from her wounds. Juliette was torn between the same indignation that had dragged her father out here to make an example out of Rosalind and utter outrage that this was Rosalind—no matter what she did, where was her chance to explain herself?

“Is this about her lover?” Kathleen asked quietly. Her voice shook. “He is a mere merchant. She said he would soon leave the White Flowers.”

“He is no mere merchant,” Lord Cai replied. With disconcerting speed, he leaned off the couch, grabbing a stack of papers upon the table. In his hand, he flipped through them, then selected one to pass to a Scarlet beside him, indicating in Juliette’s direction. “He is no merchant at all. According to the letters we found, he is a White Flower through and through, and he has been siphoning our clientele lists through Lang Shalin for months.”

What?

The Scarlet presented the single piece of paper. Juliette scanned the Russian script briefly, reading a report about the members of the inner circle. This was one among hundreds. One day logged out of months.

“Who?” Juliette demanded. “Who were these letters being sent to?”

“Well—” Lord Cai gestured toward Xiao Wang, toward the whip that trailed blood across the stage. “That’s what I wanted to know too.”

By now it seemed that Rosalind was close to losing consciousness, her body growing still. Juliette tapped her face, but her cousin’s eyes had fallen shut, thick lashes fluttering up and down each time Juliette urged for a response.

“Come on, Rosalind,” Juliette hissed. “Stay awake.”

Lord Cai arose from his seat suddenly, and panic surged through Juliette’s every cell in response. She had never responded like this before when it came to her father, whom she had always seen as fair, even when he was the one holding the whip. Nothing had changed. Her father was and had always been the leader of a ruthless gang, the head of a criminal empire. He had never hesitated to give punishment where punishment was deserved, and Juliette had never blinked until now—now, when punishment was still fair, but fair brought the blood of one of her best friends.

“We are done here, I suppose,” Lord Cai said. “If you want to interfere, Juliette, you can help by getting a name out of your cousin. She protects him even now, and it will not stand.” He waved at the men around him. “Help her home. Call a doctor.”

Kathleen made a noise of protest as they leaned over to grab Rosalind, but Juliette relinquished her hold. The time for punishment had passed, and the Scarlets weren’t fond of unnecessary cruelty. They were careful, avoiding Rosalind’s injuries.

This whole event wasn’t about hurting her; it was about making a point.

“Juliette,” Kathleen whispered when the Scarlets started to clear out from the club. “Did Rosalind lie to us?”

“Yes,” Juliette replied, certain. She squeezed her hands, and blood crusted into the lines of her palms. Rosalind had lied, had betrayed the Scarlets for whatever reason, and Lord Cai had not hesitated to make her answer for it.

Juliette looked at the bloodred stains on the stage. The men were moving the tables into their original formation, glasses clinking together, voices yelling at one another to summon the car out front. She could feel her father’s eyes on her, calm in inspection, digesting her every reaction. She needed to keep her expression composed—no particular horror at the violence, no undue sympathy for a traitor.

But all she could think was: if Rosalind was whipped like this for leaking Scarlet information and protecting an ordinary White Flower, then what was Juliette’s fate if they were to ever find out about her past with Roma Montagov?

Benedikt wouldn’t have run the message himself if it weren’t such a late hour, but the clock was nearing midnight, and he doubted any of the White Flowers were sober enough in the main headquarters to be summoned to a task. This was urgent.

Though these few months, he supposed just about everything in this city was.

“I cannot concentrate with you hovering over me like this.”

Benedikt heard Lourens’s booming voice before he saw him, pushing through the lab doors and scanning across the few technicians working overtime. Eventually, he sighted Lourens and his cousin near the side tables, both of them squinting at something under a microscope. Or technically, Lourens was the one with his face pressed to the eyepiece. Roma was looming over him and invading the scientist’s personal space.

“Is that the vaccine?” Benedikt asked.

“Stolen right from the Scarlets,” Roma answered, having recognized Benedikt’s voice without bothering to look up as he approached. “But Lourens is saying he doesn’t think he can re-create it.”

“I cannot read any of these papers,” Lourens shot back. “Moreover, this sample is not pure. It has been manipulated for additional solubility . . . or flammability. One or the other, I’m sure.”

“Well,” Benedikt interrupted, “it just became a lot more valuable. The Scarlets had their entire supply stolen. By monsters.”

Roma finally looked up, taking a step away from the microscope. “What? I was there only a mere hour ago.”

“I know.” Benedikt nudged a thumb toward the doors, indicating the rest of the city outside. “That’s why there are rumors that you orchestrated it. White Flower credibility went up. Scarlet security went down. There will be blood feud fights on the streets tonight, I’m sure.”

“Me?” Roma muttered under his breath. “That’s rich. I wish I did.”

Lourens, meanwhile, made a thoughtful noise, his eye still pressed to the microscope. “I really would recommend finding the source of this rather than counting on our re-creation of the vaccine, Roma.”

Roma didn’t say anything in response. He was good at internalizing; if Benedikt took a listening device to his cousin’s head, he was sure he would hear an utter scramble of panic, but on the exterior, Roma simply folded his arms.

“Just try your best. Even if I can find the blackmailer, who’s to say if I can find the rest of the damn monsters?”

Lourens pushed the microscope away wearily. “I am not paid enough for this.” He reached for the drawers along the worktable, retrieving a scalpel. “Speaking of which, there was someone who came poking around in the evening, seeking you.”

Benedikt pulled a face, though Roma was too busy with his own surprise to notice.

“To the lab?” Roma said. “Here?”

“I do not know how he found his way over either. He was called General Shu.”

Why did that name sound familiar? Benedikt combed through his memory but came up empty. Roma, on the other hand, immediately reared back. “He’s a top Nationalist official. What does he want with me?”

Lourens merely heaved a sigh, like the topic was wearing him out. “I suspect he circulated all the places you are known to frequent. He left as soon as I said you were not present.”

“Are you in trouble?” Benedikt asked.

“With the Kuomintang?” Roma replied, scoffing. “No more than the usual level they want me dead.” He stepped away from the worktable, leaving Lourens to his task. “Shall we go?”

Benedikt nodded. He was still mulling over Lourens’s strange report when Roma opened the doors for him, the smack of cold wind forcing him alert.

“You look better today,” Roma remarked, starting in the direction of headquarters. “Are you getting more sleep?”

“Yes,” Benedikt replied plainly. And mere hours ago, I found out that Marshall is still alive.

He wanted to say it aloud. He wanted to scream it from the rooftops and declare it to the whole world, so that the world could end its mourning with him. But now Benedikt had been roped into Marshall’s promise to Juliette. Benedikt was another piece in a larger chess game, one with Juliette on one side and Roma on the other, and to keep Marshall from falling off the board, it seemed that he had to start playing for Juliette’s strategy.

“Good,” Roma replied. A slight crinkle appeared in his brow. Perhaps confusion, perhaps relief. His cousin heard the lift in his voice and couldn’t quite pinpoint a cause, but he was not direct enough to ask outright.

A streetlamp flickered above them. Benedikt rubbed at his own arms, easing his chill. When they turned a corner, deep enough in White Flower territory that he felt assured they wouldn’t be attacked anytime soon, he said:

“You did not seem concerned by the news I brought you. I expected some exclamation when told that monsters robbed the Scarlets of their vaccine.”

“What’s the point?” Roma replied tiredly. “The Scarlets never would have distributed to us.”

“The concern isn’t the Scarlet loss. It’s the use of monsters for such a trivial task with no attack on the people.”

Roma blew out a breath, fogging the air around him. “I’m almost convinced at this point they’ll never go away,” he muttered. “They will keep coming and coming, and Juliette will keep appearing before me, dropping to her knees to ask for help just one last time, right before she puts a blade in my back.”

Benedikt remained silent, not knowing what to say. The lack of argument must have seemed suspicious to Roma, because he threw a quick glance over, mouth opening again. But Roma didn’t begin his next sentence. Instead, so quickly that it scared the living daylights out of Benedikt, Roma pulled his gun and shot into the night over Benedikt’s shoulder, his bullet already echoing before Benedikt had whirled around and caught sight of movement disappearing from the mouth of the alley.

“Who was that?” Benedikt demanded. He glanced around, taking inventory of their surroundings—the shop signs written in Cyrillic and the Russian bakeries all lined up in a row, though they had retired for the night. This was about as far into White Flower territory as one could go. “A Scarlet?”

Roma frowned, drawing closer to the alley. His target had long disappeared—possibly struck, possibly only grazed, given the distance at which Roma had shot from.

“No,” he replied. “A Nationalist, uniformed. I thought I heard someone behind us, but I chalked it up to my imagination until they came closer. We were followed almost immediately upon leaving the lab.”

Benedikt blinked. First an official appearing at the lab. Now they were picking up a tail on the streets, right in their own territory? It was bold—far too bold.

“What did you do?” he demanded.

Roma didn’t answer. He had sighted something on the alley floor: a wad of loose-leaf paper. It looked like an old advertisement, but Roma picked it up anyway and unfolded it.

His eyebrows shot straight up. “Forget about what I did.” Roma turned the slip of paper around, and a sketch of Benedikt’s face stared right back at him. “What do the Kuomintang want by trailing after you?”

Benedikt took the paper. A cold sweat broke out along his spine. His neutral expression was colored in careful ink, the illustration better than his own self-portraits. The artist had been generous with his crop of curly hair. There was no doubt that this was him.

“I . . . haven’t a clue,” Benedikt muttered.

But his concern wasn’t why the Kuomintang were following him. If they had been on his tail for some time now, the more important question was: How much had they seen from earlier in the day, when he was exiting the safe house and saying goodbye to Marshall, who was supposed to be dead?