Thirty

Thirty

The sky was overcast, dark enough that the morning almost seemed to be nearing night. That would have been too much to ask for. If the whole day could simply skip past itself, then no duel could be fought.

But here they were, standing by the Suzhou Creek under clouds as plump and heavy as waterlogged laundry. Juliette couldn’t make sense of how quiet it was, how there hardly seemed to be anyone present today on the roads. In the distance, the large gasworks factories sat utterly idle, not a single worker to be seen. Was there something happening that she did not know about? Some rally gathering all the numbers elsewhere in the city that she was not aware of?

“Look alert, Juliette.”

Juliette cast a wary eye to Tyler as he hovered at the end of the alley, ready for the very moment that the Montagovs appeared. Directly ahead, the creek flowed on, filled with fishing boats and houseboats that seemed to sit unoccupied.

“I don’t suppose we’re following the actual dueling code, are we?” she asked. “Because there are quite literally five hundred rules, and my Russian vocabulary only goes so far.”

In answer, Tyler pulled something from his pocket and tossed it Juliette’s way. She caught it swiftly, the pages crumpling underneath her fingers. The cover was faded, but its text was still legible, surrounded by a border decoration: Yevgeniy Onegin.

“Thirty-two paces,” Tyler replied evenly. “We can make that trash bag a barrier.”

Juliette glanced over her shoulder, checking on Alisa again. The girl stood under the grip of two of Tyler’s men. Another two Scarlets were posted at the other end of the alley. They were standing guard in case the White Flowers decided to rush in from the back roads and summon a turf war, but Roma would never be so thoughtless. There was no possible victory picking a fight within such a small space, surrounded by high walls and tiled rooftops that jutted into either side. All that could possibly suit a place like this was a duel.

Thirty-two paces. A barrier in the middle, which the dueler on each side could approach but could not retreat from once they had stepped forward. Tyler had one shot. If he missed, Roma could compel him right to the barrier, and when Roma took his returning shot, there was only one outcome possible. At such proximity, Roma could only strike true.

But that required Tyler missing first. And even at thirty-two paces, Juliette wasn’t sure if it was possible. She could only hope that they wouldn’t advance to the barrier. That they would both stay far, far from each other, and both would miss, and this duel would end with honor restored and without death, with Alisa returned to the White Flowers and Tyler mollified.

An utter joke, Juliette thought. Her heart was thudding a storm in her chest. Never could that happen. So how was this going to end?

“Hey,” Juliette said, stepping closer to Alisa. “You need anything? Thirsty?”

Alisa shook her head. She tried to tug her arm out of her captors’ hold, but it was a weak effort; she had long given up trying to escape.

“I just want to go home,” she said frostily.

Juliette swallowed hard. “You will.” She placed the copy of Tyler’s novel at Alisa’s feet. “Look after this for me, would you?”

Tyler had promised to give Alisa back at the duel’s end, regardless of the result. So far, he certainly seemed to have kept his word. Alisa was unharmed—at most, she only looked annoyed to be here.

Perhaps, it occurred to Juliette suddenly, Alisa didn’t even know that her brother was being summoned for a duel.

Footsteps sounded from the road outside the alleyway. Juliette inhaled sharply and straightened, her fists clenching hard. If Alisa didn’t know why she was here, she would soon.

Roma and Benedikt appeared. They were visibly tense, coats pulled up to their necks to brace against the cold. For a moment, Juliette wondered if Roma might be wearing something protective underneath, but then he unbuttoned his coat, showing merely a pristine white shirt. There would be no tricks here. Tyler would see through any attempt.

“Tyler,” Juliette snapped. Her voice drew Roma’s attention, summoning his eyes to the back, where Alisa was being held. He lurched forward, but Benedikt grabbed his arm, warning him against any sudden movements. Another cold gale blew into the alley. The Montagovs were twin reflections of the same picture—one ablaze as a study of contrasts and shadows, the other a faded, blond replicant.

“No need to chide me,” Tyler replied, striding toward her. “I’m getting into position.”

Just as he started to walk, there was a loud bang! from nearby, and everybody in the alley flinched. No matter how blasé Tyler acted, he was just as tense as Juliette was. Where Juliette stood taut in fear, he stood white-knuckled to prepare for blood.

“Only a rickshaw runner, I’m sure,” Juliette said. She offered Alisa another glance, trying to communicate with her eyes that everything would be all right, before walking to meet Benedikt in the middle of the alley. As seconds, this was supposed to be their last chance to communicate on behalf of the duelers, to resolve the matter and walk away.

“Any success?” Benedikt murmured.

Juliette shook her head. “No luck. What about with Roma?”

“He won’t back down.”

Knowing that they were speaking about him, Roma kept his gaze trained on Juliette. His expression was blank, revealing nothing.

“Roma,” Juliette whispered. She knew that he could hear her. Even if she mouthed every word, Roma could probably read it. “Don’t do it.”

“I must,” he said. There was no other argument. It was as simple as that. The blood feud was fated to run deep. Even Roma, who had hated the idea of it, couldn’t resist its draw. It would pull him in, force him to kill.

Remember what you used to say, Juliette wanted to scream. Astra inclinant, sed non obligant.

She remained still, her breath caught in her throat. Her heart was pounding, so loud that it had to be audible, so loud that it was all she could hear. But Roma—Roma only idly turned and took his position at the end of the alley, sparing no second glance at Juliette or Benedikt.

The moment Juliette turned on her heel and started to walk, Benedikt snapped to attention too. He hurried to Roma and grabbed him by the elbow, hissing something that Juliette could no longer catch. With every three steps, she glanced over her shoulder, trying to make sense of what was happening, but each time, Roma did not look responsive. He only shook his head and brushed his cousin off.

“Tyler,” Juliette called.

“Step behind me,” Tyler replied. He did not look in Juliette’s direction. “Unless you want to be within firing range?”

One breath in. One breath out.

“Tyler—”

This time Tyler did give her his attention, his pistol dangling at his side. “Yes?”

And Juliette’s tongue stalled. What was she to say? Was she to beg for Roma’s life? Was she to plead, drop to her knees, do all that Tyler expected her to do as that weak-hearted girl he had never thought could lead?

Juliette swallowed hard. She could not. She would not. She was the heir to the Scarlet Gang. Heir of mobsters and merchants and monsters, each and every one of them, blood frothing at the mouth. She kneeled to no one.

Tyler smiled. “Take your place, then.”

But God, she wished she weren’t. She wished she could just be a girl.

Juliette walked to the back of the alley, stopping beside Alisa. By now Alisa was starting to frown. She was putting together the pieces, watching Roma and Tyler face each other at opposite ends of an alley, pistols in their hands, as Benedikt said, “Tyler Cai. You may approach the barrier at your own pace.”

“What’s happening?” Alisa demanded suddenly. “Is this a duel?”

A crack dashed across Juliette’s heart. She felt the gouge form like it was a physical sensation.

“Don’t look,” Juliette said to Alisa.

Tyler was walking far too fast. The fear of a Russian duel was that the first shooter would miss, that the closer they had approached the barrier for their own shot, and closer they were when it became their opponent’s turn. But Tyler did not seem to have that worry at all. Tyler kept going, and going, and going, until he had closed in on the barrier entirely, his shoes stopping by the trash bag.

“What do you mean don’t look?” Alisa shrieked. She was struggling, squirming like her life depended on it, doing everything in her effort to loosen the grip the Scarlets had on her arms. “He will kill him, Juliette! Tyler will kill him!”

“Alisa Montagova,” Juliette snapped. “I said look away—”

Tyler raised his pistol. Aimed.

And just as Alisa started to scream, a shot rang into the early morning, as loud as the world ending.

The scream ended abruptly.

Tyler touched his chest, where a bloom of red was starting, flowing faster and faster. Roma took a step back, his eyes widening, searching the scene before him.

Because he had not made the illegal shot.

Juliette had.

Both her hands came around her smoking pistol. There was no room for regret now. She had done it. She had done it, and she could not stop there. She turned, and with a sob choked on her tongue, she shot each and every one of Tyler’s men before they had even comprehended what was happening, bullets studding their temples, their necks, their chests.

The moment they were all down, Juliette threw her pistol to the ground too.

“Dammit, Tyler!” she screamed. Tyler turned around and looked at her—really looked at her. He dropped to his knees. Fell to his side. Rolled to face the dark, dark sky.

Juliette rushed forward. She had made the shot, all his men were dead, and yet still she reached out and tried to stanch his wound as if she would be more despicable if she didn’t try, as if there could possibly be any coming back from this.

“Why did you have to keep pushing?” she cried. “Why couldn’t you have just left it?”

Tyler blinked slowly. It would have been easier if he had answered Juliette in hatred. It would have been easier if he had spat at her and called her a traitor, used any of the names that he never had any trouble labeling her with. Instead, he looked confused. Instead, he touched his weeping wound over Juliette’s hands and pressed down, and when his fingers came back covered in bright scarlet, it was absolute incomprehension that marred his face, like he never thought Juliette would hurt him this way.

“Why?” he rasped. He might have been echoing her. But Juliette knew he wasn’t—he was asking a question of itself.

Juliette’s hands came down harder, certain that if she just pressed enough, by sheer will she could close the wound, could stop the blood, could reverse the last minute of the world.

But even if she did, the city’s feud would still go on.

“Because—” Juliette said. Her voice was no louder than a bare whisper. Yet in the quiet of the alley, with only Tyler’s gasps, she was all that could be heard. “I love him. I love him, Tyler, and you tried to take him from me.”

Tyler exhaled. Something like a dry laugh shuddered from his lungs. “All you . . . had to do,” he said, “was . . . choose your people.”

Juliette’s jaw trembled. Nothing was ever as simple as “my people” and “your people,” but to Tyler, it was. He thought himself capable of rising to the top, thought himself worthy of being the next heir, but all he had ever done in his eighteen years was act off orders from the top, tainted by the hate that ran like poison through their lives. How could she fault him for that?

In that fleeting moment, Juliette closed her eyes and tried to remember a time before it all. A time when Tyler tossed her his apple before breakfast because she was hungry and her little fingers couldn’t reach the fruit bowl. When Tyler climbed onto the roof of the house to fix the electrical wiring and was hailed a hero by the household staff. When Juliette walked into his bedroom shortly after she’d returned from New York and found him curled into himself, crying over a picture of his father. He had slammed his door in her face, but she understood.

She had always understood.

By the time Juliette opened her eyes and whispered, “I’m sorry,” Tyler was already dead.