“I heard that he destroyed it all,” Juliette said carefully.
“Indeed, it is likely he would have thought to discard his primary findings.” Walter pulled a bundle of papers from his coat, neatly clipped together. “But I found these in his bookshelves. It is possible they were so unimportant that he had not the idle thought to even deal with them.”
Juliette folded her arms. “So why do you think we would want them?”
“Because I heard he passed on his chaos,” Walter replied darkly. “And before you ask, I have nothing to do with any of it. I am boarding the first ship out of here tomorrow for England.” He shook his head then, an exhale rattling his lungs. “If the madness starts again, I will not remain to see how this one plays out. But I figure you, Miss Cai, may want to counter it. Make a new vaccine, protect your people against its spread.”
Juliette eyed the merchant warily. It sounded like Walter Dexter didn’t know this madness was a targeted matter, dropped on its victims like a bomb.
“He claimed to have done it for you,” Juliette said quietly. “He took you into a period of riches, but now you are here, back where you began, and your son is dead.”
“I didn’t ask for him to do it, Miss Cai,” Walter rasped. All his age shuttered down on him, weariness sagging every line and wrinkle on his face. “I didn’t even know what he was doing until he was dead and I was paying back his debts, cursing him for trying to act the savior.”
Juliette looked away. She didn't want to feel pity for Walter Dexter, but it twinged at her anyway. For whatever reason, her mind flashed to Tyler. At the heart of the matter, he and Paul were not so different, were they? Boys who tried to do the best for the people they cared about, not concerned for the collateral damage they might wreak in the process. The difference was that Paul had been given real power—Paul had been given a whole system that bowed at his feet—and that made him so much more dangerous than Tyler could ever be.
Slowly, Walter Dexter extended his arm through two of the bars in the gate. He almost looked like an animal at the zoo, foolishly reaching out in hopes of some food. Or perhaps Juliette was the animal inside the cage, taking poison being fed to her.
“Take a look and see if it may be useful,” Walter Dexter said, clearing his throat. “My starting price is written at the top left corner of the first page.”
Juliette received the papers, then unfolded the dog-eared corner, revealing the price. She lifted her brows. “I could buy a house with that amount.”
Walter shrugged. “Buy it or not,” he said simply. “It is not my city that is soon to suffer.”
Five
By all technicalities, Benedikt Montagov was grocery shopping. In reality, he was more or less collecting items to destroy, trading money for fresh pears, then taking one bite before squeezing the rest into oblivion, throwing the mushed core onto the pavement.
Benedikt was a terrible cook. He burned eggs and underprepared meat. In the first month, he attempted it at least, resolute not to waste away like a pathetic ghoul of a person. Then, as if a shutter had come down, he couldn’t step into the kitchen at all. Every meal he made was one that Marshall hadn’t. Every flicker of the gas, every puddle growing by the sink—the more that Benedikt took notice of the space that Marshall had once constantly lounged around, the emptier it grew.
It was bizarre that that was what had broken the dam, pushing through every wall Benedikt had put up to suppress his mourning. Not the absence of sound in the morning, not the absence of movement by his side. One day he had been operating in numbness, shoving aside the art supplies abandoned on the floor and going through each step of his routine with hardly any trouble. The next moment, he entered the kitchen and could not stop staring at the stovetop. The water started boiling and still he could not look away, until he merely crumpled to the floor, sobbing into his hands as the water evaporated into nothingness.
Benedikt put a stick of g¯anzhè in his mouth, chewing slowly. Now he could hardly eat. He didn’t know why, but things wouldn’t stay down, and things that did stay down felt wrong. The only loophole around the instinct was to take a bite out of everything he could get his hands on and throw it away before his thoughts could catch up. It kept him fed and kept his head quiet. That was what mattered.
“Hey!”
At the sudden shout, he spat out the raw sugarcane clumps. There was a commotion erupting by the far side of the market, and Benedikt started over immediately, wiping his mouth. Any commotion would have been harder to discern if this were a busier market, but the stalls here barely extended past two streets, and the vendors hardly had the energy to shout their wares. This was one of the poorer parts of the city, where people were near starving and would do whatever it took to survive, which included pledging devout loyalty to the closest available power. It was a bad idea to draw attention to himself, especially here, where territories shifted and changed at a moment’s notice. Benedikt knew this, yet he turned the corner anyway, dashing into the alleyway where the shout was heard.
He found a whole crowd of Scarlets, and one White Flower messenger.
“Benedikt Montagov!” the boy screeched immediately.
Of all times to be identified. Benedikt had nowhere near the level of recognition that Roma received on the streets, yet here he was, pinned for a Montagov, pinned for the enemy. A tear streaked down the boy’s face, running a wet trail that caught the midday light before hitting the concrete.
Benedikt inhaled fast, assessing the situation. The White Flower was Chinese—he shouldn’t have been identified at all for his allegiance, if not for that white thread he’d twined around his own wrist. Foolish. The blood feud had gotten horrific these last few months. If he had the ability to blend in, why not do it? How old was he? Ten? Eleven?
“Montagov?” one of the Scarlets echoed.
Benedikt reached for his gun. The smarter move would have been to run when he was vastly outnumbered, but he cared little. He had no reason to care, to live—
He didn’t even have the chance to pull a weapon. A blow came to the side of his face out of nowhere, then Benedikt was reeling, crushed to the ground amid shouting and cursing and someone calling for the death of his whole family. His arms were bent back and his head was pushed hard into the cement, before something ice cold, something that felt like the butt of a gun, jammed up against his temple.
No, he thought suddenly, his eyes squeezing shut. Wait, I didn’t actually want to die, not yet, not really . . .
A deafening sound shook the alleyway. His ears rang, but other than the bruises forming all over his body, he felt no pain, no white-hot bullet pressed into his skull. Maybe this was death. Maybe death was nothing.
Then the sound came again, and again, and again. Gunshots. Not from the alleyway. From above.
Benedikt’s eyes flew open at the exact moment a spray of blood landed across his face, tinting his vision red. He gasped, jerking upright and scurrying up against the wall, unable to comprehend anything past his disbelief as the Scarlets around him dropped one by one, studded in bullets. Only as the shooting almost stopped did he think to look up, trying to find where the bullets were coming from.
He caught the barest flash of movement. There—at the edge of the rooftop—then gone with the last bullet, the last Scarlet dropping dead.