“I am never bringing you alcohol,” Juliette said. “I fear I would find this place in flames.”
Marshall responded by hurrying to the other side of the table and inspecting the bottom of Juliette’s basket. He hardly heard her biting remark; after all this time, Juliette and Marshall had grown familiar enough with the other that they could tell what was intended to be sharp and what was not. They were incredibly alike, and that was too eerie a thought for Juliette to mull on it long.
Marshall retrieved one of the newspapers lining the bottom of the basket, his eyes scanning the headline. “A vigilante, huh?”
Juliette frowned, peering at the page. “You know you can never trust the papers to report on feud business.”
“But you’ve heard about him too?”
“Indeed a few whispers here and there, but . . .” Juliette trailed off, her gaze narrowing upon a bag on the floor, one that she knew hadn’t been in this apartment the last time she was here.
Then, some few inches away, there was a leaf.
Now, how would Marshall Seo have heard about a vigilante in the city?
Juliette folded her arms. “You’ve been outside, haven’t you?”
“I—” Marshall’s mouth opened and closed. He tried his best. “No! Of course not.”
“Oh?” Juliette reached for the paper and turned it her way, reading aloud. “The masked figure has intervened on multiple counts to knock both sides out before shots can be fired. Anyone with information should—Marshall!”
“Fine, fine!” Marshall sat upon the rickety seat with a heavy sigh, his energy depleting. A long moment passed, which was rare in any room with Marshall Seo. When he did speak again, he was quiet, his voice pushed out with effort. “I’m only trying to keep an eye on him. I step in on other feud business if I happen to see something while I’m lurking.”
Him. Marshall didn’t say his name, but he was evidently talking about Benedikt. There were no other contenders to be the subject of such carefulness. She should have chided him immediately, but she couldn’t find it in herself. She had a heart, after all. She was the one who had put him here, away from everything—everyone—he loved.
“Has Benedikt Montagov seen you?” she asked tightly.
Marshall shook his head. “The one time he actually got himself in trouble, I shot everyone around him and ran.” At that, his eyes shifted up, a brief flicker of guilt appearing when he remembered who he was talking to. “It was quick—”
“Best not to think too deeply about it,” Juliette said, cutting him off. He had killed Scarlets; she would kill White Flowers. For as long as they lived, so long as the city remained divided, they would kill, and kill, and kill. In the end, would it matter? When the choice was between protecting those you loved and sparing the lives of strangers, who would ever think that to be a hard decision?
Juliette shifted to the window again, peering into the night. It was better lit out there than it was in here, the streetlamps humming happily in harmony with the wind. This safe house had been strategically chosen, after all: as far out as Juliette’s eye could see, there were no particular corners or nooks where anybody could be hiding, watching her as she looked out. Nevertheless, she surveyed the scene warily.
“Just be careful,” Juliette finally said, dropping the curtain. “If anyone sees you . . .”
“No one will,” Marshall replied. His voice had grown firm again. “I promise, darling.”
Juliette nodded, but there was a tightening sensation gripping her chest even as she tried for a smile. During these few months, she had expected Marshall to start resenting her. She had promised she would figure something out soon, but she still had Tyler breathing down her neck and no concrete way around it. Yet she hadn’t heard a word of complaint from Marshall. He had taken it in stride, even though she knew it ate him up inside to be stuck here.
She wished he would yell at her. Get angry. Tell her that she was useless, because that certainly seemed to be true.
But he only welcomed her in every visit like he had missed her dearly.
Juliette turned away, blinking rapidly. “There are rumors that there will be Communist-led riots on the streets tonight,” she said when she had her tear ducts under control. “Don’t go outside.”
“Understood.”
“Stay safe.”
“When am I not?”
Juliette reached for the now empty basket with a glare, but her malice at Marshall—even when feigned—was always half-hearted. Marshall grinned and sent her off with two big, swooping air kisses, still making the faintest noises even as Juliette closed the door after her and heard the locks bolt again on the other side.
She had to stop growing so fond of White Flowers. It would be the death of her.
Lord Montagov pushed the file right to the edge of his desk, giving Roma no choice but to reach out quickly and grab it lest the papers inside flutter to the floor. From the other corner of the desk, leaning upon the outside edge in an ever-so-casual slouch, Dimitri squinted, trying to read upside down as Roma flipped open the folder.
Roma doubted that Dimitri could pick out anything. Dimitri needed glasses, and the bulb light on Lord Montagov’s desk was not doing him any favors. It flooded the room in a cold, off-white color that treated their electric bills kindly but hurt the eyes to be near for long, casting a deathlike tinge on their skin.
“Comb through carefully, memorize the names of the clients we seek,” Lord Montagov instructed. “But that is your secondary goal. First and foremost, you are to keep track of the Scarlet effort with this blackmailer. Don’t let them gain an advantage. Don’t let them shove it on us. If the Scarlet Gang manage to rid themselves of the threat, the White Flowers should too.”
“It will come around to how they achieve it,” Roma replied evenly. “Whether we find the perpetrator or find a new vaccine.”
Finding the perpetrator would be a done and dusted deal. It didn’t matter which side shot the bullet or slashed their blade. A dead blackmailer was no blackmailer. But if the solution to the madness was a new vaccine, then it was a game of who could hold on to the secret and save themselves first.
Dimitri leaned forward, about to say something. Before he could, Roma slapped the file closed.
“Either way, I have it handled.”
A knock came on Lord Montagov’s office then, and the White Flower outside announced an incoming phone call. Roma pushed his chair back, making way for his father as Lord Montagov stood from behind his desk and exited the room. As soon as the door clicked, Dimitri wandered over to the other side of the desk and dropped into Lord Montagov’s chair.
“First of all, you’re welcome,” he said.
Roma could feel an immediate headache starting up at his temples.
“All the clientele in that folder, all these Scarlet merchants on the edge of defection to the White Flowers—that is my doing, Roma. All you have to do is make the killing blow. Should be easy enough.”
“Congratulations,” Roma said, resting his arm on the back of his chair. “You did your job.”
Dimitri shook his head. The gesture was drenched with feigned pity, accompanied by an unspoken tut-tut-tut in the air.
“It is not enough to see the merchants as a job,” Dimitri urged. “You must accept them. Respect them. Only then will they listen.”