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.”
Thirteen
In the weeks that passed, the dance that Roma and Juliette settled into grew almost predictable. In the most literal sense too, given how often they were dropping into the various dance halls across the Concessions. Show up, target a foreigner, get answers.
Juliette didn’t mind. Navigating a wǔtīng was far more palatable than navigating places like the Grand Theatre and the racecourse. Here, although it still required the same sharp tongue, although they remained surrounded by pearls and champagne and the knowledge that this was foreign-owned land, there were still Chinese tycoons and gangsters dancing the night away, blowing their cigarette smoke out without caring that it might bother the Frenchman at the next table. A dance hall was no different from a burlesque club in practice. Same showgirls onstage, same smoky interiors, same lowlifes lurking by the doors. The only reason they seemed so much fancier was because they ran on foreign money.
Juliette returned from the bar, offering Roma the second drink in her hand. Meanwhile, the French merchant who had approached them earlier in the evening continued chattering on, following right on her tail. Roma took the drink absently, his gaze remaining elsewhere in inspection. They had spent long enough here at Bailemen—or Paramount, to the foreigners—to have spoken with almost every wealthy elite present tonight. By now it was obvious that the flyers were not limited to those in the French Concession but the International Settlement, too, all the occupants of Bubbling Well Road gasping in confirmation when Juliette asked about them.
Funnily enough, though these flyers were the only thing people reported regarding the new monster business, nobody had actually gone to the address. Many had already been vaccinated by the Larkspur and thought it unnecessary, or they didn’t believe the flyers to be real. The blackmailer wasn’t smarter than Paul Dexter after all. Because they hadn’t built any of the reputation that the Larkspur dove into Shanghai with, and now nobody trusted the idea of a new vaccine enough to actually go get it.
“And besides,” the merchant behind her was saying once Juliette tuned in again. “Your cousin has said that the Scarlets are close to a breakthrough on their own vaccine. What use is another?”
At this, Roma choked on his drink, managing to suppress his cough before it was too obvious. The man prattling on did not notice because he was Scarlet-affiliated and had been pretending that Roma did not exist. Even if the merchant was happy to speak as if the White Flower heir was not two steps away, he was, and he could hear everything that the man did not even realize was sensitive information. Juliette’s eyes slid to Roma as the last of his cough died, checking only that he did not need a great big thump on the back. He seemed to recover. A shame.
“My cousin is not to be trusted,” Juliette said. She traced her finger around the cool edge of her glass. There was no one that the man could be referring to save for Tyler. She highly doubted Rosalind or Kathleen was going around gossiping with Scarlet-affiliated French merchants. They could—they had the linguistic ability, but not the stomach.
The merchant leaned one shoulder against the wall. This corner of Bailemen was rather empty, hosting one or two tables that had a poor view of the stage. Of course, Roma and Juliette weren’t standing here to watch the show; they were here to peruse the crowd and see if there were any more people worthy of approaching.
“Oh?” the merchant said. “If I’m not overstepping, Miss Cai, the city seems to trust your cousin more than they trust you.”
Juliette turned around, fixing her eyes on him. The merchant flinched a little, but he did not back down.
“I’ll give you two seconds to take that back.”
The merchant forced an awkward laugh. He feigned deference, but a certain note of amusement colored his stare. “It is merely an observation,” he said. “One that notes how daughters will always have their attention elsewhere. Who could blame you, Miss Cai? You were not born for this like your cousin was, after all.”
How dare he—
“Juliette, let it go.”
Juliette cast Roma a glare. “Stay out of this.”
“Do you even know this merchant’s name?” Roma looked the Frenchman once over. Apathy oozed from the gesture. “On any other day, you’d have walked away. He’s irrelevant. Let it go.”
Her grip tightened on her drink. By all means, it was foolish to make a scene in a dance hall, especially among so many foreigners—among those she needed to respect her if she was going to get any information out of them.
Then the merchant grinned and said, “You take instructions from White Flowers now, do you? Miss Cai, what would your fallen Scarlets say?”
Juliette threw her drink down, the glass shattering into a thousand pieces. “Try me one more time.” She lunged, pushing the merchant into the wall, so fiercely that his head made a crack! against the marble. Juliette reared back, her fist closing for another strike. Only then an iron grip came around her waist, hauling her two steps away.
“Calm down,” Roma hissed, his mouth so close to her ear that she could feel the heat of his lips, “before I throw you into the wall.”
A chill swept down Juliette’s neck. In anger or attraction, she wasn’t quite sure. It seemed unnecessarily cruel that each time Roma Montagov decided to get so close, it was to make threats, especially when Juliette was hardly in the wrong here.
Anger won out. It always did.
“So do it,” she said through her teeth.