And indeed, a Scarlet circled around the rooftop tower, coming into view. He froze as he looked up, cigarette dangling from his lips.
Please don’t recognize me, Marshall thought, his hands creeping for the pistol in his pocket. Please don’t recognize me.
“Marshall Seo,” the Scarlet croaked. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
Aish.
The Scarlet threw his cigarette down, but Marshall had readied himself. There was only one way this could end. He drew the pistol from his pocket in one fast motion and fired—fast and first, because that was what mattered.
At the end of the day, that was the only thing that mattered.
The bullet landed true. With a harsh clatter, the Scarlet’s weapon fell to the floor. It might have been a gun. It might have been a dagger. It might even have been a throwing star, for all the consequence it held. But in the hazy dark, all Marshall cared about was it being out of reach, and then the Scarlet collapsed too, a hand clasped over the hole studded into his breastbone.
For a few tense seconds, Marshall heard labored breathing, the metallic smell of blood permeating the rooftop. Then, silence. Utter silence.
Marshall kicked the edge of the rooftop, skittering little stones down the side of Bailemen. All this death on his hands. All this death, and in truth, none of it mattered to him so long as it protected him, protected the secrets of those he was hiding for.
“Goddammit,” he whispered, scrubbing his face and turning to the breeze, away from the smell. “I hate this city.”
Fourteen
Juliette peered at the train platform, eyeing the tracks below. When she felt a presence behind her, she didn’t have to turn to know who it was. She recognized him by footfall, by that soft pitter-patter paired with a hard stop, like he had never in his life walked in the wrong direction.
“To the southwest,” she said beneath her breath. “White man with the tatty clothing and French novel tucked under his arm. He’s been watching me for the past ten minutes.”
Out of her periphery, she watched Roma turning slowly, seeking the man in question.
“Perhaps he thinks you are pretty.”
Juliette clicked her tongue. “He looks ready to kill me.”
“Same concept, really—” Roma stopped, blinking rapidly. He had sighted the man. “He’s a White Flower.”
Surprised, Juliette shifted her eyes again, straining to get another look. The man had turned his attention to his novel now, so he did not notice.
“Are you . . . certain?” Juliette asked, deflating from her confidence. She had hoped that maybe it was the blackmailer, finally showing up in the open now that Juliette and Roma were on their way toward the possible truth. It was too much to hope that someone would materialize like this just to stop them, but it certainly would have sped the investigation along. “I thought he was French.”
“Yes, he is French,” Roma said. “But loyal to us. I have seen him in the house before. I am certain of it.”
The man suddenly looked up again. Juliette swiveled her gaze away, pretending to be inspecting something else, but Roma did not do the same. He stared right back.
“If he is a White Flower,” Juliette said without moving her mouth, “then why does he look rather murderous toward you, too?”
Roma pursed his lips and turned back around, facing the tracks just as their train pulled in. Fellow passengers hurried forward, scrambling to the front and pushing right to the edge of the platform so they could secure a good seat.
“Perhaps he thinks I am prettier,” he replied easily. “Do you wish to speak to him? With enough effort, the two of us could probably pin him down.”
Juliette considered it, then shook her head. Why waste their time with White Flowers?
They boarded, finding seats by the window. With a sigh, Juliette plopped into the hardback chair and undid her coat, dropping it onto the table between her seat and Roma’s. By virtue of the train’s setup, they were facing each other, and stacking more items onto the table was like she was building a makeshift wall. Sitting face-to-face felt too intimate, even while twenty-odd other passengers occupied the compartment.
“To Kunshan,” the compartment loudspeaker emitted in English. “Welcome aboard.”
Roma dropped into his seat. He didn’t shed the gray coat over his suit. “What’s the next language coming?”
“French,” Juliette replied immediately, a second before grainy Shanghainese blared over the loudspeaker. Her eyebrows lifted. “Huh. Interesting.”
Roma leaned back, the smallest smile playing on his face. “Ye of little faith.”
That barest glimpse of humor came and went in a flash, but it was enough to make Juliette go stock-still, her stomach clenching. For the smallest moment, Roma had likely forgotten. And when the train started to move, when Roma turned his gaze to the scene outside and the glass reflected back the sudden hardening of his expression, Juliette knew that he remembered again—who she was, who they were, what she had done, what they were now.
The train rumbled on.
Shanghai to Kunshan was not a long journey, and the window view quickly turned rural, passing dilapidated houses on dirt roads. Swaths of grass stretched on beside the train tracks, flat and even and eternal—more natural green than Juliette had ever seen inside city limits, discounting what the foreigners cultivated in their parks.
Juliette released a soft breath, leaning her cheek upon the window. Roma was doing the same, but she resolved not to look at him any longer than necessary, lest he catch her staring. Her head turned, finding entertainment in the compartment instead, eyeing the dozing passengers as the train continued chugging, chugging, chugging.
When Roma broke the silence, enough time had passed that Juliette startled, doing so well at ignoring him that his voice was a shock.
“Assuming we do find the blackmailer”—no prelude, no overture, merely jumping directly to the point—“I gather we need a plan of attack.”
Juliette drummed her fingers on the table. “Shoot to kill?”
Roma rolled his eyes. She was rather aggravated that he looked so beautiful in the midst of the action, the dark shadows of his eyelashes flickering up like a dusting of kohl.
“And after?” he asked. “It is no different from when we thought we were chasing the Larkspur. If we kill the blackmailer, how do we get to the monsters?”
“It is different this time,” Juliette countered. She felt a chill brush through the train car, running goose bumps up her arm. When she shivered, Roma’s frown deepened, his gaze tracing along the dip of her neckline. It was hardly appropriate for winter, she knew. She didn’t need his judgment.
“How so?”
Juliette reached for her coat. “There was nothing that linked Paul Dexter to the Communists because he met with Qi Ren once and then chanced the chaos on random transformations. This blackmailer, however”—she stood up so she could swing her coat back on, the long fabric brushing the backs of her knees—“I doubt is many steps removed from their monsters. Not when the monsters are being sent out like little servants doing the blackmailer’s bidding. That requires personal instructions. Constant meetings.”
“That sounds like a guess,” Roma remarked.