It had been a while since the last demand came.
Benedikt stopped. He turned over his shoulder. It felt like he was being watched: from both above and below. Eyes on the rooftops and eyes in the alleys.
It wasn’t his imagination. Quickly he spotted a boy on his tail, lingering at the mouth of an alley. When Benedikt locked gazes with him, the boy hurried out, stopping two paces away. He was a whole head shorter than Benedikt, but they looked the same age. There was a white rag tied to his ankle, half-covered by his tattered trousers. A White Flower, then, but not an important one. A messenger, most likely, if he was chasing after Benedikt.
“I’m looking for Roman Nikolaevich,” the messenger huffed in Russian. “He is nowhere to be seen.”
“You decided to tail me for Roma?” Benedikt replied, his eyes narrowing.
The boy folded his arms. “Well, do you know where he is?”
Benedikt’s eyes only narrowed further. “He’s not here.” All the lower-tiered White Flowers should have known that. It was not difficult to keep attuned with the important members of the gang; it was the messengers’ job to keep track of where one was most likely to be in order to find them.
And who still called Roma Roman?
Suddenly Benedikt’s hand snagged out and grabbed the messenger’s wrist. “Who really sent you?”
The messenger’s jaw dropped. He tried to tug away. “What do you mean?”
In one smooth motion, Benedikt twisted the boy’s arm behind his back, then pulled forth a pocketknife and pressed the blade to his neck. It was nowhere near any major artery to act a threat, but the messenger froze, eyeing the blade.
“You’re a Scarlet,” Benedikt guessed. “So who sent you?”
The messenger remained quiet. Benedikt pressed his knife in, cutting the first layer of skin.
“Lord Cai,” the messenger spat quickly. “Lord Cai sent me because we know. We know that the White Flowers are behind the blackmail demands.”
Benedikt blinked rapidly. “We are not,” he said, confused. “Where did you hear such information from?”
“It is too late now.” The messenger tried to writhe about. “Lord Cai wanted confirmation and confession, but Tyler will have you answer for your insolence. You dare threaten the Scarlet Gang, you pay with blood and fire.”
Just as Benedikt was about to let go of his hold on the Scarlet messenger’s arm, the Scarlet twisted his head and bit down hard on Benedikt’s hand. Benedikt hissed, dropping his knife, and the boy bolted, disappearing down the street in record speed. Hardly any of the onlookers by the food stalls even blinked.
Something was wrong.
Benedikt rushed for headquarters, his heart pounding in his ears. By the time he was nearing the residential block, he could already hear the yelling. When he tried to push through the front door, he was almost pushed right out.
“Hey, hey, cut it out,” he snapped, fighting through the crowd. At the center of the living room, the same White Flower who had asked Benedikt to help assemble the wardrobe was clutching a slip of paper in his hands, his face practically red as he explained its contents. Benedikt caught bits and pieces as he struggled closer. Bank statement. Our latest payment. Exact number. Scarlet account. It’s them.
“Order!” Benedikt roared.
The room became still. Benedikt was almost surprised. He had never commanded attention like this before. It was always Marshall jumping on the tables or Roma snapping one directive that swept the room like ice. But now neither Marshall nor Roma was here. Benedikt was the only one left.
“Give me that,” he snapped, holding his hand out for the paper. “What are we crowing over?”
“It was sent to us, Mr. Montagov,” a voice within the crowd answered. “Proof that we have no blackmailer, and it has been the Scarlets all along.”
So why did the Scarlet messenger say the exact opposite?
“Don’t move a muscle,” Benedikt said without looking up, stopping the group near the door in their tracks. They had been on their way out, guns at the ready to find Scarlets to fight. With Benedikt’s instruction, they were forced to look as he turned the paper around, tapping the top corner.
“The account is registered to Lord Cai,” one insisted, even as he squinted where Benedikt was pointing. “The deposit amount matches the last demand we paid—”
“It’s not real,” Benedikt interrupted. “I want the Scarlets dead too, but don’t be foolish. No bank crest in this city looks like this—it is not even a good inking.” He tossed the paper to the table, flicking his hands for the men to disperse. “It is the blackmailer once again. The Scarlets got the same falsified document blaming us. Now get back to your jobs.”
“Benedikt.”
The summons came from above. Benedikt’s head snapped up—as did everybody else’s in the living room—to find his uncle atop the staircase. Lord Montagov’s hands were crowded with silver when he set them on the handrails, rings that glinted by the light of the sunset streaming through the windows.
“Did you say,” Lord Montagov said slowly, coming down the steps, taking one at a time like he had to weigh himself on each landing first, “that the Scarlet Gang received the same information?”
Benedikt could feel sweat starting at the back of his neck. “I was accosted by one of their messengers on the streets,” he said carefully. “He accused us of sending the threats.”
“And still”—Lord Montagov came down the last few steps, the nearest men parting to make way for him, a path clearing toward Benedikt like some miniature Red Sea—“knowing their malicious intent, you stop our own from rushing out?”
An abrupt, scraping sound came from the wall outside, like someone had slipped off and fallen to the ground. Before Benedikt could entertain the possibility of an eavesdropper outside, a White Flower messenger—a true one, this time—scrambled through the door, heaving for breath.
“Come quickly,” he gasped. “Tyler Cai is launching an attack.”
“I will find the Frenchman,” Roma said when the train pulled into Shanghai, the station coming into view. “And as soon as I find him . . . perhaps he will be afraid enough to tell us directly who turned him into a monster.”
Juliette nodded absently. Her eyes watched the window, pinned on the approaching platform. The sky was horribly dark, but the hour was also growing late. They had spent longer in Zhouzhuang than Juliette had liked, and the car ride back to Kunshan had been slowed by the potholes on the gravelly roads.
“It will not be that easy,” Juliette grumbled. “Not if the blackmailer sent him right after us. He did not even bother hiding his face.” She turned away from the window and looked at Roma. “But still—it is better than nothing. We work from there.”
Roma rose and reached up to gather his coat from the overhead storage. Before Juliette could stop him, he had hers too, tossing it upon her.
“Careful,” she chided. She stuck her hand into the pocket, checking on the vial they had stolen from Mr. Huai. It was fine, the blue liquid sloshing at its half-filled point. She had a sneaking suspicion that Roma had intended for her to worry that he was going to damage it; he was not foolish enough to forget it was in her pocket.