Page 38 of Our Violent Ends
He missed Benedikt.
The wail of a siren swept the streets some distance away, then the echo of what might have been a gunshot. Marshall pulled his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. When he first joined the White Flowers, he was just another scrappy kid picked off the streets, thin and hungry and constantly dirty. That was how Benedikt found him that day. Curled up in the alley behind the Montagov house, legs pulled close, arms wrapped in a fetal position. He hadn’t yet learned how to fight, how to smile so sharply that it would cut as fast as any blade. And when Benedikt crouched in front of him—looking like a shining cherub with his pressed white shirt and curly combed hair—he didn’t remark on any of that. All he did was extend a hand, asking, “Do you have somewhere to go?”
“I do have somewhere to go now,” Marshall muttered. “But it was better when you were there with me.”
A sudden rustle came from the other side of the rooftop, and Marshall jolted, startling out of his thoughts. He had gotten so caught up in his memories that he had tuned out the world around him. A mistake—one that he couldn’t afford to make. This was Scarlet territory.
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, heisFrench,” 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.
