Page 56 of Our Violent Ends
“No,” Benedikt said. “I do not walk away.” He charged headfirst into the fight.
“Benedikt!” Roma roared after him.
Roma ran to his side, giving him cover as they both fired, working as fast as they could. But the road had turned to a battleground, soldiers stationed at every strategic place. Though their bullets were running out, gangsters were not afraid to grapple, and before Benedikt could call out a warning, there was a Scarlet diving for Roma, knife in hand.
Roma cursed, narrowly dodging a heavy blow. When the Scarlet tried again, his cousin’s fight became a blur in the dark, and Benedikt needed to pay attention to what was coming athim—first a bullet that narrowly missed his ear, then a flying blade, slashing him in the arm only when he dove to the concrete.
The ground trembled: the fire had finally eaten up a gas pipe. There was a colossal shrieking sound, and then the upper half of the house burst with an explosion and collapsed in on itself.
Benedikt staggered to his feet. His mother had died to the feud. Nobody had given him the details because he had been five years old, but he had sought them out anyway. He knew that after she was killed—an accidental casualty of a shoot-out—they had burned her body right in an alleyway until only charred smithereens remained.
Maybe this was the way he would join her. The Scarlets would kill him, then throw him right into the raging fire—ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Benedikt gasped. This time, when the bullet flew at him, he felt it graze his shoulder, sending sparks of pain up and down his arm. Before he could think to raise his weapon again, something hard came down on the back of his head.
And everything went dark.
Marshall winced, catching Benedikt before he fell. Quickly, he nudged his friend over his shoulder, hoping that no Scarlet was watching them, and if they were, that the Scarlet would think Marshall was merely one of their own, dealing with a White Flower. Roma was somewhere in the chaos too, but he could handle himself. If he couldn’t, their men would surely jump in front of him. It was only Benedikt who seemed to need forcible removal. Marshall felt bad for having to hit him so hard.
“You got less heavy,” Marshall remarked, even though Benedikt was unconscious. It felt less... kidnappy when he talked as he ran, as if Benedikt were keeping pace beside him rather than being tossed around. “Have you been eating? You’re keeping some strange habits, Ben.”
A sudden shout nearby shut Marshall up. He pressed his lips thin, ducking under the cover of a closed restaurant. When the group of Scarlets passed, Marshall continued moving, muttering a quiet prayer up into the heavens that they were already on White Flower territory. Within minutes, he was in front of a very familiar building complex, nudging the door open with his elbow and entering, arms straining.
“Please tell me you haven’t started locking up,” Marshall whispered. “I’m going to be so mad at you if you only started locking up after I died and never when I told you to before—”
Their front door opened easily under his palm. With a breath of relief, Marshall stumbled in, taking a moment to sniff at the apartment. It seemed different. Losing an occupant would do that to it, he supposed. The air was dusty, as was the kitchen counter, like it had not been wiped in weeks. The blinds were crooked, pulled up once some time ago and then abandoned, allowing half-light to enter in the day and only blocking out the half-dark of the night.
Marshall finally entered Benedikt’s room and carefully set him onto his bed. Now that they were safe, the exertion of his kidnapping task caught up at once, and Marshall rested his hands on his knees, breathing hard. He did not move until his heart stopped thudding, tense in fear that the sound was so loud it would stir Benedikt awake, but the other boy remained still, his chest rising and falling in the barest of motions.
Marshall dropped to a crouch. He watched him—resolute just to watch him—like he had done these past few months, a pair of eyes following Benedikt’s every move in fear that Benedikt would do something foolish. It was strange to be so close again when he had gotten used to being a shadow. Strange to be near enough that Marshall could reach out with his fingers—and suddenly his handwashovering forward, brushing a blond curl out of Benedikt’s face. He shouldn’t. Benedikt could wake upon disturbance, and the last thing Marshall needed was to break his most important promise to Juliette.
“How mighty you are,” he whispered quietly. “I am grateful that our roles are not switched, for I would have dove headfirst into the Huangpu should I be left in this world without you.”
Before the White Flowers, Marshall’s childhood had been dreary hallways and snatches of fresh air when he managed to wander out. If his mother grew too occupied with her dressmaking, Marshall was trekking into the fields behind the house, skipping stones on the shallow creeks and scraping moss from the rocks. There was no one else for miles—no neighbors, no kids his age to play with. Only his mother hunched over her sewing machine day after day, her gaze caught out the window, waiting for his father to return.
She was dead now. Marshall had found her body, cold and still one morning, tucked in bed as if she were merely frozen in sleep.
A soft sigh. Marshall’s hand stilled, but Benedikt continued breathing evenly, his eyes closed. Abruptly, Marshall stood, tightening his fists in reminder to himself. He was not supposed to be here. A promise was a promise, and Marshall was a man of his word.
“I miss you,” he whispered, “but I haven’t left you. Don’t give up on me, Ben.”
His eyes were burning. Staying here a second longer would undo him. Like a curtain being drawn across the stage, Marshall stood up and trailed out from his former apartment, fading back into the darkness of the night.
Twenty
Benedikt awoke in the morning with his head pounding something awful. It was the glare of light in his eyes that had roused him out of sleep, and it was the glare of light now worsening the ache at the base of his skull, the feeling reverberating outward and down his spine like some skeletal menace was pinching at his nerves.
“Christ,” he muttered, lifting a hand to block out the sun. Why hadn’t he pulled his bedroom blinds before going to sleep?
Benedikt bolted upright. When had he evengoneto sleep?
The moment he started to move, his shoulder pulled with a sharp discomfort, and he glanced down to find a small pool of blood on his sheets—entirely dried by now, having seeped from the shallow wound. Benedikt rolled his arms around gingerly, testing the extent of his injuries. He was stiff but otherwise fully functioning, at his usual level, anyway. The wound had closed on its own, and he had no clue how long he had even been lying here, letting his body knit itself back together.
Flabbergasted, Benedikt pulled his legs to his chest, resting an arm on his knees and pressing the flat of his hand into his forehead, trying to push the headache back. He tried to visualize the last thing he could remember, and all he saw were bullets in the night, the raging inferno of the safe house in the background. He had been charging toward a Scarlet, pistol in his hand, and then...
Nothing. He had no idea what happened next. He didn’t even know where his gun had gotten to.
“How is that possible?” he asked aloud. The house did not answer him. The house only stirred with his voice, shifting and exhaling in the way that all small spaces did every once in a while.
