Page 8 of Our Violent Ends
“Indeed,” he said eventually. “Whatever you believe to be correct, then.”
The conversation turned to the White Flower clientele lists, and Alisa frowned, wriggling along the rafter. Once she was far enough from her father’s office not to be overhead, she slowly eased herself down a thin gap in the wall to emerge in the hallway. This house was a Frankenstein-esque experiment in architecture: multiple apartment blocks mashed together with barely finished stitching. There were so many nooks and crannies above and below various rooms that Alisa was surprised only she alone used them to get from place to place. At the very least, she was surprised no White Flower had accidentally pressed up too close to a wall and fallen through the floorboards when they trod upon a loose tiling.
Alisa started up the main stairs, taking them two at a time in her hurry. The plain necklace dangling at her clavicle jumped up and down with each of her hard steps, cool against her flushed skin.
“Benedikt!” Alisa exclaimed, coming to a stop on the fourth floor.
Her cousin hardly paused. He pretended not see her, which was ridiculous because he was walking right for the staircase, and Alisa was still standing at the head of it. Benedikt Montagov was a wholly different person these days, all gloom and dark frowns. He may not have been the happiest person a few months ago, either, but he lacked a certain light in his eyes now that made him seem like a complete marionette, moving through the world at command. Mourning periods in this city were often short affairs. They came in rapid succession, like cinema showings ushered in and out of the theater to make room for the new.
Benedikt was not only in mourning. He was half-dead himself.
“Benedikt,” Alisa tried again. She stepped in his path so he couldn’t wind past her. “There are honey cakes downstairs. You like honey cakes, right?”
“Let me through, Alisa,” he said.
Alisa stood firm. “It is only that I haven’t really seen you eat, and I know you no longer live here so maybe it occurs outside of my sight, but the human body needs nourishment or else—”
“Alisa!” Benedikt snapped. “Get out of my way.”
“But—”
“Now!”
A door flew open. “Don’t yell at my sister.”
Roma was calm when he stepped into the hallway, hands behind his back like he had been patiently waiting at his door. Benedikt made a noise deep in his throat; he spun to face Roma with such menace that Alisa would have thought the two to be enemies, not cousins of the same blood.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Benedikt said. “But wait—you seem to only have something to say when it doesn’t matter, don’t you?”
Roma’s hand jerked up to his hair on instinct before his fingers halted an inch away from his newfound style, unwilling to mess up the gel and the effort. Roma had not broken as Benedikt had, had not shattered into a thousand sharp pieces to cut anybody who got too close... only because Roma Montagov had swallowed it all inward instead. Now Alisa looked at her older brother—her only brother—and it was like he was being corrupted from the inside out, turning into this boy who wore his hair like a foreigner, who acted like Dimitri Voronin. Each time their father lavished praise on him, clapping his shoulder solidly, Alisa flinched, knowing it was because another dead Scarlet had been discovered on the streets with scrawls of vengeance beside the body.
“That’s unfair,” Roma said plainly. He had little else to counter.
“Whatever,” Benedikt muttered, pushing past Alisa. She stumbled ever so slightly, and Roma rushed forward, calling after their cousin, refusing to let him have the last word. But Benedikt did not so much as glance back while he took the stairs down. His footsteps were already thudding along the second floor by the time Roma neared Alisa and took her elbow.
“Benedikt Ivanovich Montagov,” Roma yelled down. “You—”
His frustrated insult was drowned out by the slam of the front door.
Silence.
“I just wanted to cheer him up,” Alisa said quietly.
Roma sighed. “I know. It’s not your fault. He’s... having some difficulties.”
“Because Marshall is dead.”
Alisa’s words were heavy, thick—a terrible weight sliding across her tongue. Hard truths tended to be that way, she supposed.
“Yes,” Roma managed. “Because Marshall is...” Her brother could not finish his sentence. He merely looked away and cleared his throat, blinking rapidly. “I must go, Alisa. Papa is expecting me.”
“Wait,” Alisa said, her hand snaking out and snatching the back of Roma’s suit jacket before he could start down the stairs. “I heard Papa’s meeting with Dimitri. He—” Alisa looked around, making sure no one else was nearby. She lowered her voice further. “Dimitri has a mole in the Scarlet Gang. Maybe even their inner circle. He’s been siphoning information from a source direct to Lord Cai.”
Roma was shaking his head. He had started shaking his head before Alisa had even finished speaking.
“Little good that will do us now,” he said. “Be careful, Alisa. Stop eavesdropping on Dimitri.”
Alisa’s jaw slackened. As soon as Roma tried to ease his jacket out of her grip, she only tightened her hold, not letting him leave.
