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“It was only a flash,” Marshall said, scrubbing his hands through his hair in an effort to wring the water out. “Honestly, it might have just been the sunlight in the river.”
“You sounded certain about the eyes.”
“But why would there have been eyes—”
Benedikt cleared his throat, having finished stomping the water out of his trousers. Roma and Marshall both turned to him.
“You’ve heard what the people are saying, no?”
Their responses were immediate.
“Goe-mul,” Marshall whispered, at the same time Roma intoned, “Chudovishche.”
Benedikt made an affirming noise. It was that which finally shook Roma out of his stupor, waving for his friends to hurry up and move away from the water.
“Oh, please, don’t buy into the monster talk running through the city,” he said. “Just come with me.”
Roma hurried off. He whipped through the city streets, winding through the open market stalls and barely sparing the passing vendors a second glance, even when they reached out to catch him by the arm, hoping to advertise a strange new fruit sailed in from some other world. Benedikt and Marshall huffed and puffed to stay at his pace, trading occasional frowns and wondering where Roma was taking them so fervently with a bag full of dead insects clutched in his arms.
“Here,” Roma declared finally, skidding to a stop outside the White Flower labs, panting heavily while he caught his breath. Benedikt and Marshall collided with each other behind him, both almost toppling over in their haste to stop when Roma did. By then, they were practically dried from their dip into the river.
“Ouch,” Marshall complained.
“Sorry,” Benedikt said. “I almost slipped on this.” He lifted his foot and salvaged a thin piece of paper, a poster that had fallen off a signpost. They usually advertised transportation services or apartment vacancies, but this one had giant text at the top heralding AVOID THE MADNESS. GET VACCINATED!
“Give me that,” Roma demanded. Benedikt passed the sheet and Roma folded it, slipping the small square into his pocket for later examination. “Follow me.”
Roma barged into the building and wound through the long hallway, entering the labs without knocking. He was supposed to don a lab coat every time he entered the building, but no one had ever dared tell him off, and the various young scientists that the White Flowers employed at these workstations barely looked up when Roma visited once a month. They were familiar enough with his presence to let him be, and the head scientist, Lourens, was familiar enough with Roma not to say anything about his misconduct. Besides, who would ever bother protesting the behavior of the White Flower heir? As far as these scientists were concerned, Roma was practically the one distributing their wages.
“Lourens?” Roma called, scanning the labs. “Lourens, where are you?”
“Up here,” Lourens’s deep voice boomed in accented Russian, his hand waving from the second landing. Roma took the staircase up two at a time, with Marshall and Benedikt bounding behind him like eager puppies.
Lourens looked up at their arrival, then furrowed his bushy white brows. He wasn’t used to seeing guests. Roma’s lab visits tended to be solo trips, made with his head ducked into his shoulders. Roma always slinked into this lab like the physical act of shrinking could act as a shield against the greasy nature of their underground trade. Perhaps if he didn’t walk with his usual good posture, he could absolve himself of blame when he came asking for the monthly progress reports of the products that came in and out of this lab.
This place was supposed to be a White Flower research facility at the cutting edge of pharmaceutical advancements, perfecting modern medicines for the hospitals operating on their territory. That was, at least, the facade they maintained. In truth, the tables at the back were smeared with opium, smelling like heaviness and tar while the scientists added their own unique toxins into the mixture, until the drugs were modified into the epitome of addiction.
Then the White Flowers would send them back out, take the money in, and life went on. This was not a humanitarian venture. This was a business that made poor lives even poorer and allowed the wealthy to burst at their seams.
“I wasn’t expecting you today,” Lourens said, stroking his straggly beard. He was leaning up against the railing to look onto the first floor, but his hunched back made the gesture appear terribly dangerous. “We haven’t finished with the current batch yet.”
Roma winced. Sooner or later he would get used to the blasé manner the people here treated their work. Work was work, after all. “I’m not here about the drugs. I need your expertise.”
As Roma hurried to Lourens’s worktable and brushed the papers aside to clear the space, Marshall sprang forward, taking the opportunity to make an extravagant introduction. His whole face lit up, as it always did when he could add another name to the eternally long list of people he had rubbed shoulders with.
“Marshall Seo, pleased to make your acquaintance.” Marshall extended his hand, making a small bow.
Lourens, his joints slow and creaky, shook Marshall’s outstretched fingers warily. His eyes turned to Benedikt next out of expectance, and with an imperceptible sigh, Benedikt extended his hand too, his wrist floppy.
“Benedikt Ivanovich Montagov,” he said. If his impatience wasn’t already oozing from his speech, his wandering eyes certainly proved where his attention was: the insects Roma was spreading out on Lourens’s worktable. Roma’s face was stuck in a grimace as he used his sleeve to cover his fingers and separate each little creature from the other.
Lourens made a thoughtful noise. He pointed his finger at Roma. “Isn’t your patronymic Ivanovich?”
Roma turned away from the creatures. He squinted at the scientist. “Lourens, my father’s name is not Ivan. You know this.”
“For the life of me, my memory is worsening with my age if I can’t remember yours,” Lourens muttered. “Nikolaevich? Sergeyevich? Mik—”
“Can we take a look at this instead?” Roma interrupted.
