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“Tyler,” Lord Cai called from a distance away. “Gun away. Now.”
“This is Roma Montagov,” Tyler snapped. Gasps sounded from the British couple who stood behind him. “I know it. I could tell by his voice.”
“Don’t embarrass us by acting out like this,” Juliette warned quietly.
Tyler responded by pressing the barrel of the gun deeper into Roma’s neck. “I will not tolerate a Montagov parading around on our territory. The disrespect—”
Two figures stepped out of the shadows then, their guns already pointed on Tyler and snatching the words from his mouth. Benedikt Montagov and Marshall Seo had not even bothered wearing disguises. It was the Scarlet Gang’s fault for not recognizing them. After all, Juliette had known they might be coming. She knew that Roma had snatched her invitation, that the White Flowers would have heard about this function even without it. And perhaps this was her own fault too. Perhaps some traitorous part of her had wanted Roma to show just so she could see him. That part of her—the one that had dreamed of a better world, that had loved without caution—was supposed to be dead.
Just like monsters were supposed to be mere tales. Just like this city, in all its glitter and technology and innovation, was supposed to be safe from madness.
“Stop,” Juliette said, inaudible even to herself. This would end in a bloodbath. “Stop—”
A scream echoed into the night.
The confused rumblings began immediately, but then confusion turned to panic and panic turned to chaos. Tyler had no choice but to lower his gun when the British woman standing two feet away from him collapsed to the ground. He had no choice but to dart backward and give wide berth when the woman’s hands launched at her delicate lily-white throat and tore it to pieces.
All around them.
One by one by one by one.
They dropped—Scarlets and merchants and foreigners alike. Those who had not been infected attempted to run. Some made it out the gates. Some succumbed as soon as they skidded onto the pavement outside the gardens, the madness kicking in with delay.
Juliette’s lungs were tight again. Why was it spreading so damn fast?
“No,” Juliette cried, rushing for a familiar figure on the ground. She got to Mr. Li right before he could place his hands on his throat, slammed her knee onto his wrist in the hopes that she could prevent him from acting.
The madness was too strong. Mr. Li yanked his arm out from underneath her and Juliette was sent toppling, her elbow skidding against the grass.
“Don’t, don’t!” she shouted, lunging forward and trying again. This time his hands made contact with his throat before she could reach him. This time, before she could try to wrap herself around her favorite uncle and force him to stop, someone was pulling her away, a rough grip pushing Juliette back onto the ground.
Juliette scrambled for the knife hidden in her back, her first instinct to brace for defense.
Then she heard, “Juliette, stop. I’m not attacking you.”
Her hand froze, a cry caught in her throat. An arc of blood flew wide into the night, drops landing on her ankle, her wrists, dotting her skin like morbid, crimson jewelry. Mr. Li grew still. His face was frozen in his last expression—one of terror—so unlike the kindness that Juliette was used to.
“I could have saved him,” she whispered.
“You couldn’t,” Roma snapped immediately. “You would have just infected yourself in the process.”
Juliette let out a small, surprised breath. She scrunched her fists to hide their shaking. “What do you mean?”
“Insects, Juliette,” Roma said. He swallowed hard as a nearby bout of screaming increased in volume. “That is how the madness is spreading—like lice through your hair.”
For the shortest, uncensored second, Juliette’s eyes widened, the web of facts in her head finally connecting, a thin line tracing from point to point. Then she laughed bitterly and brought her hand up to her head. She knocked upon her skull, and a hard, crispy sort of sound came from her hair, a sound that made it seem like she was knocking on cardboard instead. Her naturally straight hair needed at least three pounds of product to make her finger waves, or else the formation wouldn’t harden in place. “I’d like to see them try.”
Roma didn’t say anything in response. He thinned his lips and looked out into the gardens. Those who were alive had chosen to huddle under a gazebo, somber and uncertain. Her father stood separated from the rest, his hands behind his back, merely watching.
There was nothing that anybody could do except stand there and watch the last of the victims die.
“One meeting.”
Roma jerked his eyes to her, startling. “Pardon?”
“One meeting,” Juliette repeated, as if his hearing had been the problem. She wiped the blood off her face. “That’s all I can promise you.”
Sixteen
