She didn’t even know it. Tyler had no doubt that Juliette—his cousin who had grown up with everyone wrapped around her finger—would never for a second consider that she might be wrong. That her behavior was traitorous, even if she was not openly acting the traitor. Sympathy for the White Flowers was weakness. Love for the White Flowers was a direct strike against the Scarlets in the blood feud. Juliette may as well take a gun to her own head for all that she was doing to the future of the gang she was supposed to lead.
He still didn’t know what to believe—whether she had something to do with the vaccine disappearing. Juliette was the one who had killed the last monster; was it so hard to believe that perhaps she had gotten her hands on five others? Juliette was the one who wanted the vaccine distributed to the whole city; was it so hard to believe that she would steal it for that purpose?
But why seek a vaccine at all if the monsters were under her control? It made no sense. Something didn’t quite click.
Unless they weren’t hers. Unless she was going along with it because they were under Roma Montagov’s control, and she couldn’t find it in herself to rebel against him.
Tyler jumped to his feet, drawing Cansun’s curious attention. The window was flaring with light, a vendor’s stall passing the street underneath with its reflective surfaces. They had initially come to a high vantage point to watch for the possibility of monsters in the city, but there had been no chaos of the supernatural persuasion, only human strikes and human protests.
If Roma Montagov was the perpetrator, then Juliette could still be saved. Tyler believed that. The Scarlets came first, and bitter as it was, that did include his cousin. Blood to blood—it was the same sort that ran in their veins. That had to count for something. If she were forced to choose sides, if she saw how this city was split, she would realize what was at stake. She would stop operating foolishly under a White Flower’s thumb.
“What does Roma Montagov treasure most?”
Andong blinked, taken aback by the question. Meanwhile, Cansun folded his arms and brought his shoulders near his ears, considering the question. He was already slight and looked even more so when he stood like that, wasting into a stick figure.
“What do we care about Roma Montagov for?” Andong asked, but both Cansun and Tyler were looking out the window, tracing the crowds that gathered thicker and thicker.
Tyler dropped his cigarette in the tray. His fingers were dusted with ash, prickling at his skin. The human body was so fickle. He should have been born a beast instead. He could have used it well.
“Come on, gentlemen,” he said, making for the door. “The protest starts soon.”
The streets were full of people, blocking the entrance of the meeting hall that Kathleen needed to enter.
With a wince and an awkward sidestep, Kathleen tried to squeeze herself through, her elbows held out on either side of her. It did little to avoid the jostling, but it did streamline her path ever so slightly. The crowds could have been worse. They could have summoned a strike that incapacitated the whole city, but it seemed they remained localized in the central areas.
“Oh, Christ—”
Kathleen ducked, narrowly avoiding being smacked across the face by a worker’s sign. The worker glanced at her momentarily before moving on, but Kathleen’s gaze was drawn to the red rag tied around their arm.
Which color do you bleed? Juliette had asked so long ago, in that den not far from here. Scarlet or the worker’s red?
When Kathleen brought her hand up to shield the sun off her face, the red thread at her wrist glimmered like jewelry. It was pristine and stark, dangling softly against her skin. This was Scarlet red. This was the clean edges of a color used merely for allegiance—for decoration. The worker’s red was dirty, and spirited, and desperate. It had long exploded outward in all directions, spilling like a crowd growing frenzied.
Kathleen finally pushed her way in, sidling into the meeting hall. This was not the very worst it could get—far from it if the enthusiasm among the Communists here was any indication. The Communists and their unions would keep trying and trying, each time inciting revolt in one part of the city and hoping it would set off a chain reaction in the others. The better they prepared, the more likely they would succeed.
And when they did, that was no longer the protests of unruly workers on the streets.
That was revolution.
“Attention! Attention!”
The meeting had already started, switching from one speaker to another, so Kathleen slid into a seat, hoping she hadn’t missed anything critical. It hardly seemed important now to keep an eye on their further plans—the Scarlets already knew: the Communists had almost reached the end of their planning, the final revolt waiting in the wings, ready to take to the stage.