“Oh God,” Benedikt muttered.
One of the monsters lunged, swiping a claw against a Nationalist soldier’s face. When the soldier staggered up against the railway station, his cheek was hanging off.
Roma would have blanched if he were not stunned beyond belief. He had glimpsed Paul Dexter’s monster, and he had seen the one on the train. These monsters before him were no different in appearance, but it was broad daylight, the weather warm and almost pleasant, and to watch them with their blue-green muscles rippling in the sun almost frightened him enough to run.
“Marshall, stop,” Roma snapped, holding his arm out. He could read Marshall’s intent in the tension of his shoulders; while Roma considered scrambling backward, Marshall had planned to surge forward. “This doesn’t involve us.”
“They’ll all die—”
“That’s their fight.” Roma’s voice trembled, but his instruction didn’t waver. More than anything, he was confused by the scene in front of him. There were still a few civilians nearby, huddled by the sidewalk and frozen in fear. Five monsters, all of them tall enough to bowl over an ordinary human, and yet they had eyes only for the Nationalists. Five monsters, all of them with the ability to release thousands upon thousands of insects and induce a madness that could sweep the city and have it on its knees . . . and yet they did not.
“Roma,” Benedikt said quietly. He pointed, near the feet of one of the monsters. “Look.”
A dead man. No—a dead White Flower, identifiable by the white handkerchief hanging from his work pants.
“And over there,” Marshall whispered, tilting his chin at the bench in front of the railway station. Another corpse was collapsed there, the red cloth around their wrist looking like a gash of blood. “A Scarlet.”
With a deep shudder, Roma took a few steps away from the scene, leaning against the emptied restaurant behind them. The Nationalist soldiers continued shooting, yelling at one another to report on where reinforcements would be. Their numbers were dwindling. Even without madness, they could not win against indestructible creatures.
“Nationalists, White Flowers, Scarlets,” Roma said aloud, his brow furrowed as he worked through the puzzle pieces. “What game are they playing at here?”
“Stop!”
The shout came from the perpendicular road, coming nearer and nearer the railway station. Roma poked his head out, suddenly gripping Benedikt’s arm in alarm.
“Who is that?” he demanded. “Where is it coming from?”
It sounded familiar. Too familiar.
“Not Juliette—don’t get hasty,” Benedikt immediately replied. “It’s . . .”
The figure came into view, throwing herself in front of one of the monsters, arms waving wildly. Her hair resembled a tangle of black wire trailing down her back. Though she was significantly more disheveled since the last time he had sighted her, it was undoubtedly Rosalind Lang.
“What the hell is she doing?” Marshall exclaimed. “She’ll get herself killed.”
Bewildered, the three White Flowers watched Rosalind Lang dart in front of a soldier, screaming incoherent commands at the monster. The monster, however, loomed ever the closer, not deterred by gun nor girl.
“She could be the very blackmailer,” Roma said.
“Then why does she look so frantic?” Benedikt asked. “Would she not have control of them?”
“Maybe she lost control,” Marshall suggested.
Roma made a frustrated noise. “So why aren’t they releasing their insects?”
The million-dollar question. Suddenly the monster reared back and charged right toward Rosalind. At the last minute, she spat a curse and dove out of the way; the monster hardly seemed interested in her anyway. It attacked and pounced on the Nationalist so viciously that the blood came up in an arc, splashing down on Rosalind until her face was sprayed with red. She lifted her head from the ground, elbows propped on either side of her, visibly trembling even from this distance.
“Do we . . . ?” Benedikt started hesitantly. “Do we help her?”
Another round of gunfire from a rifle that made no dent. Another cry, another soldier down.
With a sigh, Roma put his gun away and tore his jacket off. “Help isn’t quite the right word,” he said. “Shed your colors. I think they’re only attacking gangsters and Nationalists.”
Marshall peered down at himself. “I don’t think I’m wearing any to begin with.”
“Do any of us ever carry around a white handkerchief like some errand runner?” Benedikt added.