Juliette scanned their surroundings again, patient as her mother’s conversation went on. It was this time that she sighted the long pew in the corner of the temple and became fixated there, finding something of note. As Juliette stepped closer, she saw one girl seated alone, reading a small book. Something about her blond hair was familiar.
Juliette stiffened. She spared another glance over at her mother to ensure Lady Cai was not looking her way, then, as quickly as she dared, hurried over to the pew.
“Alisa Montagova,” Juliette hissed. “This is Scarlet territory. What are you doing here?”
Alisa’s head jerked up, her eyes widening. She slapped her book closed, as if the illicit activity at present was her reading.
“I—” The girl winced. “I wasn’t going to stay long. I just didn’t think anyone would care about the blood feud in a women’s temple.”
“Okay, but”—Juliette looked around again—“why? Why are you here?”
Alisa blinked, seeming to realize that Juliette’s panic was not over her presence alone. She had tried to seem tough, but now her expression was tightening in confusion. “We had a funeral in the cemetery a few streets over. I got tired of standing, so I snuck away.”
The cemetery a few streets over . . . Juliette tried to envision the layout of the city in this region, knowing immediately which cemetery Alisa was referring to. In her head, she traced their route out, assuming attendees were to move from that section of White Flower territory and into the east of the city, where most of them lived. No matter what, they needed to pass the front of the temple, where Tyler was currently waiting with all his men.
Juliette spat a curse. “Who was present, Alisa? Your father? Inner circle?”
By now Alisa had gotten to her feet. Juliette’s concern was scaring her. “No, not Papa. But Roma and Dimitri—”
A bullet went off in the distance, outside the temple walls. To anyone else, it could have sounded like a rickshaw crash or a food cart coming up hard against the sidewalk. But Juliette knew better. She shot off, tearing through the courtyard, already reaching for the weapons on her body. By the time she was approaching the gate of the temple walls, the scene was already unfolding before her: twenty, thirty gangsters, and civilians—so many civilians nearby, looking stunned.
Too many civilians for gunfire. Too many likely victims of stray bullets. The gangsters in the brawl had realized too, else there wouldn’t be so many going at hand-to-hand combat now, else there wouldn’t be a White Flower half strangling Tyler, almost pressing her cousin to the floor.
Without slowing in her run, Juliette jumped over the threshold of the temple entrance and pulled the knife sheathed at her thigh. When she threw, the blade pierced into the White Flower’s neck smoothly, striking its target with nary a sound before the White Flower pitched sideways and fell.
“You’re welcome,” Juliette snapped, coming to a stop in front of Tyler and holding out a hand.
Tyler grinned. He gripped her fingers and stood. “Thank you, dearest cousin. Duck.”
Juliette dove to the side without questioning it. A White Flower lunged forward, and Tyler engaged, but as Juliette spun around, still locked in her crouch, her gaze shot through the chaos and locked right with another figure who had paused in the fray.
“Tā mā de,” she muttered. Roma.
A sudden prickle of an idea occurred to her. As Roma marched forward, locked on her for a target and probably intent on running a dagger through her heart, Juliette formed her plan. He wouldn’t respond to her messages, wouldn’t work with her any longer, but she needed him. Who better to know whether there was a White Flower sect collaborating with the Communists than Roma Montagov, heir of the White Flowers? If he would speak to her only to fight the blood feud, then Juliette would use the blood feud.
Juliette shot to her feet, trying to make a break for it. She could cut an easy path through the brawl. She could stay low and dart through that empty pocket of space. . . .
Someone grabbed her by the back of the neck. Juliette sensed a blade—or something—about to come down on her, and her hands launched up. She pulled, yanking the arm over her shoulder until she heard a socket pop. Her attacker shouted. Just as he tried to bring the knife in his other hand down, Juliette darted out of the way and spun around, pressing her forearm against her attacker’s neck, both of her feet braced against the concrete road.
It wasn’t Roma who had grabbed her; it was Dimitri Voronin. A quick snap of her eyes confirmed Roma was still trying to fight through the thick of the brawl, but he was on the move toward her.