These Violent Delights

by Chloe Gong

  “Let’s have a look at you,” Kathleen muttered, pulling the briefcase free. Without thinking, she clicked it open, but she clicked it the wrong way, causing the lid to immediately flop in the other direction and spill forth its contents. The items hit the floor with a thud, drawing a concerned shout from the Scarlets nearby.

  “Don’t worry!” Kathleen called quickly. She dropped to a crouch and hurried to clean up the clutter. “I am clumsy.”

  She shuffled through the papers, snagging them before they could blow away with the wind. But before she could slot them back into the briefcase, her eye caught on the letter at the very top, one that was postmarked with COPY, signaling the paper to be a receipt of something that Paul had sent out. In the top corner, the address of the sendee placed the destination of this letter in the French Concession.

  Kathleen scanned the short message.

  And at once, in utter and abject horror, she dropped everything in her arms again.

  * * *

  The basket dangling on her arm, Juliette knocked on the door to the Scarlet safe house, glancing over her shoulder. She felt assured that she had not been followed—she had checked every three steps on her way here—but still, she turned anyway, ruling out any chance.

  Shuffling came from within the apartment. The sound was loud, the motion immediately drifting in Juliette’s direction due to the tiny size of the apartment and the low, squat ceiling.

  “Hurry up,” Juliette called, banging on the door again. “I don’t have all day.”

  The door swung open. Marshall Seo raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”

  “I’m a busy person,” Juliette said firmly. She motioned for him to step back so she could enter and shut the door firmly behind her. This was a safe house rarely used, so rarely—given its location in the poorest parts of the city—that it did not have running water, nor any amenities past a bed. It did, however, have a dead bolt on the door and a convenient window for jumping, should the occasion rise. It did provide a place where no one would come looking.

  “Did you bring me water?” Marshall asked. “I’ve been so damn thirsty, Juliette—”

  Juliette brought out the giant canister of water, tossing it onto the table so that it made an unsavory clatter, daring Marshall to say anything more. He grinned.

  “I also brought food,” Juliette said. “Because I do not wish for you to starve to death.”

  Marshall peered into the basket, inspecting the little bags. “Only oranges? I prefer apples.”

  Juliette sighed. “For a dead man,” she muttered, “you sure are annoying.”

  “Speaking of which…” Marshall wandered off, then plopped down on a rickety chair by the wall. He folded his arms across his chest, wincing imperceptibly when it pulled at his fresh wound. “When can I resurrect?”

  It had been a gamble on Juliette’s part. A matter of timing, a matter of trust—in Marshall, that he would know what she was trying to have him do, and in Lourens, in believing the serum she had stolen would really work as he said. It had been a matter of framing her sleight of hand when she pulled that jar from her pocket, when she tugged Marshall’s hand away from his bullet wound and shoved the jar into his palm with the lid off. A matter of hitting him so he could collapse with his arms over his face, unseen while he drank it. A matter of taking the bullets out of her pistol so it fired only with the sound, stopping the barrel from pushing a second bullet into Marshall.

  Then it had been a matter of pure luck. Of Juliette running into the main office and finding one doctor who had not evacuated, who was sorting through her filing cabinet with no concern about the workers flooding the hallways. Of Juliette convincing the doctor to operate on Marshall despite his lack of heartbeat, hauling his body into the surgery room right before the protestors spotted them in the adjacent corridor, and chaining down those doors until the workers got tired and left that wing of the hospital. The bullet that Tyler fired came out quickly—having only embedded itself shallowly at the skin of Marshall’s ribs—and the doctor stitched Marshall up. Juliette had promised her money to keep her quiet, but the doctor had wrinkled her nose, not even knowing who Juliette was.

  “Give me some time,” Juliette said quietly. “Lie low until I can figure out what to do with Tyler. Until he believes entirely that I was merely tricking Roma.”

  Marshall narrowed his eyes then. “How much of it was a trick?”

  Juliette looked away. “Is this really the time for defending your fellow brother-in-arms?”

  “I’m a dead man, darling. What’s the harm in answering the question?”

  What was the harm? Only her dignity.

  “None of it, Marshall Seo,” Juliette said. She wiped her eye quickly. “I didn’t have to save you. I could have shot you right through the head.”

  “But you saved me,” Marshall said. “Because you love him.”

  Juliette made a frustrated noise at the back of her throat. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t be so loud.”

  Marshall gestured around, as if to demand, Who is listening? Nobody. Nobody was listening. Nobody would hear this confession of Juliette’s except a dead man walking who could take it nowhere.

  “And you love him enough to have him hate you.”

  “He should hate me,” Juliette replied tiredly. “I killed his mother.”

  “Personally?” Marshall asked, knowing the answer.

  “No.” Juliette looked down at her hands. There was a scratch at the side of her wrist. She had no idea how it got there. “But I gave them her location with malice. I may as well have held the knife.”

  Marshall stared forward at her, unspeaking for a long while. There was pity in his gaze, but Juliette found that she did not quite mind. Pity from Marshall Seo did not feel prickly. It felt a little warm, a little kind.

  “Before you leave me again,” Marshall said after a pause, “in such a rush as you did earlier while I was still bleeding through my bandages, I have one request.”

  It might have been her imagination, but she thought his voice grew a little fainter. Juliette frowned.

  “Go on.”

  Marshall Seo’s gaze flicked away. “Benedikt.”

  “You can’t,” Juliette replied immediately, knowing what the request was without need for elaboration. It hadn’t been her imagination after all. “Just one more person in on the secret makes this a hundred times more dangerous.”

  Juliette imagined Tyler finding out that Marshall was alive. She imagined him going on a crusade to figure out where Marshall was, hurting everyone who might hold the location. She didn’t think Benedikt liked her very much, but she would not let Tyler hurt him.

  “I may have to hide for months,” Marshall said, his arms coming around his middle. “He will have to believe I am dead for months.”

  Juliette’s heart clenched. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But as a favor to me, please, let Benedikt Montagov believe it. He must.”

  The floorboards groaned. The walls and ceiling blocks creaked, shifting with the howl of the wind outside. A small eternity passed with Juliette’s breath held before Marshall finally nodded, his lips thinned.

  “It won’t be long,” Juliette assured him, pushing the basket of food forward. “I promise.”

  Marshall nodded again, this one to show his acknowledgment of her promise. When she left him, shutting the door after her with a quiet click, Marshall was staring pensively out the window, squinting through a crack in the weakly boarded up glass.

  Juliette returned to the streets, to the hustle and the bustle and the loud, loud anarchy. The sky was dark and the day had been long, but the city central had already returned to business per usual, to vendors selling their wares and merchants screaming their prices, like a monster had not torn a warpath through it hours ago.

  And to gangsters. Gangsters, lurking in each corner, their eyes pinned to Juliette as she walked by.

  “Miss Cai! Miss Cai!”

  With a frown, Juliette paused and turned, fi
nding a messenger running toward her. He appeared vaguely familiar as he approached, but it was not until he handed her a note with Kathleen’s handwriting that she recognized him as one of the men she had sent to the Bund.

  “Did you find what I asked for?” Juliette asked.

  “There was no giant insect,” the messenger reported. “But Miss Kathleen said to get you this as fast as possible.”

  Frowning, Juliette took the note and flipped it open. It was not a note from Kathleen, but rather what appeared to be the copy of a letter, marked as sent by Paul Dexter and addressed somewhere Juliette did not immediately recognize, identified only within the French Concession.

  Juliette read the one-lined scrawl, squinting to decipher the spindly, long handwriting perfectly fitting for Paul Dexter.

  She almost wished she hadn’t.

  In the event of my death, release them all.

  The cold sweat that swept through her body was immediate. From her fingertips to her spine, she became possessed by a bone-deep terror, turning her wholly numb.

  “What is this?” Juliette demanded. “What the hell is this?”

  The messenger blinked at her, stunned. “Miss Kathleen just said to give it to you—”

  Juliette shoved the note back at him. The messenger did not react fast enough to take it before the slip of paper fluttered to the ground, dropping onto the gravel like a softly landed butterfly. It was crushed underfoot at once as Juliette took a step forward, as she wheezed an inhale into her throat and searched her surroundings desperately, trying to think, think, think.…

  “No,” she whispered hoarsely. “No, he couldn’t have.”

  The bells along the streets began to ring, seven times for the hour.

  And in the distance, a chorus of screaming tore through the city.

  TO BE CONTINUED…

  Acknowledgments

  When I was a teen reader, I almost never read the acknowledgments section unless it was to browse for a famous person’s name, and I know there are a lot of you out there who are exactly the same. So before I start, I just want to declare that I’m Not Like Other Acknowledgments, by which I mean I’m exactly like other acknowledgments, just more obnoxious, so you who are about to close the book should probably read me.

  Thank you to Laura Crockett, for your belief in this book, and in me. I hope you know that after our every e-mail exchange, no matter how mundane, I have to happily stare off into space for a few minutes to handle my appreciation for you. You saw my wild concept of Romeo and Juliet killing a monster in 1920s gangster-run Shanghai, plucked it out of your slush pile, and championed it with such brilliance that I felt assured every step of the way. I am so, so lucky to have you in my corner. Thank you also to Uwe Stender, for founding the magic that is Triada US, and thank you to Brent Taylor and the entire team at the agency for their wonderful work.

  Thank you to Tricia Lin, for your editorial genius that absolutely bowls me over. From the moment we first spoke on the phone, I knew that you saw exactly what I wanted this book to be, and your vision and guidance transformed it from a cute little bud to a fully blooming rose bush. I couldn’t be more grateful. Thank you also to Sarah McCabe for taking me in with so much care and enthusiasm. Thank you to Mara Anastas, and everyone at Simon Pulse for their passion and hard work: Chriscynethia Floyd, Sarah Creech, Katherine Devendorf, Elizabeth Mims, Sara Berko, Lauren Hoffman, Caitlin Sweeny, Alissa Nigro, Anna Jarzab, Emily Ritter, Annika Voss, Savannah Breckenridge, Christina Pecorale, and the rest of the Simon & Schuster sales team, Michele Leo and her education/library team, Nicole Russo, Cassie Malmo, Jenny Lu and Ian Reilly. Thank you to Billelis for such beautiful cover art that I physically had to lie down after first seeing it. And the biggest thank-you to Deborah Oliveira and Tessera Editorial for the thoughtful read and notes.

  Thank you to Māma and Bàba for supporting me unconditionally. In every step of life, you have both always pushed me to be the best I can be and provided me with the best you could. It was your stories at the dinner table, your random anecdotes on long car drives, and the very way you raised me that sowed my love for the city above the sea. I’m glad I got mushed with your genes. Also yes, I do regret quitting my Chinese lessons ten years ago. Thank you for not rubbing my face in it that much, and thank you for translating the historical documents I send, for looking up things I can’t find on English websites, and for making sure my pinyin isn’t wildly off-tone. Also thank you to my fellow gene-sharers, Eugene and Oriana, who have to keep up with my weird requests on the family WeChat group.

  Thank you to Hawa Lee, my best friend. From our days as annoying Year Sevens singing Selena Gomez at the back of the classroom to now, you have always been my number one hypewoman and I adore you until the end of time. You read the very, very first version of this book and said that my words play in your head like a movie: it warmed my heart then and it warms my heart now. Thank you to Aniket Chawla, also my best friend. As I’m writing this, you’re finally reading this book after sending my earlier drafts to spam, but I’ll forgive you because you’re a kind soul who tried to teach me math in Year Eleven and I’ll also adore you until the end of time. Thank you to Sherry Zhang, who I fondly call Sherry Berry, for offering me the sagest advice in my most panicked times. You were a literal saint while I was pacing up and down our tiny hotel room in Wellington trying to figure out my entire career. I’ll always be cheering you on too. Thank you to Emily Ting, a ray of sunshine, for being excited about my writing from the very beginning (aka Year Nine science class) even when I was a pretentious potato.

  Thank you to Mr. Randal for being such an amazing English teacher and having so much passion for teaching Shakespeare. I completely owe my love of language to those class lessons in Year Twelve and Thirteen analyzing metaphor and symbolism and imagery, and I hope all your future students realize how lucky they are to have you as a teacher. Thank you also to Ms. Black and Ms. Parkinson for being so encouraging with supporting my little NaNoWriMo club, and for being wonderful in the English department.

  Thank you to Professor Chi-ming Yang for agreeing to oversee my research project alongside this book, listening to my unending thoughts about the Young Adult category, and helping me focus it all into a productive study. Thank you also to Professor Josephine Park for being the best when all my student hurdles started popping up, and walking me through everything so patiently.

  Thank you to João Campos for reading the messy early draft of this book with enthusiasm, and for your notes and amazing suggestions that made these characters so much better. Also for being the best hugger. Thank you to Ryan Foo, for always thinking the best of this book and giving me joy. Thanks for promising to be my defense attorney if I ever murder a man one day. I’m holding you to that. Thank you to Andrew Noh, for supplying me with metaphorical tea and entertaining me while I was dying over edits on this book, and checking my French. Thank you to Kushal Modi, also for checking my French to make sure I don’t sound like a fifth grader, and for keeping me company whenever I hole up in my room to write. And of course, thank you to Jackie Sussman, for always listening to me brainstorm plots and putting up with me sticky-taping our room full of character webs, and not jumping in fright every time I exclaim aloud because I worked something out. Thank you to Rebecca Jiang and Ennie Gantulga, for being amazing friends and amazing roommates, and for making our apartment a place of laughter. Thank you to Anastasia Shabalov for your wonderful notes on this book’s early draft, our long conversations about the publishing industry, and also for checking my Russian to make sure no one was calling anyone a little rat.

  Thank you to my early readers, also known as the friends I gathered from the internet. To Rachel Kellis—one of my favorite people ever. Our chats range from so-hilarious-I-literally-can’t-breathe commentary to serious feedback on our writing, to proofreading each other’s e-mails for tone and appropriate amounts of exclamation marks, and I appreciate them—and you—to the ends of the earth. To Daisy Hsu—you were my first frie
nd from the internet, which is wild since we actually have real-life mutual friends. It’s because of your genius suggestions that I stopped pulling my punches in this book and leaned into the angst. To Tori Bovalino—the queen of dark stories, and my favorite person to complain about bad books with. I enjoy our bitterness very much, and I can always count on you to be equally as flabbergasted as I am over the most… peculiar decisions made on the internet. To Eunice Kim—the nicest person alive and a wizard at helping me summarize things. You know I’m the biggest fan of your GIF selections. Sorry for hurting your sinnamon rolls… or am I? To Miranda Sun—my fellow salty Gen Z’er. I don’t know how we constantly have so many opinions on everything, but at this rate we have definitely written the equivalent of at least ten novels in our DMs with our hot takes. Here’s to a million more DM novels filled with hot takes. To Tashie Bhuiyan—who I’m always screeching with. I can’t believe we became friends because I saw someone who looked like Gansey and I started sending you live updates, but it’s pretty representative of us. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have you to send all my “what-fresh-hell-is-this” screenshots to. To Alina Khawaja—I’m in awe by the power of your memes and the strength of your meme collection. This book’s meme page is singlehandedly run by your willpower. And when the power of will fades, there will always be the power of thirst. To Molly Chang—my one-woman hype parade and the one who is always encouraging me to channel my inner Juliette (by which I hope you mean I should be more tough with the world, not that I should go out and pick a fistfight). To Grace Li—for saying such nice things about this book, and inspiring me with how much beautiful pain your words cause. To Zoulfa Katouh—queen of the funniest reaction images I’ve ever seen, queen of making people cry, and queen of everything, actually. To Meryn Lobb—you could literally slap me across the face (and metaphorically, with your feedback) and I would thank you for it.