These Violent Delights (These Violent Delights 1)

Juliette frowned. “Depends how fast the ship is going—”

“Even the fastest ship would not explain the short time between the outbreak of the madness and rumors of the Larkspur’s vaccine,” Archibald interrupted. “And yet his book came from Britain. Which means he had the formula to a vaccine before the madness had even broken out here.”

Without warning, Archibald suddenly lurched in his seat. For a frightening moment, in her frantic train of thought, Juliette assumed he had been shot, but the movement was only so he could lean forward and wave down the bartender again.

“I believe that answer warrants a few more shots. It was a good one, wasn’t it?”

Juliette’s head was spinning. She was uncertain if it was over the information or the alcohol.

“The book,” she said to Roma. “I shall get the book—”

“Oh, don’t bother,” Archibald cut in. “I never saw it again. I did, however, see charring marks on the floorboards. He burned it. Once he had the methods memorized, do you really think he would risk people like you stealing it?”

It was a good question. Juliette thinned her lips, but Archibald only grinned at such an expression and pushed closer the two shots in front of her. Juliette took one without much hesitation. It was the final hurrah, after all. They had gotten what they had come for.

“Juliette Cai,” Archibald said, extending his second glass, “you have been a fantastic drinking partner. Mr. Montagov needs some more work.”

“Rude,” Roma muttered.

Carefully, making sure her hand wasn’t shaking, Juliette picked up her second glass too and raised it. Roma followed suit, and then the last shot of poison was going down, working its havoc. Wasting no time, Archibald stood as soon as he finished, clapping a heavy hand over Juliette’s left shoulder and another over Roma’s right shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie.

“It’s been a pleasure, kids. But the clock strikes past eleven o’clock, and my sources have told me it’s time to go.”

He hurried away, merged into the pulsing crowd and fading with the neon. An absolute agent of chaos. Juliette hardly knew the man and she respected him on principle.

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head and forcing her focus to clear. She was fine. She could manage this.

“Roma?” she prompted.

Roma tilted sideways and pitched onto the floor.

“Roma!”

Juliette scrambled off her chair and knelt beside him, woozy enough to see in doubles but not enough to lose balance. She gave his face a light smack.

“Just leave me here,” he said with a groan.

“How are you this bad?” Juliette asked in disbelief. “I thought you were Russian.”

“I am Russian, not an alcoholic,” Roma muttered. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them wide, blinking at the ceiling with a stunned expression. “Why am I on the floor?”

“We’re leaving,” Juliette commanded. She hauled at his shoulder, trying to get him back onto his feet. With a grunt, Roma complied. Or attempted to—on his first try, he only managed to sit up. Juliette gave him another tug, and then he was standing again, albeit with some swaying.

“We’re leaving?” Roma repeated.

Suddenly, sirens were filling the room, a piercing wail cutting over the roar of jazz music. There was screaming and then there was a stampede of people running in all directions in such a whir that Juliette could no longer comprehend where the exit was. Outside, a voice on the loudspeaker was demanding that all patrons of Mantua come out with their hands up. Inside, people were pulling the safeties off their guns.

“We’re not leaving anymore,” she corrected. “Unless we want to get shot by the municipal police. Up, it is. Come on.”

She grabbed his sleeve and dragged him toward the little staircase she had noticed earlier in the corner of the establishment. While all of Mantua’s patrons rushed and pushed and stepped over one another to get to the exit, the brightly dressed girls booked it to the stairs instead, slipping up and out of sight.

“Careful, careful,” Juliette warned when Roma stumbled on the first step.

They were both breathing heavily by the time they came to the top of the stairs, trying to stand still while the world spun. On the second floor, the hallway was so narrow that Juliette couldn’t extend both her arms. The carpet was incredibly plush, half her heel sinking deep into the threads. The neon glow that pervaded the walls downstairs was absent here. This level was lit with the occasional dim bulb along the ceiling, illuminating just enough to see where they were going and to cast long, dancing shadows on the peeling wallpaper.

Juliette opened the first door she came upon. Two distinct yelps of surprise sounded as light seeped into the tiny room. Juliette squinted and saw a man with his pants down.

“Get out,” she demanded.