These Violent Delights

by Chloe Gong

  The dancer shivers as she walks, dropping her long cigarette to the ground and putting it out with her shoe. Her hands freed now, she wraps them around her goose-bumped arms. She is ill at ease. There is no one following her; nor is there anybody before her. Nevertheless, somehow she is certain that someone is watching her.

  It is not an utterly absurd concept. This city does not know itself; it will not feel the parasites that grow upon its skin until it is far too late. This city is a miscellany of parts smashed together and functioning in one collective stride, but place a gun to its head and it will only laugh in your face, misunderstanding the violence of such intent.

  They have always said that Shanghai is an ugly daughter, but as the years grow on, it isn’t enough anymore to characterize this city as merely one entity. This place rumbles on Western idealism and Eastern labor, hateful of its split and unable to function without it, multiple facets fighting and grappling in an ever-constant quarrel. Half Scarlet, half White Flower; half filthy rich, half dirt poor; half land, half water flowing in from the East China Sea. There is nothing more but water to the east of Shanghai. Perhaps that is why the Russians have come here, these flocks of exiles who fled the Bolshevik Revolution and even before that, when their home could no longer be a home. If you decided to run, you might as well keep running until you came to the edge of the world.

  That is what this city is. The party at the end of the world.

  Its flagship dancer has stopped now, letting the silence thrum in her ears as she strains to identify what it is that is prickling her nerves. The more she listens, the wider her hearing range stretches, picking up on the drip-drip-drip of a nearby pipe and the chatter of late-night workers.

  The catch is this: It is not someone watching her. It is something.

  And it comes to the surface. Something with a row of horns that grows from its curved back, glinting out of the water like ten ominous daggers. Something that raises its head and blinks opaque silver eyes at her.

  The dancer flees. She panics, moving in such haste to get away from the horrifying sight that she stumbles right in front of a ship flying the wrong colors.

  And the White Flower working to unload the ship catches sight of her.

  “Excuse me!” he bellows down. “Are you lost?”

  He has misinterpreted the dancer’s idleness for confusion. He drops down from the ship’s bow and starts walking toward her, only to halt abruptly upon spotting her red ribbon.

  The White Flower’s expression turns from friendly to thunderous in an instance. The dancer pulls her mouth into a tight, defeated grimace and throws her hands up, attempting to defuse the situation by shouting, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching the territory lines!” But he is already whipping out his pistol, aiming with one eye lazily shut.

  “Bloody Scarlets,” he mutters. “You think you can waltz wherever you want, don’t you?”

  The dancer, almost half-heartedly, scrambles for her own weapon: a small handgun strapped to her thigh.

  “Wait,” she calls steadily. “I’m not your enemy—there’s something back there. It’s coming—”

  A splash sounds. A droplet of water lands in the soft flesh at the back of her knee, running a track down her leg. When the dancer looks down, she sees that the line of water is wholly black.

  She lurches to her right, diving into an alleyway and pressing against a bend in the wall. Gunshots sound into the night as the White Flower interprets her fast pace to be an act of war, but by then she is already out of sight, shielding herself from the waterfront, her whole body shaking.

  Then something erupts from the Huangpu River.

  And screaming resounds into the night.

  It is hard to say exactly what is occurring on the ports of Shanghai. While the dancer’s mouth moves to silent prayers, hands clutched to her chest, knees folded until they press grooves into her forehead, the White Flower and all his other men still upon the ship stand within range of the chaos. They scrabble, and scream, and resist, but the infestation comes down on them, and there is no stopping it.

  When the screaming stops, the dancer creeps out from the alleyway, hesitant in case there is calamity.

  Instead, what she finds are insects.

  Thousands of them—tiny, disgusting things crawling on the ground. They bump over one another and skitter about in random fashion, but en masse, they are all moving in one direction: toward the water.

  For the first time, this city may finally fear the barrel pressed to its temple like a poisoned caress.

  Because by the Huangpu River, the second wave of the madness unfolds, starting with the seven dead bodies lying motionless on the top deck of a Russian ship.

  Thirteen

  Juliette smoothed down the fabric of her qipao, pressing at the creases that were bunching up beneath her coat. She swallowed her discomfort in a hard gulp, as if it were nothing more than a bitter medicinal pill. It felt fraudulent, somehow, to put on a type of clothing that she hadn’t worn in years. It felt like lying—to herself, to the image she had been building before she stepped foot back into this city.

  But if she wanted to blend in within Zhang Gutai’s daytime place of work, she had to look like any regular upper-class eighteen-year-old clacking around these streets with pearl earrings dangling in her loose, ungelled hair.

  Juliette took a deep breath, tightened her grip on the sleeves of her coat, and marched into the building.

  Zhang Gutai—as an important figure in a relatively new and fragile political party—was a secretive man. But he was also the chief editor of a newspaper called Labor Daily, and their address was public information. Though she hadn’t expected to find much but a scant office complex when she wandered out here into the industrial edges of the Chinese part of the city, she was met with the absolute bustle of activity in the Labor Daily’s offices: people running around with bundles of paper and typewriters clutched in their arms as they yelled for the latest update on a batch that had proceeded forward into printing.

  Her nose wrinkling, Juliette walked right past the front desk with her chin held high. These people were Communists, weren’t they? They believed in equality, after all. She was sure they would also believe in letting Juliette take a look around by herself until she stumbled onto Zhang Gutai’s office. She wouldn’t need anybody to show her around.

  Juliette smiled to herself.

  The thick of the activity seemed to be coming in and out of a little set of stairs dropping into a basement level, so Juliette went there, snagging a clipboard from a table in an effort to look occupied. There was no natural light when she entered the basement level. She passed what may have been a back door, then turned left, entering the main space and scanning the scene before her. The floor and walls were constructed of cement. The only illumination came from the few light fixtures latched to the walls, which seemed terribly inconvenient for all these people down here at their desks, squinting in the dimness.

  It reminded her of what cell blocks during the Great War might have looked like. Juliette supposed she wouldn’t be at all surprised if it turned out this building really had been converted from an original use of holding prisoners.

  She continued striding forward, deeper into the prisonlike office space, peering into each nook. Her heels were loud as she clicked through, but there was enough chaos down here that, for now, nobody thought much of her presence. Harried writers—both old and young—were busy scribbling, working fast on their typewriters, or taking phone calls. The wires that carried signals into this subterranean level were all tangled in a big mass at the back of the expansive space. As Juliette scanned the desks she passed, looking for anything of note, her attention snagged on one desk that appeared unoccupied.

  Such an observation was peculiar enough in this little bubble of activity. She was even more intrigued when she craned her neck to read the writing atop the folders beside the telephone and saw, in Chinese, MEMO FOR ZHANG GUTAI.

  Quickly she scra
mbled beneath the desk, clipboard shoved under her arm so she could search through the files. There was nothing noteworthy in the political reports, but when she dropped to a crouch and looked to the floor of the desk, she found drawings.

  If everybody else is so busy, why is this desk empty? Juliette thought. And whose was it? Surely not Zhang Gutai, who most certainly had his own space. Shaking her head, she reached into the pile of drawings and pulled a few out, resolving not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  But when she looked upon the first drawing, she broke out in a cold sweat—all the way from the high collar at her neck to the edges of the qipao brushing her ankles.

  One drawing was of wide, reptilianlike eyes. Another was of five claws gripping against a board of wood and scales somehow glistening despite the stray smears of ink along the page. Juliette’s fingers froze, stunned as she took in the images—dozens of them, all depicting variations of the same thing.

  “Guài wù,” Juliette breathed. Monster.

  Before she could overthink it, she snatched one of the drawings in the pile—the one that depicted a blur of a creature standing in its entirety—and folded it up, tucking the little square of paper into her coat pocket. It joined the masquerade invitation that she had placed there yesterday and forgotten to remove. With a cursory glance around to make sure she was still in the clear, Juliette stood and wiped the sweat off her palms. She marched for the little steps out of the basement level, her fists clutched tight.

  Juliette paused suddenly, her foot hovering on the first step. To her left again was the back door.

  And it was shuddering.

  Suddenly all she could think of was the drawing in her pocket. She imagined a monster just on the other side of the door, breathing heavily, awaiting the prime moment to burst free and wreak havoc on innocents.

  Juliette stepped toward the door hesitantly. Her hand came down to rest on the round knob. “Hello?” she called, her voice hoarse. “Is someone—”

  “What are you doing there?”

  Juliette jumped, snatching her hand away from the knob of the door. The frame had stopped shuddering. She swiveled around.

  “Oh, me?”

  The man who stood before her wore a fedora cap, his suit more Western looking than what everyone else down here was wearing. He had to be someone important, along the lines of Zhang Gutai’s rank rather than a mere assistant who answered the phone.

  “I’m here to see your chief editor for important business,” Juliette continued. “I got a little lost.”

  “The exit is that way,” the man said, pointing.

  Juliette’s smile grew cold.

  “Official Scarlet business,” she corrected. “My father—Lord Cai—sent me.”

  There was a moment of pause as the man digested her words, wariness setting in. Juliette had perfected the art of dishonest guiles; she hid her identity when necessary, then wielded it like a weapon when the time came. Only the man suddenly looked a little amused, too, much to Juliette’s chagrin. Still, he nodded and gestured for her to follow him.

  There was one more floor above the first floor, and the man spared no patience in hurrying Juliette along. He ascended the humble brown staircase three steps at a time while Juliette clacked up slowly, looking around. This staircase, with its thick handrails and long, polished panes, had the potential to be sweeping and decadent, if only the Communists were not so intent on giving the appearance of seeming grounded with the common people. Everything in this building could have been glorious. But glory was not the point anymore, was it?

  Juliette leaned over the banister of the second floor with a sigh, peering at the frenzy of papers and typewriters below. When the man gestured at her impatiently from ahead, she grimaced and kept walking.

  The man turned a corner and directed her into a spacious waiting area. There were two rows of chairs here, both pressed up against opposing walls and facing each other in front of a closed office door. Juliette finally understood his amusement. There was already someone sitting on one of the yellow chairs, legs stretched out in front of him.

  Roma lurched upright.

  “What are you doing here?” they demanded in unison.

  The man in the fedora cap quietly removed himself. As soon as he was out of sight, Roma launched out of his seat and grabbed Juliette’s arm. She was so offended he dared touch her that she couldn’t react for a long second, not until Roma had already moved them to a corner of the waiting space, the wall cold against Juliette’s back.

  “Let go of me,” she hissed, shaking her arm from his grip. Roma must have obtained the same information that she had. He wanted to know about Zhang Gutai’s involvement in the madness.

  Juliette bit back a curse. If the White Flowers got answers before she did, they would treat their findings like they treated the black market. They would do everything they could to secure a monopoly upon the information, pay off and kill sources until there was no way for the Scarlets to obtain what they knew. That way, only the White Flowers were safe, assuming there was a way to stop this madness. That way, the city only stacked up with the bodies of their enemies. Then people would begin to switch loyalties.

  Then the White Flowers would be victorious. And the Scarlets would suffer.

  “Look,” Roma snapped. “You have to leave.”

  Juliette blinked rapidly, her head rearing back. “I have to leave?”

  “Yes.” Roma reached up, his expression dripping with derision, and flicked one of the earrings dangling from Juliette’s ear. The pearl swung against her skin, brushing her jaw. Juliette barely stifled the whoosh of breath that threatened to escape, barely stifled the stream of fire she wanted to breathe from her throat.

  “Play dress-up somewhere else,” Roma went on. “I was here first.”

  “This is Scarlet territory.”

  “These people are Communists. You have no sway over them.”

  Juliette gritted her teeth, hard. Indeed, the Scarlet Gang had no control here. Her only consolation was that Roma didn’t appear too happy himself, which meant the White Flowers had no sway over the Communists, either. For the time being, this neutrality was a good thing. The man in the fedora had shut his mouth immediately in learning Juliette’s identity, precisely to avoid any unnecessary aggravation with the Scarlet Gang. But tiptoeing on thin ice wouldn’t last forever. The Communists’ very model of progress was overthrowing Shanghai as it was now—as it was for gangsters to thrive: sinful, profitable. Given the choice between killing all the capitalists and killing all the gangsters, they would choose both.

  “Our relationship with the Communists is, as always, none of your business,” Juliette said. “Now, if you would be so kind, get out of my face.”

  Roma narrowed his eyes. He took her command as a threat. Perhaps she had intended for it to be one.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  God, the nerve. Juliette straightened to her full height. They weren’t that far apart, she and Roma—he barely held half an inch over her when she was in heels. “I won’t say it again,” she hissed. “Get out of my face. Now.”

  His lips thinned. Resentfully, and slowly, Roma submitted to the threat. He made a steady step back, glaring at her as he scrubbed a hand along his eyes. If Juliette didn’t know better, she would have thought the gesture to be an act of self-consciousness. But no—it was exhaustion; the shadows under his eyes were almost smoky, like his bottom lashes were fringed with soot.

  “Have you not been sleeping?” Juliette found herself asking suddenly. There was a direct correlation between her willingness to be civil and the distance between them. With him several strides away, she wanted to commit homicide a little less.

  Roma’s hand returned to his side. “I’ll have you know,” he answered, “that I am well, thank you very much.”

  “I wasn’t asking after your well-being.”

  “Oh, give it a rest, Juliette.”

  Juliette folded her arms thoughtfully. Last night she had heard
the news about the sudden spike in White Flower deaths, all lost to the madness. It was the biggest mass casualty yet. Which meant Roma wasn’t going to leave just because she made a few barbed remarks—he was here now precisely because this strange madness had crept so close to home.

  She tilted her chin at the closed door. “Is that his office?”

  Roma didn’t need to clarify who she meant. He nodded. “Zhang Gutai won’t take visitors until the hour. Don’t try anything.”

  Like what? Juliette thought nastily. It wasn’t as if she could run Roma out without making a scene and offending the Communists, and she certainly refused to leave before she spoke to Zhang Gutai. To find answers, it was this or nothing.

  Juliette marched to a chair and sat down. She tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling, resolute not to look anywhere else. Directing her mind elsewhere too, she reached into her coat pocket and fingered the drawing she had stashed away. It was uncertain whether these frightening sketches confirmed trouble with the Communists specifically, but it confirmed something. She would have to inspect it further, because she thought she recognized the background to be the Bund. It was nothing more than a few harsh lines, but for somewhere as distinctive as the Bund, a few harsh lines were enough.

  Meanwhile, Roma had settled back onto his seat along the other row of chairs, his fingers tapping to the tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall. He kept his gaze pinned to Juliette, much to Juliette’s annoyance. She could feel his inspection like it was a physical thing, as if he were inches away instead of across the room. Every sweep of his eyes felt like he was mechanically pulling her apart, piece by piece, until her insides were out in the open for inspection. Juliette could feel a flush creeping up from her chest, coloring her neck with discomfort, then spreading until her cheeks were blazing hot.