Foul Lady Fortune

“I’ll meet you at home,” Rosalind said to Orion, five minutes before the workday was set to end. She leaned over his shoulder, putting her mouth closer to his ear. “I have to see Dao Feng.”

Orion looked surprised for a brief moment before nodding and reaching for something on his desk.

“Can you give this to him while you’re at it? I’ve been meaning to send it through.”

He didn’t make any effort to cover the words from Rosalind when he passed her the folded note. It fell open, reading:

Oliver made an appearance in Shanghai. He’s on the hunt for something. Be wary.

“Your brother?” Rosalind blurted.

Orion turned around in his chair. “How do you know my brother?”

“It’s as if you forget that your family is famous.” Rosalind tucked the paper into her pocket, evading the question. “I’ll pass it along. Anything else?”

“That’s all.” His chair squeaked as he leaned back, tapping her fingers in farewell. “Good luck.”

A jolt shook along her hand. Rosalind made a quick fist to smooth away the effect, thinking little of it.

The sun had set minutes prior, and the air outside was turning brisk. Though it was a perfectly ordinary time to be leaving the office, she found herself glancing over her shoulder every few seconds as soon as she strolled through the main reception and out the front doors, kicking gravel while walking through the compound. Even once she left Seagreen Press’s gates behind her, there was a watchful sensation creeping along her arms.

Rosalind crossed the road. At the intersection, she tried to hail a rickshaw, but it ran right past her, heading for a man on the opposite corner. There were no other rickshaws in sight. No matter. Rosalind pivoted on her heel, biting back her sigh. She could walk. Golden Phoenix wasn’t far from here anyway. This was a prime time to be out and about, enmeshed in activity from every side, strangers brushing arms, eyes meeting once and then never again. Darkness approached at a steady pace, purpling the clouds. It was at this time that the streets and shops turned on their nighttime lights and threw open their evening services, when Shanghai turned from a city inhabited by people to a city inhabiting its people.

In the beginning, shortly after Rosalind was yanked back to life, the only way she could mark the passing of the days was the tangible shift that swept through at this hour. Yesterday and today, today and tomorrow—it was no longer the act of waking and rising that split the difference between those concepts, but how the smell in the air was suddenly turned new at night.

She circled around a tram light, turned past a parked car. When Rosalind was some distance into an alley shortcut, she heard an echo behind her. She paused. Looked over her shoulder the barest fraction.

She continued walking, and the echo resumed.

This time of the night was a picture to wander through, but wandering had its drawbacks. She was being followed.

“A single break,” Rosalind muttered. “That’s all I ask. It’s not much!”

She picked up speed, swerving into the next alleyway. With her breath held, she skittered against one of the building awnings, pressing to the wall and holding herself quiet.

Seconds passed. Minutes. When Rosalind heard nothing more, she stepped out cautiously, her heels light on the concrete.

Then a bullet tore through the night, skimming her arm.

“Oh, jeez—” Rosalind broke into a run, bolting down the alley and making a quick pivot left. Her arm burned, her coat sleeve frayed and singed where the bullet had traveled. Though she clutched her fingers to the wound and drew startled yells from a strolling couple she barged between, the blood ran merely for the length of one alleyway before it stopped. Her coat rustled, jostling the file inside its lining when she removed her hand from her sleeve, her fingers wet.

Rosalind slowed on a busier street, furiously searching the alley that she had just run through. Multiple pedestrians gave her curious looks, swerving past her on the sidewalk and eyeing the rip in her sleeve. Rosalind wanted to yell for them to move away. To take shelter in case more bullets came tearing out from the dark and struck a target who wouldn’t heal like she could.

“What do you want?” Rosalind whispered into the night. “Who are you?”

The chemical killer, her mind guessed first. It had to be. Why else would someone be shooting at her?

Suddenly a pair of hands grabbed her from behind.

“Hey—” With a vicious jerk of her elbow, Rosalind tugged her arm away, shoving her foot back in the same breath. Whoever the attacker was, they staggered away with a grunt, and Rosalind spun around to face them. Black hat. Black gloves. Loose black clothes. The only distinctive feature was a blue scarf, thick around their neck and looped enough times that nothing of their face was visible.

When the attacker moved forward again, they brought their gun out, and Rosalind glanced around in panic. Another bullet narrowly grazed her ear. Rosalind didn’t know where the shot had landed, but she didn’t want to test its mercy again. It was bound to hit someone, especially in the dark, when people couldn’t even see that there was a fight going on.

“Enough,” Rosalind hissed, catching the barrel of the gun. She forced the weapon away, tearing it out of the attacker’s gloved hands, but the attacker didn’t seem to care. In that pause, her attacker threw a punch at her stomach, and as soon as Rosalind flinched, they reached into the lining of her open coat.

The turn of events was so surprising that Rosalind didn’t stop the attacker from ripping into her inner pocket and plucking her copied file away. At once, the mysterious attacker swooped for their gun and ran off, tucking the stolen information close to their chest before disappearing around the corner.

Rosalind was left to heave for breath on the sidewalk, winded and sore, unable to believe what had happened. She had been pursued for the file? At the very least, she had expected the killer that stalked the city.

“Bèndàn,” Rosalind muttered, rubbing her stomach with a wince. Even without a copy, she had the short lines memorized. She touched her ear.

Who had that been? A Japanese agent taking their information back? A Communist agent securing the information that was theirs to begin with? Another Nationalist with an alternate mission?

Before the attacker could come back and Rosalind could actually receive an answer to her questions, she hurried away.

Orion opened the door to the passenger seat, sliding in smoothly and closing the door after him.

“You’re early,” he said. “Well done.”

Silas shot him a glare from the driver’s seat, pulling on the steering wheel and merging back onto the road. “For the final time, I am not your chauffeur. Don’t praise me as if I should preen.”

“I’m not praising you to see you preen.” Orion glanced into the back, seeing the seats cleared and empty, save for one small paper bag. “I’m praising you to get a smile. Let’s see it.”

Silas bared his teeth rudely. He eased the vehicle to a stop at the red lights.

“This is the first time you’ve asked me to fetch you after work. Where’s Janie?”

“With Dao Feng,” Orion answered, digging into his pocket. “Can you take us to this location?”

In his hand, he unfolded a piece of paper, revealing an address written in cursive handwriting. Silas leaned closer to read the words before the lights flashed green and his attention returned to the road, his brow still furrowed down.

“That’s Chinese jurisdiction. What business have you got there?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out. This is from Zheng Haidi, Seagreen’s lead secretary. She said she had some burning information to offer me.”

Silas seemed concerned—or at least more concerned than usual.

“Does she suspect something of your identity?”

“That’s the thing.” Orion kicked his feet up on the dashboard. Without looking, Silas reached over with a brutal thud, whacking Orion’s legs back down before he could get good footing. “Ouch—I don’t think she’s reporting to me as if I am a Nationalist. She said it concerned Janie.”

Silas cast a look at the address again, then ducked his head at the windshield, reading a faraway street sign. When a rickshaw beside them surged ahead, Silas took the opening in the traffic and turned.

“And it’s tonight?”

“In two days. At noon. I want to see the location first, lest it be a trap.”

“A secretary setting a trap,” Silas muttered. “What a line of work we do. Have you heard from Phoebe?”

Orion peered at the back again. He suspected that paper bag contained Phoebe’s errands—as usual. “I cannot go two days without hearing from my demon sister. She said something about making cakes?”

“Muffins,” Silas corrected. He paused, glancing away from the road briefly and catching Orion roll his eyes. “I called ahead to say I would be over with the jar of jam she wanted, but I got almost a minute of ringing before your father picked up instead.”

“Did you have a nice chat?”

“I hung up immediately. What’s wrong with you?”

Orion laughed, though he swallowed the sound when Silas pulled near the curb, coming upon the address. Turning serious, he pressed against his window, counting the numbered buildings before waving his hand for Silas to brake properly in front of a shabby hotel. They had arrived at the location.

“See anything?” Silas asked after a beat.

“It doesn’t look like a secret Japanese base, if that’s what you’re asking.” Orion turned away from the window. “But appearances can be deceiving. I suppose we shall find out.”

Silas thinned his lips, starting the ignition again. “Your house now?”

Orion shook his head. “My apartment with Janie. I’ll leave you and Phoebe to your muffin nonsense.”

With a huff that baking muffins was not nonsense, Silas pressed on the accelerator and pulled away from the hotel.

“I was ambushed.”

Dao Feng looked up as Rosalind barged into the private room, his brow furrowing immediately. “What? Are you all right?”

“I always am.” Rosalind took her coat off and tossed it on the table, glancing at her left arm. The qipao sleeve underneath was burned too, expensive fabric curling with damage. “I saw the Communist file. Their deserter sold out three of their people, who—get this—are planted with us. Double agents.”

“Oh?” Dao Feng had been getting out of his seat, but seeing that Rosalind was perfectly fine, he settled back down again, fingers drumming on the red tablecloth. “Nothing on Priest?”

“Nothing on Priest,” Rosalind confirmed. “Only on Lion, Gray, and Archer.”

Though he made no visible movement, there was a flash of surprise in Dao Feng’s eyes. Surprise—then confusion.

Rosalind leaned forward, reaching for the teapot. She poured herself a cup, the little leaves swirling around the liquid.

“Do you recognize the code names?”

“There have been mutterings about a Gray in Zhejiang,” Dao Feng replied, looking deep in concentration while he absorbed this new information. He reached for his briefcase, taking out paper and a pen. “He is of considerable infamy, so I’m struggling to comprehend how he could be planted in the Kuomintang without us knowing of his true Communist identity.”

“Well, I don’t think the information will be under wraps for long.” She paused, taking a moment to sip her tea and consider how she would word what she was saying next without giving Alisa away. “I believe the Communists have retrieved the file too, so all our spies there will surely hear about the code name leak soon. Give me a sheet. I’ll copy out the rest of what I remember.”

Dao Feng stopped. He had been in the midst of starting his own note. “Do you not have the file?”

“Did you not hear me when I walked in?” On usual days, Rosalind didn’t show her handler this much attitude. But she was tired and bloody, and it was possible there was a shard of something that had gotten stuck under her skin when it healed over because her shoulder hurt a little when she moved it. “I was ambushed. Someone took it. God knows who.”

Dao Feng made a thoughtful noise. He didn’t look fussed to have been snapped at. If Rosalind tried to get crankier, Dao Feng wouldn’t get angry in response. He would only take her attitude and turn it into some lesson until Rosalind was bored to the point of calming down.

“Press lightly on the pen. It’s running out of ink.” He rolled the extra stationery toward her teacup. With an unintelligible grumble, Rosalind snatched the pen before it could clink against the ceramic and started to write, ignoring Dao Feng when he finished with his own note and loomed over her shoulder to watch her put down character after character. The moment she finished, he took the sheet and folded it up, joining it with his report and pushing both papers into a thin envelope.

“Can you drop this off?” he asked. “I am needed at another meeting elsewhere.”

“If I must,” Rosalind answered begrudgingly. There was a postal collection box around the corner from Golden Phoenix, a tall red entity that she passed each time she walked into the restaurant’s alley entrance.

Dao Feng sealed the envelope. It was addressed to Zhabei, so Rosalind had to guess it was going to a command office there or to the house of a covert branch superior—either way, the information would move securely. No one had the power to go messing with official government correspondences anymore. Not like how the Scarlet Gang had forced the postal service to a halt while tracing down her letters to Dimitri, at last pulling back the veil on her treachery.

Rosalind shook her head quickly, clearing her mind. That cursed conversation with Alisa was really getting to her.

“One last thing.” Rosalind took out the note from Orion. “From my husband.”

Dao Feng scanned the short sentence, then gave a heavy sigh. It probably wasn’t Rosalind’s imagination that she spotted two extra wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes.

“Both of you are intent on delivering burdensome information today,” Dao Feng muttered. “I will walk out with you.”

They packed up—Rosalind gathering her coat and downing her cup of tea, Dao Feng picking up his briefcase and putting a hand on Rosalind’s shoulder as they stepped out of the private room.

“You must keep those code names to yourself,” he warned as they walked through Golden Phoenix. “It will be a danger should the other party know you hold anything that could uncover them.”

“I know. Don’t worry,” Rosalind assured him. “My lips are sealed.”

They exited through one of the side doors—Dao Feng held the plastic covering out of the way, letting Rosalind enter the alley first. She breathed in, filling her lungs with the night air. When Dao Feng ducked out too, he paused just outside the doorway, lighting a cigarette.

“I’m off,” Rosalind declared. “You know how to find me should you need anything.”

Dao Feng nodded, waving while he inhaled the smoke. “Get home safely, Miss Lang.”

With a mock salute, Rosalind walked off, holding her coat tighter around herself. She was paranoid, suddenly, that she would pick up a tail again—with good reason, after the night she’d had. Her nerves were on high alert when she returned to the main thoroughfare and turned the corner for the postal collection box.

“You’re strong,” she whispered to herself. “An agent, a dancer.” She carried poison now. Fast-acting poison, sharp-bladed poison. She was not defenseless.

Rosalind pushed the envelope into the box, heard the clunk of it joining the loose mail inside, and bobbed up on her toes, pleased that she was done for the night.

Then a familiar shout rang out from the alley behind her.

Rosalind whirled around. “Dao Feng?” she exclaimed. “Dao Feng!”

Tā mā de. Her panic roared to life, stinging her heels as she ran back the way she had come, almost slamming into the alley wall when she didn’t turn the corner fast enough. Her wrists sang with pain, smarting from the shock of barely catching herself against the bricks. She didn’t pay them any mind. The alley had turned entirely silent.

“Dao Feng!”

Rosalind’s eyes grew wide at the sight before her. Dao Feng was collapsed. He lay by the door into Golden Phoenix, having not moved a step from when she’d left him. And at the other end of the alley, another shadow was slipping away—the very same shadow with the dark clothing and the distinctive blue scarf wrapped tightly around their face.

The attacker disappeared. Rosalind remained rooted where she was. She couldn’t comprehend what she had just witnessed: that very same pursuer from earlier having returned for another attack and leaving her handler lifeless on the ground. Weren’t they only concerned with the file?

Had they followed her here?

Rosalind broke out from her stupor. She lunged forward.

“Please, please, please—” Rosalind crashed onto her knees beside Dao Feng. Rough concrete pressed sharply into her skin. “Please, please don’t be dead—” She put her fingers to his neck. A pulse beat on. Weak and irregular, but there, nonetheless.

“Dao Feng, can you hear me?” she gasped.

She ran an inspection along his middle, searching for the site of the injury. She could stanch it. Hold it down until help arrived. Her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears that she could hear nothing else save her own breathing. But Rosalind saw no clear wound. No bullet hole. No signs of a stabbing. Perhaps the light of the moon was too weak. But what could possibly take a grown man down—

Her eyes latched on to his arm. Dao Feng’s sleeves were pushed to his elbow. And right at the crook, there was a dot of red.

A sob echoed into the night. Rosalind didn’t register that it was her making the noise until a second joined it. The chemical killings. It was here. And she was wasting time by crying instead of saving her handler.

“Help!” Rosalind screamed. “Help!”