L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)

Chapter One - 2. February. 1789

Gabriel

Waiting is by far the worst part of being an assassin. The death is easy-a few wet gasps of air, a few breathless words, then silence. The escape is harder, maneuvering down rough stone walls and through dark forests, heartbeats quickened and palms slick with sweat. As Gabriel hides behind the heavy drapery, however, he doesn't think of what Henri de Froix's last words might be, or the swiftest way to disappear into the night. He simply waits, grasping onto the last seconds he has left of pretending he's a man and not a killer.

The bedchamber door creaks open, and Gabriel comes to attention, peering through a gap in the curtains as Henri de Froix, vicomte de Narbonne steps into the room. Gabriel has been waiting in the same spot for an hour, counting each breath, each heartbeat, each bead of sweat rolling down his back. He should be grateful for the man's entrance, for an excuse to stretch his stiff limbs and get reprieve from the stale air. But all he feels is dread.

Though it's still early evening, de Froix is already dressed for bed. His embroidered banyan hangs open, and he wears no wig, a silk cap covering his close-cropped hair. He stumbles inside with the gait of too much cognac, clutching a gilt bronze candelabra in his hand. Gabriel's gaze travels down the length of the man's arm to the sapphire ring on his pinky. Underneath the flickering firelight, he can just make out a smattering of blood on the ring's silver band.

Across the room, an ormolu clock sits atop a marble hearth, announcing the fleeting time.

Tick, tick, tick.

Getting into the vicomte's bedchamber had been simple enough. Henri de Froix opens his hôtel particulier to the well-dressed public whenever he's off hunting or spending his days in the salons of Versailles. Gabriel was able to use his absence to slip into the sprawling mansion under the guise of a visitor, his knowledge of the house's layout from previous-more private-visits making it possible to find his way to the man's bedchamber.

If only carrying out death was as simple as sneaking through gilded corridors and concealing himself in the shadows.

Tick, tick, tick.

Henri de Froix places the candelabra on a marquetry desk and staggers to the four-poster bed, collapsing onto its eiderdown comforter.

Tick, tick . . .

The man groans, and the stench of alcohol and blood wafts into the air. Gabriel can't waste more time. His family will be wondering where he is. His friends will be wondering where he is. The whole damned French court will be wondering where he is. He has to do this now.

. . . tick.

Gabriel rips open the curtains, flooding the room with the last of the sun's golden light. The vicomte jumps up, and the silk cap falls from his head, revealing tufts of lank brown hair.

"Beating your servants again, I see," Gabriel says, words coming out muffled and distorted behind his golden mask. The statement is more of a reminder to himself that he came here for a reason-that the world is better off without de Froix, and he's doing everyone a favor.

"Who are you?" de Froix asks, voice unsteady. "What do you want?"

Words brew in the back of Gabriel's throat, desperate to be said. My name is Gabriel de la Marche. I've been a guest at your house for dinner. I've greeted you in the halls of Versailles. I agreed to take your life.