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

Chapter Seven - 7. February. 1789

Gabriel

Tonight, Paris is a pit of chaos, the stark contrast of the city to the quiet, tree-lined avenues of Versailles seeming more pronounced than ever. As Gabriel weaves through the winding streets of the Île de la Cité , trailing after Marie and Maxime, it takes everything in him to keep his disdain at bay. And his shame over feeling disdain at all.

Despite the late hour, the streets are packed. Everywhere Gabriel steps, he’s in danger of knocking into beggars curled up against the faded stone buildings and children darting through the crowd, hands dipping into the pockets of unsuspecting passersby. The snow from the day before has turned from a fresh white to sludgy coal black, frozen into clumps on the cobblestones, rats running wild underfoot. Gabriel’s cloak is pulled tight across the bottom half of his face, but it does little to ward off the wind, freezing and sharp and smelling of acrid smoke and unwashed bodies.

“Try to be a tad bit more conspicuous, would you?” Marie calls over her shoulder. “I don’t believe enough people are staring yet.”

Gabriel doesn't bother answering. He learned long ago the best way to deal with Marie’s jabs is to ignore them. Nevertheless, he can’t help but narrow his eyes at her statement. He’s trying, goddammit, and that should count for something.

He snatched up a set of clothes from a family servant and destroyed one of his cloaks, shearing the fur off the hood and waving the wool over a blazing fire to form scorch marks and flame-eaten holes. Even so, he can’t stop the suspicious looks shot at him as he walks by. Clothes are easy to transform, but nothing can mask the fullness in his body and cheeks, nor the healthy glow radiating from his pale skin.

Maxime leans over to whisper something to Marie, and they both turn to look at him, laughter stuck to their lips like sweet marmalade. Gabriel ignores them, focused on not getting lost in the masses. The claws of exhaustion dig deep into his bones, weighing heavy on his body and making his footfalls clumsy and unsure. He ignores this, too. Raking a hand over his sleep-drenched eyes, he quickens his step until he’s walking alongside Maxime. The man glances over at him—a dismissive sort of look—before turning back to continue whispering to Marie.

Gabriel contemplates making conversation with him in an attempt to break some of the suffocating tension, but before he can get a word out, Marie darts down a side alleyway and into the back door of a tavern. Maxime motions for Gabriel to follow, and the two enter the tavern as well.

The second Gabriel steps foot inside, he’s hit with a wave of smoke. It’s everywhere—billowing up to the ceiling in great clouds and swirling out in front of him, faded orange light peeking through like a candle held under gossamer. If the streets were chaos, the tavern is hell. Almost every pocket of space is taken up with men packed together like cattle, all shouting to be heard over the din of chatter and drunken laughter. The floor is sticky with spilled ale and littered with oyster shells—tossed onto the floor by the tavern’s wealthier patrons—that break apart in slivers of pearl when they crunch underneath Gabriel’s boots.

Near the back of the room, sitting at a table by himself, is the guard Gabriel fought at Monsieur de Froix’s hôtel particulier. The man they’ve come here to kill.

“I found him,” Gabriel says to Marie and Maxime, giving a discrete point with his elbow.

Maxime grins. “François is an annoying bastard, but at least he’s useful for tracking our targets. I was half convinced we’d come all this way for nothing.”

“Let’s go, then.” Marie heads for the man, one hand resting on the dagger hidden beneath her skirts. “I’m growing tired.”

The three approach the man, and Maxime slides into the seat next to him, slinging an arm over the back of the chair. Marie follows suit as she sits and places her elbows on the table, chin resting on her folded hands. Gabriel, however, remains standing, hood pulled up over his head.