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

Chapter Nine - 9. February. 1789

Gabriel

Gabriel slides down the trunk of a yew tree, landing in a pile of frost-bitten leaves. The chill soaks through his cloak and breeches, but he doesn’t move. All that’s in his head is the image of the guard’s severed fingers, resting atop the velvet pouch. He’d planted it there himself, when dawn sun was staining the sky with pinks and golds and purple-tipped clouds. He expected a servant to come across the pouch, or a gardener, trimming back the topiaries. His friends discovering the pouch—Lizabeth Morgan discovering the pouch—had not been the plan. 

Nor had the way the news of L’Ange de la Mort spread through Versailles like a festering plague, until it was the first thing on the tip of each courtier’s tongue, lacing the corridors with whispered panic. 

The man who killed Henri de Froix calls himself L’Ange de la Mort?

He’s been killing estranged courtiers for years. 

People in Paris are terrified of him. 

He’s coming for us all next.

He’s a murderer. 

A murderer. 

Murderer. 

Gabriel groans, bringing up his knees to his chest. 

He was sick the entire night after. He couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, the guard’s face was there, scorched into the back of his eyelids. He was scared to blink. He still is.  

A tree branch snaps, and Gabriel lifts his head, the intrusion a welcome distraction to his racing thoughts. His eyes land on Marie and Maxime, emerging from a clearing in the trees. As usual, neither of them look pleased to see him. The feeling is mutual. Gabriel would rather be spending the day with Jean in the salons or in his apartments with Anne. But Baptiste requested there be a brief meeting, so Gabriel could inform them once the pouch was discovered in Versailles. 

Gabriel stands and brushes the leaves from his breeches. Exhaustion pulls down on him like an anchor, but he blinks it away. He’s been exhausted so often over the past few years, he’s long since forgotten the alternative.

“So kind of you to take a break from hunting with the king and drinking champagne to come talk to us,” Marie greets. Her blonde hair is woven into a plait, but part of it has come undone in her trek through the forest, and it falls over her neck and shoulders in golden wisps. She pushes a few strands of hair behind her ears as she regards Gabriel, mouth turned down into a frown. 

“The pouch was discovered,” Gabriel says. “Everyone knows danger is coming to the palace.” 

Maxime slaps him on the back. Gabriel doesn’t flinch. “I believe a celebration is in order, L’Ange de la Mort. You’re notorious now.” 

Gabriel stares at him but says nothing. He doesn’t wish to argue with Maxime—to speak with him at all. All he wants is to finish the meeting so he can return to the palace and spend the remainder of the day in his room. 

“You know what I find amusing?” Maxime asks. “I had to kill that guard because you couldn’t. You were every bit a sniveling coward when I handed you the pouch to place in Versailles. It’s as if you still don’t understand this was something we had to do. Because there wasn’t any other choice. We had to leave proof of the man’s death at Versailles somehow, and no one would believe he died if all we did was leave a simple note. The courtiers must come to understand we’re a threat, or nothing will change. Marie and I understand this, and yet Baptiste is adamant you are to be called L’Ange de la Mort, not any of us. Is that not amusing?”