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

Chapter Twenty-Four - 5. March. 1789

Gabriel

Gabriel can't remember the last time he was this exhausted. Normal exhaustion brought on by sleepless nights, he can deal with. After all, nights where he isn't woken up by heart-wrenching nightmares are few and far between. But the exhaustion he feels now isn't a mere product of a tired mind, it's a tiredness that aches all the way down to his bones. He's tired of lies. Tired of death. Tired of the effort it takes to keep himself under control.

He and Jean walk side by side down one of Versailles' many gilded corridors, neither of them uttering a word. The air between them is thick with unspoken grief and hurt. Gabriel knows Jean is upset with him for refusing to see him in the days after Pierre's death. And Gabriel is upset with himself for ignoring his best friend. Regardless, he can't think of a thing to say to make it better. Every word he comes up with sounds forced, every sentence of encouragement dies on the tip of his tongue. Nothing will ever mask the fact that he did this, he did this, he did this.

"Well, this is where I leave you," Jean says, starting for his apartments.

"Wait, Jean, I'm sorry I-" Gabriel stops. There are so many things he could apologize for, so many things Jean deserves to hear. I'm sorry I dragged you into this. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed me. I'm sorry I haven't told you about your father, and I'm sorry that my own fear makes it so maybe I never will. "Just, I'm sorry."

"Oh." Jean pauses, body turned toward the hallway. His blond curls are a mess, tied loosely at the back of his neck with an ivory ribbon. Dirt from the night of Pierre's death is still caked under his fingernails, and his clothes look thrown on in a haste, as if he couldn't muster up the strength to ask servants for help. "All right."

No, "I forgive you."

No, "I'm sorry, too."

No, "You'll always be my friend no matter what, Gabriel."

Only, "All right."

Gabriel forces himself to ignore the sting in his chest as he turns to go. "All right."

Then someone calls out from the other side of the corridor.

Gabriel glances over his shoulder, gaze landing on Nicolas as he sprints to reach them. His eyes are manic with excitement, his cheeks spattered with spots of red.

"Neither of you are going to believe this, I-" Nicolas holds up his finger, leaning over to place his hands on his thighs. He takes in a few gulps of air before straightening up again. "I caught a spy."

Jean and Gabriel exchange a look.

"A spy?" Gabriel asks.

"I caught a boy from the city wandering in the woods. He claimed he had information about L'Ange de la Mort, but I think he's really spying for the bastard."

Gabriel takes a step back, hand curling into a fist. Panic clings to his throat like spoiled honey. Someone knows information about L'Ange de la Mort. Is it possible Baptiste's group decided to retaliate because he said he wouldn't work with them anymore?

Jean comes to attention. "Where did you leave him?"

"Near the Swiss Lake." Nicolas jumps forward, motioning for Gabriel and Jean to follow. "I wanted to tell the king about it, but he's riding, so I figured we could question the boy beforehand."

No one says a word after that. Gabriel and Jean trail behind Nicolas, weaving through the hallways and bursting through the palace's canary yellow doors. The air is fresh and clear, hints of spring peeking through the winter chill. But despite the welcome warmth, the gardens are sparse, no courtiers in sight save for a few couples meandering through the manicured south parterre.