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

Chapter Twenty-Six - 8. March. 1789

Lizabeth

Lizabeth throws down her map in a fit of rage, groaning as it flutters in the wind and lands on a bed of leaves. Wholly unsatisfied, she lifts her boot and stomps down on the thing, using her heel to dig it deeper into the ground. She'll come to regret her outburst in a few minutes, but at least for now, she feels a bit better.

When she received the map earlier in the day from Madame du L'Angelier, she was told the trip to Saint-Cloud would take no more than two hours on foot. The old woman failed to mention the trip would take two hours if you already knew where you were going. Which Lizabeth does not. She's been walking for almost two hours at this point, and yet Saint-Cloud is nowhere in sight.

Wasting more time trudging through the forest means she's at risk of missing the meeting altogether. If that happens, she'll have to wait two more weeks to try for a second time. And she doesn't have two weeks. Not when L'Ange de la Mort's killings are becoming more frequent by the day. Not when she can't shake her mother's voice screaming at her over and over, Do what you came here to do, Lizabeth. Do it. Do it!

Not when a boy's life had to end for this moment.

After the boil in her blood turns to a mere simmer, Lizabeth picks up the map, brushing off the dirt that has, unsurprisingly, collected on the front. She squints at the written names and pictures, turning it this way and that in hopes that will help her make more sense of things. It does not. The looping calligraphy may look nice, but it's an absolute nightmare to read.

One thing she knows for sure is she's on the edge of La Forêt Domaniale de Fausses-Reposes, which means she's getting close. Now, if only someone could tell her which way is north east . . .

Though she still hasn't the faintest idea if she's heading in the right direction, she tucks the map under her arm and hikes up her lemon-yellow skirts, knowing every second that passes is one more second L'Ange de la Mort could be planning his next kill. That's when a twig behind her snaps. She whips her head around, peering into the shadows as her hand goes beneath her dress to where she's hidden her dagger. The last time this happened, Lizabeth was almost killed by a footpad, and Lord knows she doesn't have the time for that today.

Knife clutched between two trembling hands, she takes a hesitant step toward the noise. Her mind flashes to all the practicing she did before arriving in France, all the instances where she learned the correct spots to aim with her dagger, the angle in which the knife should be thrust into the body, the importance of surprise.

Stab between the neck and shoulder at a ninety degree angle. Pull down hard. If you can't reach the neck, aim for the armpit, or back of the knee, where the victim is likely to lose the most blood. Slashes behind the ankles work as well, for then your target won't be able to come after you. Always-always-attack before they know it's coming. It's the only way a girl of your size will be able to win.

The noise comes again, though this time in the form of snapping twigs and crunching leaves. She holds the dagger out and walks deeper into the forest in the direction of a large oak tree. As she nears the tree, the sounds become more frequent, accompanied by a series of frustrated grumbles. Grumbles which sound frightfully familiar.

By the time Lizabeth reaches the tree, she's almost convinced she knows who she will find on the other side. Even so, when she does peer around the trunk, she's so shocked, she drops both her dagger and her map.