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

Chapter Twenty-Eight - 9. March. 1789

Lizabeth

Lizabeth's legs hurt like hell. When she first arrived at the inn, she was quite proud of finding what she considered a good hiding spot behind a dead tree stump. It's wide enough to keep both she and Marguerite concealed, yet the cracks going through the hollow bark allow for a clear view of the back entrance to the inn.

What she hadn't considered, however, is to get the view of the inn, she has to perch just so on the tips of her toes with her thighs resting on the back of her calves. A position which is becoming more taxing with each passing second.

"When are they coming out?" Marguerite asks, her voice crescendoing to a near wail. She'd grown tired of peeking out through the tree stump fifteen minutes after they reached the inn, and now sits sprawled out on the ground, playing with a patch of browned grass.

"At any moment," Lizabeth whispers over her shoulder. "Now hush."

Marguerite lets out a hysterical cry. "You said the same half an hour ago!"

Lizabeth winces, peering around the tree to check if anyone heard the outburst. When it's clear they're safe, she whirls around.

"Quit making such a fuss!" she hisses through her teeth. "You're the one who begged to come with me!"

"You're overreacting." Marguerite rolls her eyes. "I've hardly made a peep."

"Hardly made a peep? Is that what you call wailing like some sort of wild animal? Do you have any idea how important this is to me?"

"I don't, actually. In fact, you still have yet to tell me why you're going after L'Ange de la Mort."

Lizabeth leans back against the tree trunk, one hand brushing away the bits of grass collecting on her knees. Though Marguerite has been nothing but open and accepting of Lizabeth, it's been under the guise that Lizabeth is the loved daughter of a wealthy earl. While she hasn't lied about who her father is, she's almost certain Marguerite will be far less likely to continue a friendship with someone who is responsible for her own brother's death. And with someone who is cursed.

"I have a debt which must be paid to my family," Lizabeth mumbles. "And I must ensure the people I care about stay safe. You and Sophie and"-she pauses-"and Gabriel."

"You needn't worry." Marguerite places her hand atop Lizabeth's. "L'Ange de la Mort will die for what he has done to Pierre and Sophie. I want him stopped just as much as you."

Lizabeth doubts it, but she says, "Yes. For Pierre and Sophie."

The back door to the inn opens, the harsh squeak of the rusted door hinges ringing into the darkness. Lizabeth becomes alert in an instant, turning back to the tree stump. This time, Marguerite is right beside her, previous complaints forgotten.

They both wait in silence, not daring to even take a breath, as two figures emerge from the inn and walk to the surrounding trees, directly in front of where Lizabeth and Marguerite are hiding.

It's difficult for Lizabeth to discern the two figures in the darkness, and she has to squint to get a better view, the area behind her eyes twinging with the pain of an impending headache. Though one thing is clear as day. The person on the left is a woman.

"What is a woman doing here?" Marguerite whispers. "She can't be part of the assassin group, can she? And look at that dress! How awful!"

Lizabeth shushes Marguerite, leaning so close to the tree, her eyelashes brush up against the damp bark. The light from the candles flickering in the windows of the inn, and the moonlight-free from the clouds for the moment-are enough to see the woman is near Lizabeth's age. And far lovelier in looks than expected.