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

Chapter Thirty-Seven - 17. March. 1789

Gabriel

The first time Gabriel wakes, night has fallen. He tries to crack his eyes open, but his lids are heavy. So heavy. And he is tired. So tired.

He takes a shuddering breath, vaguely aware of the hot, dry thirst coating his throat. Through his half closed lids, all that’s visible are swirling pinpricks of orange and gold, the heat on his face hinting the flickering light is coming from a fireplace nearby.

Swallowing thickly, he moves his fingers up and down. But that’s all he can do. He’s too weak—too tired—to do anything else. Then he’s drifting off again, going where the heat of the fire can’t reach him, fingers slowing one by one, until there is no movement at all.

***

The second time Gabriel wakes, the light of early dawn stains his closed lids a faint red. His eyes fly open, taking in the cracks, like clusters of twisting spider legs, trailing across the ceiling. He lifts himself up, trying to get a better idea of where he is, when a pain in his side rips through his body. A weak gasp of air escapes his lungs, and he crashes back down on the bed, chest heaving with effort.

For a moment, he's aware of everything: The excruciating pain radiating from his wound. The fever burning beneath his skin. The sheets below him, soaked with his own sweat. And the murmur of voices shouting outside the door. 

“We can’t keep him here forever. François is going to find out eventually.” 

“We’ll worry about that when it happens. For now, we have to make sure he stays alive.” 

“Why do you care so much about what happens to him?” 

A pause. “Because I’ve done horrible things, and this is the only way I can make amends.”

Amid the exhaustion and pain encompassing his mind, Gabriel has the vague thought that the voices belong to Marie and Maxime.

Then, nothing.

***

“Gabriel?”

He stirs underneath a thick blanket, feathers poking through the rough fabric and scratching at his arms. The heat on his face hasn’t ebbed, and his skin is drenched in perspiration. Though whether the overwhelming warmth is from the fire in the room or the fire raging inside his own body, he isn’t sure.

A wet cloth is placed on his forehead, but it’s not nearly cool enough to help ease the oppressive heat. He furrows his brows, wishing to tell someone to make the fire go away. He’s so hot. He wants it to stop. But sleep is still holding him prisoner in a state of wakefulness and dreams, and he can do nothing but remain where he is, sweating with no reprieve.

“Can you hear me?”

Yes, he tries to say, I can hear you.

But no one responds.

He’s desperate to move, to throw this goddamn blanket off of him and get some colder air on his skin. But the weight of sleep presses down on his body, anchoring him to the bed.

As Gabriel drifts in and out of consciousness, voices swirl around his head, sounding far away one moment, then directly across from him the next. He’s exhausted. Not only his body, but also his mind. At this point, he’d gladly sleep for the rest of eternity. He can’t, he knows, but perhaps a few more hours . . . 

A few more days . . . 

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, don't forget to vote~! ⭐