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

Chapter Forty-Four - 23. March. 1789

Lizabeth

Lizabeth reaches for the knife concealed in her bodice, her fingers brushing over the hilt when François lets out a tut of warning and takes a step closer to Gabriel.

“One more move from any of you,” he says, “and I’ll shoot him.”

Cursing, Lizabeth releases her hold on the knife. All around her, choked silence hangs in the air, thick as melted marzipan. Maxime looks more bewildered than anything, while Marie and Marguerite stand shoulder to shoulder, murderous glares washing over their faces. But the bulk of Lizabeth’s attention is focused on Gabriel as he rests against Jean, breaths coming out short and shallow. 

“Then why not shoot me and finish this?” Gabriel asks. “Or are you too much of a coward to risk it until your friends arrive?”

The grip on his gun tightens, but François doesn’t say a word.

“François, why are you acting this way?” Marie asks. “I thought we were a group.”

Eyes still trained on Gabriel, François laughs. “Your uncle may have never told you, but this has been planned from the beginning, ever since Baptiste found Gabriel roaming the streets of Paris four years ago. Baptiste needed easier access to the courtiers, and a way to break their trust for each other from the inside. It was always the plan to kill him, but we never knew when. However, once he was injured at Versailles and made the decision to betray us all, I knew it was an opportune time to take action.” He looks at Lizabeth, grinning. “Your act at the palace was quite impressive. But I knew from the start it was all a lie.”

“God, when will he quit talking?” Marguerite mumbles under her breath.

Lizabeth itches to pull her knife out and plunge it straight into François’ neck. But he has a gun pointed at Gabriel, and she knows the second she lunges for him, he won’t hesitate to shoot. 

“Though,” François says, “Gabriel might die without me having to do a thing. Quite a pity you went through all of this to trick me, and it’s only made everything worse.”

Lizabeth moves her eyes to Gabriel, startling when she takes notice of the growing crimson stain on his shirt. He’s attempting to cover it up, but there is too much blood. It has spread farther than the expanse of his hand, staining his fingers a faint red. Next to her, Marie shifts her arm and slips it behind her back, silent as the midnight sky.

Half of Lizabeth wants to call out to Marie—to warn the girl not to do anything rash, but the other half knows she’ll only be putting them all in danger by alerting François of her actions. So she watches as Marie wraps her hand around the dagger and raises it, bit by bit, preparing for the opportune moment to attack. Then, the sound of drunken rambles drifts around the back of the house, breaking François’ concentration.

His eyes drift to the source of the noise, and Marie whips the knife out from behind her back, hurling it through the air. François doesn’t notice the knife until it's already too late for him to move out of the way, and the weapon slashes at his shoulder at the same time he fires his gun. The bullet sails past Gabriel, slamming against a nearby tree.

“Get Gabriel to the forest,” Marie says to Jean before turning back to François.

With a pained curse, François plucks the dagger from the ground and grasps it in his shaking hand, paying no mind to the blood dripping from his wound and swirling down the side of his arm. Though Marie bought them a much needed distraction and wounded François for good measure, the man now has two weapons while Marie is left with none. Meaning Lizabeth has to act fast.