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

Chapter Forty-Five - 23.March.1789



Gabriel

Even in death, Marie is beautiful. She lands on the soft earth, limbs splayed out at odd directions and azure eyes angled up to the stars. Her skin, tanned from years of playing underneath the hot sun, is splashed in her own blood, the color turning black against the moonlight. Gabriel’s gaze travels from the fast growing bloom of crimson on her chest up to the curve of her delicate lips. She's choking. Gasping. Gagging. 

Still alive. 

But not for long.

“Marie?” Lizabeth whispers, but it’s clear she isn’t expecting an actual answer.

Ignoring the agony in his side, Gabriel falls to the ground and lifts her head so it rests on his thigh. She stares up at him, eyebrows gathered together as if she isn’t quite sure what she’s looking at. She parts her lips, but the only sound that escapes is a wet, heaving whisper. Next to him, Jean watches, breathless and, much like Marie, unable to utter a word.

Despite the gunshot, the fight is still going strong all around them, everyone too preoccupied with their own personal battles to have taken notice of what happened on the edge of the forest. Everyone, that is, except for François. He’s dropped his pistol, his hands coming up to cover his face upon realizing he shot the one person he wasn't supposed to harm.

Marie parts her lips again and digs her nails into the dirt, using the last bits of her strength to get Gabriel’s attention. “Maxime,” she gasps out. “I need him. Please.”

Gabriel glances up, scanning the chaos for Maxime. He’s near the back entrance of the house, a smile stretched across his face and injured arm hanging limply at his side as he parries daggers with one of François’ men. He’s so entranced with the fight, he doesn’t quit even after the others sense something is amiss.

“Arrêtez!” François yells.

The man fighting with Maxime looks back, and Maxime pounces on him, stabbing his dagger into the back of the man’s head and yanking it to the side. Though he angles his body away from the direct spray of blood, it still coats his hands and sprinkles against his face, but he wipes it off in impatience and glances around to see if anyone witnessed what he just did. 

And his eyes find Marie.

Maxime freezes, the knife in his hand clattering to the ground. His gaze drifts to the gunshot wound in Marie’s chest, and he swallows once, a single finger twitching at his side. Marguerite stops shortly after, lowering her weapon while the three remaining men look back and forth between François’ frantic expression and Marie’s limp body, unsure of how to proceed.

“What happened?” a man yells to François. “You said not to hurt her! Shit! Baptiste is going to have us all killed!”

Maxime sprints for Marie, his feet slipping on the blood-slicked grass. When he reaches her, he drops to the ground, his ankle bending at an unnatural angle underneath his body. But he doesn't seem to notice.

“Marie?” he says, his voice small and scared. Broken.

Gabriel gently lifts Marie off his thigh and places her in Maxime’s arms. “She asked for you.”

Eyes glazed over with dreams, Marie smiles. “You’re warm, mon amour.”

Maxime tears a chunk of cloth from the already ripped sleeve of his shirt and balls it up before placing it over her wound. But her blood leaks out fast, and in mere seconds, the cloth is soaked through with scarlet.

“We must get help!” he yells to no one in particular. “We must call for the doctor or Baptiste. We must do something! We must—”

His words are cut off with a choked gasp of air, and he leans over, hugging Marie close to his body. The pleas are nothing more than a desperate gut reaction. He’s seen enough death to know there is no hope in saving Marie now. They all do.

Feeling as if he’s encroaching on a private moment, Gabriel rips his eyes from Maxime and directs them to where François’ three men are retreating back into the forest.

“What are you doing?” François screams, though the panic in his voice hints he knows there is no use in stopping them.

“I can’t stay here,” a man explains. “That girl is like Baptiste's daughter. He’s going to react like a madman when he discovers she’s dead. I don’t want to be around when that happens.”

“But—” François protests, but the men are already slipping through the dark gaps in the trees and disappearing into the shadows.

He moves his eyes to where Gabriel sits, and their gazes meet. François lifts a gunpowder packet to his lips, readying himself to reload the pistol. He bites down on it, then stops. After a second of confused silence, he pockets the packet, curses once, and darts into the forest after his men.

“Everyone is gone,” Gabriel says to Maxime. “It’s over for now.”

Maxime acknowledges Gabriel’s words with nothing more than a quick upward glance before his gaze moves back to Marie. Soundlessly, he pulls out the pins holding up her hair. The golden strands tumble freely over her chest, wild and untamed. Just like Marie.

“There, that’s better, is it not? You hate wearing your hair up.” Maxime reaches out to brush the stray stands off Marie’s face. His fingertips linger on her cheeks as if he’s afraid to let go. “When we were younger, you took your hair down when we were out and then made me put it back up for you before we returned home. You always believed Baptiste would become angry if he knew.”

“And you were terrible at it,” Marie says, her words a tiny, barely audible whisper.

Maxime cracks a smile. “He must have noticed. Did he ever say anything?” He glances down, awaiting her answer.

But the answer never comes.

And, although Marie’s eyes are still trained on the sky, she can no longer see the stars.

Maxime digs his fingers into her shoulders and pulls Marie to him, lowering his forehead so it rests against hers. He says nothing, only holds her, his body shaking in silence.

Gabriel turns away, gritting his teeth while he attempts to stand. He gets to his feet, but he’s dizzy and disoriented, all his strength gone now that the threat has diminished. Just as he’s becoming upright, he stumbles, nearly falling back onto the ground when his body connects with another solid form. He looks behind him, eyes landing on Lizabeth as she catches him and intertwines her fingers with his. 

“Let’s get you back home,” she says.

“What about Jean and the others?” he asks.

“You two go ahead,” Jean says. “You need to find a safe place to rest for a bit. Marguerite and I will stay here to ensure the men don’t return, and then we will come find you.”

Although Gabriel doesn’t want to leave the others alone to face more potential danger, he has no fight left in him to argue. He lets Lizabeth lead him to the forest, but not before he takes one final look at the fiery, uncouth girl he’s known for the last four years.

Maxime is still cradling her body, his gaze directed to the horizon, fixed on nothing but memories. From where Gabriel stands, and now that her eyes have been closed, Marie looks as if she could be sleeping. 

Asleep and in the arms of the man she loves. 

For one last time.

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