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

Chapter Sixteen - 22. February. 1789

Gabriel

Gabriel has long since grown accustomed to death.

He's seen bodies strewn out on the streets, misshapen from sickness and starvation. He's witnessed death carried out by other members of Baptiste's group-watched the blood leak from the victims' skin and the light fade from their eyes. He's ended lives by his own hand.

But somehow, Monsieur de Levis' death is different.

He wasn't a simple gentleman Gabriel has seen or heard of in passing as his other kills were. Gabriel knew him. And he knew Gabriel.

The gunshot had been loud, ripping through the silent night like the pop of a bursting firework. It's a mere matter of heartbeats before the Palais-Royal guards come to investigate. Gabriel needs to leave. Now.

But he can't move.

Monsieur de Levis' body lies at an odd angle, limbs sprawled atop the winter-browned grass. His blue eyes are open and unseeing, staring up at the passing clouds. Blood leaks from the single hole in his head, pooling a puddle of crimson beneath his body.

The blood isn't the worst thing about it all, however. Nor is the unnatural placement of his arms and legs. It's the expression on his face-a grotesque mixture of fear and recognition.

Gabriel can't quit thinking of the seconds before he pulled the trigger. The way Monsieur de Levis had turned, face casual and trusting. The way his eyes had flicked from the pistol to Gabriel and back again-once, twice, three times-as if he wasn't sure what he was seeing. And then his terror, so deep and visceral, it hung in the air between them like stars suspended in the midnight sky.

Leave, leave, leave! a voice in Gabriel's head screams. He glances down at his pistol, where wisps of smoke from the weapon's barrel dance through the air and disappear into the darkness. It's been a minute since he pulled the trigger. A minute since someone from the palace inevitably heard the noise. Gabriel is fast and limber. He'd have little to no issue running from the scene without consequence if he turns now and dashes through the garden's trimmed topiaries. So why do his feet refuse to move?

That's when, in the distance, someone shouts.

Gabriel snaps his head up, taking one step back, then another. His gaze falls on the palace-candlelit windows illuminated against the backdrop of twinkling stars-but not a person is in sight. Regardless, he knows they are coming. Soon. He slips his pistol back into its holster, great puffs of air escaping from his lips like billowing clouds, and starts to run. But a moment later, he stops and turns back, eyes frantically searching the ground.

His scarf and eyepatch. He can't leave them here. But, dammit, where have they gone? They have to be around here somewhere. Where did he discard them? They have to be here. They have to, they have-

"Gabriel, you must quit this place!" Marie crashes through a nearby line of trees, Maxime following close behind. "You're going to be caught!"

"My eyepatch," Gabriel says, continuing to search the ground.

It's likely he discarded them by where Levis fell, but he doesn't want to look at his body anymore-at those lifeless eyes and those rigid limbs and the patch of wetness trailing down the leg of his velvet breeches.

"What about your eyepatch?" Marie asks.

"He made me take off my scarf and eyepatch so he could see my face. I can't find them."

"It's only an eyepatch!" Marie bursts out. "You can buy a hundred more if you wish. You-we-must leave."

Gabriel glances behind Marie. As before, no one is in sight, but underneath the din of laughter and conversation from inside the arcade, there is a series of hurried shouts. And they are getting closer. "No. You don't understand," he says. "If anyone finds that eyepatch, they will know there is something amiss with L'Ange de la Mort's eyes."