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

Chapter One - 2. February. 1789

But instead of answering, he pulls a pistol from the leather holster strapped to his waist, the weapon's ivory hilt smooth against his palm. His other hand goes to his black breeches, and his fingers fumble for the kerchief stuffed inside the pocket. He finds it, brushing a thumb across his embroidered initials, where his sister had accidentally stitched a Q instead of a G onto the cream-colored silk.

He can't think about de Froix's trembling hands, or the passing seconds, or his means of escape. He can't think of anything but the cool brush of the pistol's silver barrel in his hand.

"Tell me what happened to Henriette du Luys," Gabriel says. It's been four years, but his sister's name still turns to ash on his tongue.

The vicomte steps back, hand reaching for the crystal doorknob. "Leave, or I'll call for the guards."

"Call for anyone, and I'll shoot." Gabriel points his pistol at de Froix. "Tell me what happened to Henriette du Luys."

"The Marquis de Louvois's eldest child? I'm not certain-"

"You were close with her husband. He must have told you something."

"No. No, he never told me a thing."

Desperation claws at Gabriel's heart. This can't amount to nothing. Not again. Baptiste told him de Froix would know something-swore his followers heard de Froix's servants mention Henriette. The man must know. All he needs is a little push.

Gabriel thumbs back the hammer on his flintlock. "I would ask you not to lie to me again, monsieur."

"Please. None of this is a lie. Michel du Luys never talked about his wife. Not before she disappeared, nor after. You can ask anyone at Versailles, they'll tell you. It was four years ago! She doesn't matter anymore. Everyone has already forgotten her-"

"Not everyone," Gabriel says.

He fires the pistol.

The bullet blasts through the room, striking de Froix's throat before slamming into the chinoiserie mural behind them. Blood fountains from the wound and hot drops splatter against Gabriel's hands, covering the parquet floors in a glossy scarlet. As de Froix falls to his knees, he claws at the hole in his throat, mouth agape in horror.

In seconds, Henri de Froix, vicomte de Narbonne, is dead.

Gabriel stares at the body, breath catching in his lungs as his eyes trail the mess of blood along the floor. Then his gaze reaches his own hand, still clutching at the smoking pistol, and he freezes. He was too close to the vicomte when he fired the gun, and some of the man's blood has splattered against his knuckles.

His hands begin to shake, the warm droplets like acid on his skin. The tremor moves from his knuckles to his hand to his wrist, and he's soon trembling so greatly, he almost loses his grip on the weapon.

Another man dead by his hand.

Another interrogation that led to nothing.

Another life, wasted.

You shouldn't have done that, says a voice in Gabriel's head. You don't want to be a murderer; you never have.