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

Chapter One - 2. February. 1789

But you had no choice, says another.

He swallows down his hysteria, wiping his knuckles onto his cloak again, again, again, until his fingers are red and raw.

Even so, the blood remains. Turning his back on the vicomte's corpse, Gabriel cracks open the window and emerges into the evening. He remains perched on the wrought-iron balcony for a moment, allowing the winter wind to cool the panicked heat festering beneath his skin. But there is no time to calm his racing heart. Undoubtedly, the guards have heard the explosion from the gun, and it's only a matter of heartbeats before they burst into de Froix's bedchamber.

He inches his way across the home's stone facade, using the balconies for support. It's slow going, made slower by the relentless gusts of wind. But Gabriel continues on, pushing past the ache in his thighs and the sweat gathering at his temples.

"Arrêtez!"

Gabriel startles at the shout, sweat-soaked palms slipping on the cold iron. He tries to get a better grasp on the railing, but the sudden movement causes him to lose his footing, and his boot collides with the stone ledge, sending a shock of pain up his calf. Cursing, he bites down hard on the inside of his lip. Calm down. He has to calm down.

The second he rights himself, Gabriel dares a glance below him. On the ground is one of the vicomte's guards, clutching a pistol in unsteady hands. Before Gabriel can react, the man aims the weapon and fires. The bullet whizzes past Gabriel's ear and ricochets off the wall, showering him in dust and stone. The guard pulls a second pistol from his belt and fires again. This time, the man's aim is worse, and the bullet shatters a nearby window. Gabriel's hand gives an involuntary jerk, his body's way of telling him to give up. Stop fighting. Let the man catch you so this all can be over. But he can't give up. Because his sister trusted him and no one else, and he refuses to stop before he finds her.

With a deep intake of breath, he launches himself from the railing. For a moment, he plummets through the air, icy wind biting at his ears. The weightlessness feels good somehow, his mind so focused on the fall it can't spend time remembering the look behind de Froix's eyes as he crumpled to the ground, or the metallic stench of blood that filled the air. Then Gabriel's hands fly up to grasp onto the home's grand doorway, his shoulders protesting soundly to being wrenched to a sudden stop.

He grits his teeth, whispering to himself, "Focus. Calm down. You're doing this for Henriette."

Below him, the click of the guard readying his third shot rings out across the stone courtyard. Gabriel releases his grip on the doorway and braces for impact. The second he lands on the uneven flagstones, the guard barrels into him, and they both crash to the ground. Lifting his leg in one swift motion, Gabriel slams his knee into the man's nose. There is a sickening crack, and Gabriel winces, as if he was the one who'd been hurt. The guard rolls off him, hollering in pain as he wraps his hand around Gabriel's ankle. Gabriel reaches for his pistol and aims the gun at the man's head. He sucks in a breath, wrapping his finger around the trigger. He aches to tell the man he's sorry, that he doesn't want to do this-any of this-but his sister is counting on him, and he has no other choice.

That's when a horse gallops through the courtyard's arched entryway.

Gabriel's heart leaps to his throat. It must be the other guards. They heard the shots from the pistol and are coming for him. He won't have time to get away.