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

Chapter Thirty-Six - 14. March. 1789

François stares at her for a few more moments, teeth bared, before he pivots on his heel and—blessedly, blessedly—leaves. Lizabeth watches as he dashes for the trees, hand still pressed to his neck. 

Then she turns to Gabriel. He’s lying on the ground, eyes closed, blood leaking from the wound in his chest. The injury is nowhere fatal, Lizabeth made certain of that much at least, but that will hardly matter if she allows him to continue bleeding like this without fetching help. 

“I have to get out of the trees,” Gabriel says, opening his eyes. His voice is barely above a whisper. 

Gabriel clings to Lizabeth as she pulls him up and through the trees, his breath hitching in her ear. In all her imaginings of how killing L’Ange de la Mort would go, never could she have guessed she would be dragging him through the gardens, his blood coating her dress, hoping to God he won’t die. 

A strange sense of dread settles over her, so acute and sharp, she almost feels calm. Her mind cancels out everything around her—the wind, the cool breeze, the sound of distant yells—and all she can think of is, Save Gabriel, Save Gabriel, Save Gabriel. And then, You should want him dead, you should want him dead, why don’t you want him dead? 

The two stagger out of the trees, Gabriel’s blood creating a scarlet trail in the gravel, and lumber to the Bassin de Latone parterre. The second they stop, Gabriel falls to the ground, hands covering his wound. It’s there, while watching the blood seep between Gabriel’s fingers, that Lizabeth truly begins to panic. 

God, what is happening? How did this all turn out so wrong? What is she supposed to do?

Blood flows freely from his chest, staining his muslin shirt and the grass beneath his body. But his eyes are still open and locked on Lizabeth. 

“What were you thinking?” she asks. “Why did you want me to do that?”

Gabriel smiles, but it comes off looking more like a grimace. “I’m helping. François would have killed us both.” His smile falls. “And I wish to be free of this, too. If he thinks I’m dead, we can expose the group to the king, and they’ll be stopped before they find out I’m still alive. You can tell the king your mother helped, and he may very well still grant her forgiveness from the court.” 

“But you could die.”

And it would be my fault.

“Not if you fetch help.” Gabriel’s words are becoming more labored, his eyes slipping closed then flying open again. “Go find Jean. He will know what to do.”

“Gabriel—” Lizabeth starts. But his eyes are closed, his hand limp at his side. Panicked, she says in a louder voice, “Gabriel!” 

His eyes fly open, icy blue in the starlight. “I’ll be all right,” he whispers. “I trust you.” 

Fear rushes through her veins, and her limbs grow cold. She can hardly fathom a mere few hours ago, he’d been with her, gentle and smiling, neither of them knowing who the other was. And now . . .  

Lizabeth runs. 

The distance from Bassin de Latone to the palace is short—five minutes at most—but Lizabeth can’t seem to get there quick enough. Each second she spends running, a voice nips at the back of her mind, telling her, Gabriel might be dead by now. By now, Gabriel might be dead. 

She should want this. She should be happy he’s injured. The hard work has already been done; she could stop running now and let Gabriel bleed out. But he asked her to trust him. If this works, he won’t have to die. She could still gain her mother’s love and the life she’s always wanted.