A loud crash rang out from the direction of the fountain. Marcellus snapped his gaze back, certain he would see Chacal tackling Chatine. But instead, he saw that Chatine had fallen into one of the waiters, knocking over a tray of empty champagne flutes.
“Oh! Excusez-moi, monsieur. I must have tripped on this beautiful dress,” she said, but there was something off about her voice. Something wasn’t right.
“I’m so sorry,” Chatine went on. Her words were almost garbled, like she was struggling to get them out of her mouth. She swayed again on her feet, looking like she might pass out.
“Are you okay, mademoiselle?” the waiter asked, reaching out to steady her.
“I … ,” she said woozily, her eyes rolling back into her head. “I … think I had too much … wine.”
Then she dropped. The waiter dove to catch her and she slumped forward into his arms. Marcellus darted out from the cover of the statue, but stopped a split second later when he noticed a flicker of movement behind the waiter’s back. Chatine’s left hand was tilting toward the bubbling spring of champagne. It happened so fast, if Marcellus hadn’t known what he was looking for, he would have surely missed it.
“Are you all right?” the waiter asked, helping Chatine back onto her feet.
She let out a dramatic sigh. “Yes, quite all right. Merci.” And as she staggered away from the fountain, she surreptitiously slipped the now-empty vial back down the front of her dress.
It was done. Dr. Collins’s serum was now spreading and multiplying in the gurgling fountain, helped along by the churn and whir of the pumps.
Tucking himself back into the protection of the hedges, Marcellus exhaled in a rush of relief as he watched the waiters begin to fill champagne flutes from the fountain and arrange them on trays.
“And it appears our final guest of honor has arrived!” Georges Bissette’s voice slipped back into the air. “Here comes the distinguished and celebrated head of our glorious Ministère. The man who keeps us all safe. Who keeps the planet safe. General Bonnefaçon!”
The guests cheered and clapped wildly. Marcellus’s head snapped up, and suddenly, there he was. The general stood at the top of the stone steps, looking immaculate and impossibly composed. His cool steady gaze surveilled the oversized crowd with what looked like approval.
Marcellus’s stomach clenched at the sight of him. It was the first time he’d seen his grandfather since that fateful night he’d sped off from the Palais on his moto, convinced he’d never return.
And yet here he was.
And there the general was.
Two opponents finally coming face-to-face on this lush, exquisite battlefield.
The general descended the stone staircase and took his place next to the Patriarche. Instantly, that familiar rage began to pulse inside of Marcellus. He gripped his fingers around the cool handle of the rayonette tucked into his waistband, his fingers itching, his heart racing. He longed to charge out from his hiding place, push his way through the crowd, take aim, and pull the trigger right this very second. But, as he glanced around again at the hundreds of Third Estaters packed into this garden, he knew that decision would be rash, impulsive, and more importantly, disastrous if he missed.
This whole situation—this banquet, these guests—was like an explosif on the verge of going off. One wrong move and the general could pull out his TéléCom and detonate. Marcellus had to wait for the TéléReversion program to be deactivatied. Wait for the inhibitor to be consumed and render the general helpless and vulnerable.
Marcellus could not play the game the way he’d been playing it for his entire life. As much as it tormented him and made his whole body break out into a cold sweat, he had to be patient. He had to fight the urge to take his first shot. So that he could take his best shot.
“And now for the moment I’m sure you’ve all been waiting for,” Georges Bissette crooned loudly from the stage. “The champagne toast!”
Waiters moved through the crowd with trays, handing out glasses filled to the top with sparkling, golden champagne. Marcellus’s grip around his rayonette tightened. His pulse vibrated in his ear drums. He kept his eyes locked on the general.
“To lead us in a congratulatory toast and officially welcome you to your new life in Ledôme, please welcome to the stage, the honorable, the distinguished, the unrivaled Patriarche Lyon Paresse!”
Marcellus startled and his hand momentarily slipped from his rayonette.
What?
The Patriarche was going to give the toast? He never spoke at Ascension banquets. It was always the master of cérémonies who did all the talking. The Patriarche and Matrone just descended the steps, waved at the crowd, took a ceremonial sip of champagne, and left. That had always been the way of things.
The cheers in the Grand Palais gardens built to a frenzy as a troop of officers in pristine white uniforms parted the crowd, clearing a walkway from the stone steps to the stage. The Patriarche smiled and waved as he made his way across the lawn.
Marcellus didn’t like this. It felt slippery and suspicious. Like a trap.
No, like another one of his grandfather’s strategic plays.
His gaze darted back to the general, who was watching the proceedings with cool, relaxed interest, his hands clasped casually behind his back. Marcellus tracked the Patriarche’s path to the stage, perfectly positioned right in the center of the crowd. The Patriarche ascended the steps and turned in a slow circle, waving at the hundreds of people packed into this garden.
He was completely surrounded.
Nowhere to run.
A trapped Monarch.
“Welcome! Welcome!” the Patriarche boomed out, his voice as artificial and bright as the stars twinkling above their heads. “Laterre and its glorious Regime is the envy of the System Divine. Through honest work for an honest chance, the good people of our planet can rise up and Ascend to a better life. A life led in this beautiful Ledôme.”
Cheers and shouts went off like fireworks around him. Marcellus startled at the sound, his nerves now frayed beyond recognition. He darted another glance at his grandfather, who was reaching into his pocket to withdraw his TéléCom.
“Today, you are those people,” the Patriarche continued, his face beaming. “You have worked hard, with honesty and integrity. You have won the Ascension, and now you will live out the rest of your days under this beautiful and magical TéléSky!”
Someone handed the Patriarche a flute of champagne, and he raised it high in the air, as though he were toasting the stars. “So, now please raise your glass!”
In front of Marcellus, hundreds of hands raised into the air. Hundreds of glasses filled with sparkling golden liquid launched toward the sky. Heart racing, Marcellus reached for his rayonette again, his fingers gripping the handle.
Come on, he silently urged the crowd. Drink. Just drink it!
“Tonight, we drink to your health, your happiness, and your prosperity. Tonight, we drink to your Ascension!” The Patriarche slowly lowered his glass to his lips. The crowd did the same. “Congratul—”
“Arrête!”
The Patriarche jolted to a halt, as someone suddenly charged up the steps of the stage. But it was not a banquet guest, as Marcellus feared. It was Pascal Chaumont, the Patriarche’s advisor. His dark green robes billowed behind him as he hurried toward Lyon Paresse and knocked the champagne flute from his hands. The glass crashed to the floor of the stage and shattered on impact. “Don’t drink!” he shouted into the crowd. “Don’t drink it!”
Murmurs of confusion percolated across the Imperial Lawn. Marcellus’s eyes darted every which way until he found Chatine again. She was staring back at him with an expression that mirrored his own: part puzzlement and part dread.
Chaumont struggled to catch his breath. “I’ve just been informed that we have reason to believe the champagne tonight has been poisoned.”
All the color seemed to drain from the Patriarche’s face in an instant. Someone screamed. And Marcel
lus felt his limbs go numb as, all around him, he heard a cacophony of glass shattering.
When he peered back toward the stone steps on the far side of the lawn, General Bonnefaçon’s eyes were already staring back at him. Watching. Waiting. As though he’d known exactly where to look this whole time.
As their gazes locked, the general’s eyebrow cocked ever so slightly, and his lips curled into a ghost of a smile. As if to say, Nice try, Marcellus.
Marcellus faded farther back into the hedges, his throat burning with the bitter taste of defeat.
How did the general know? Had he witnessed Chatine pouring the inhibitor into the champagne? Or had someone else seen it? Someone who had been flitting around the crowd like a phantom?
And just as the memory of his face slipped into Marcellus’s mind, he felt the cold barrel of a rayonette press against his left temple and an even colder voice say, “Welcome back, Officer Bonnefaçon.”
- CHAPTER 69 - MARCELLUS
OUT OF THE CORNER OF his eye, Marcellus saw the flicker of circuitry. The glimmer of a glowing orange eye. And the unsettling sneer of an inspecteur who had waited a long time for this moment to come.
“If it were up to me, I’d pull the trigger right now,” Chacal said in a low snarl, pressing the rayonette harder against the side of Marcellus’s head. “You have made me look like a fool one too many times, Bonnefaçon, and I would like nothing more than to see a smoking black hole in your déchet-loving head.”
Marcellus sucked in a breath, his gaze darting around for Chatine. But his view was obscured by the hedges. He could no longer find her in the crowd.
“But unfortunately,” Chacal went on, “the general requests the pleasure of putting a pulse through your skull himself.”
“Chacal,” Marcellus began desperately, “I don’t think you understand. You don’t know what he has planned. You have to listen to me. My grandfather—”
“Shut up!” Chacal hissed in his ear. “You don’t outrank me anymore. You have no rank anymore. You are nothing but a useless traitor. Just like your father. And I am about to become a hero, delivering the general’s most wanted fugitive right into his hands.”
Marcellus saw it only moments before it happened. Chatine moved in a blur, her hands fumbling to attach some kind of small device to a nearby garden light. What is she doing?
Then, a strange zapping sound exploded in Marcellus’s ears. Like an electrical current shorting out. The entire banquet was suddenly swallowed in darkness as every light in the garden winked out in perfect unison.
The diversion worked. Marcellus felt the barrel fall away from his temple in a moment of surprise. He didn’t hesitate. He jabbed his hand into the air, knocking the rayonette out of Chacal’s hand.
“Sols!” Chacal swore, and Marcellus could hear the inspecteur rooting around on the ground, searching through the darkness for his fallen weapon.
Marcellus charged out of the hedges, moving in the direction of the stone steps, where he’d last seen his grandfather. He withdrew his own rayonette from the waistband of his pants and blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his vision, but still, he saw nothing. Nothing but a pristine, unblemished, and uninterrupted blanket of black that the stars in the TéléSky were too weak to penetrate.
Screams were erupting all around Marcellus. He was shoved violently from every direction as the crowd grew more restless and panicked in the darkness. He fought to keep his balance, but eventually the tide became too strong, and he felt himself getting swept up in its current.
Elbows jabbed at him and feet trampled on his toes. There was a splash behind him as someone fell into one of the fountains and began to flounder and cry out. Marcellus jostled through the commotion, trying to get closer to the steps.
Finally, he stopped and pulled his TéléCom out of his pocket, using the faint glow from the screen to light his way. He directed the light up ahead, toward the curving stone staircase, but he didn’t see the general. All around Marcellus, more lights came on as Skins were illuminated and TéléComs were unfolded.
Urgently, he swept his gaze around the garden, through the panicked turmoil. He could see officers and advisors stumbling and rushing toward the stage in the center of the Imperial Lawn, attempting to form a tight, protective circle around the Patriarche. Marcellus continued scanning the garden in a slow circle, casting the light from his device in front of him, until he was staring back at the stone steps.
But his grandfather was still nowhere to be found.
“Fric!” Marcellus swore aloud. He started to push his way to the stairs. He would search this whole Sol-damn Palais if he had to, but he would find General Bonnefaçon.
Another body slammed into him, knocking his TéléCom to the ground. Marcellus was plunged back into darkness. He dropped to his knees and raked his fingertips across the grass, which was wet and sticky from the spilt champagne. Shards of broken glass bit and snagged at his skin, but finally he grabbed hold of the Télécom, the device slick in his bloodied fingers.
He sprang to his feet and staggered the rest of the way toward the stairs, dodging banquet guests and panicked advisors and assistants trying to restore some semblance of order.
He was halfway up the steps when he heard the silence descend behind him. Eerie and sudden like the flick of a switch. It was as though Chatine had not only zapped the power from the garden lights, but from the crowd as well.
Marcellus’s feet dragged to a halt, and when he turned around, every droplet of blood in his body pooled, in one great showering gush, down to his toes.
In the darkness, it almost looked like fireflies. Innocent sparks of light twinkling amongst the hedges and the flowerbeds. Two hundred Skins flickering at once, flashing a deep, crimson shade of red.
- CHAPTER 70 - ALOUETTE
ALOUETTE SQUINTED THROUGH THE DARKNESS at the two officers lying by her feet. Unconscious but not dead. She peered at her hands, raw and thrumming from the energy still pulsing through them.
They hadn’t even had a chance to fight back. As soon as the general had disappeared down the terrace steps, the familiar sensation had bloomed inside of her like the brilliant rays of a Sol. Warm and strong and deadly. Her muscles had tightened and coiled. Her body had tingled with anticipation. And her pulse had slowed to a steady, even hum.
Within minutes, they were both on the ground.
Every time Alouette performed Tranquil Forme as a weapon, she felt as though she were separate from her body. Detached from her own mind and thoughts and emotions. Yet, at the same time, she felt as if her body and her mind were strangely part of everything too. The skies above, the ground beneath her, and even the guards she was fighting. They all seemed connected. But now, as she finally returned to herself and settled once more into her skin, her thoughts came rushing back as well. Everything that had happened in the past few minutes slammed into her like a tidal wave.
Lisole.
The Patriarche had called her by her mother’s name. He’d thought that she was Lisole. He had known her mother.
Her heart started to pound again.
Something was happening to her. Something she couldn’t quite explain. She suddenly felt like she was back on that voyageur, space bending impossibly around her, warping her thoughts, detaching her mind. She sank to the ground, leaning back against the pedestal of a nearby statue.
Black tendrils clawed at the corners of her vision. Her senses all tangled together until she could taste her fear and see her breath and hear the darkness rushing toward her.
The planet spun. Round and round and round.
Lisole.
Fired from the Palais.
Forced to sell her blood.
A fake funeral.
The Renards.
A giant crushing hole gaped inside Alouette’s chest. It was a hole that had been growing for weeks.
Ever since she’d discovered that Hugo Taureau was not her real father.
Ever since she’d aimed that rayonette at Inspecteur Limier�
��s head.
Ever since that message—When the Lark flies home, the Regime will fall—had appeared on Marcellus’s TéléCom.
Ever since she’d walked into the Assemblée room to find that the sisters had been lying to her for twelve years.
Ever since the Patriarche—the most powerful man on the planet—called her by her mother’s name.
Wider and wider and wider the hole grew. Until it felt like it would drown her. Consume her. Become her. Until she no longer bore any semblance to the girl she thought she was. Where was that person now? Where was Alouette Taureau? Lost in the abyss? Swallowed by a truth that seemed to keep expanding and stretching and changing?
Every. Minute. Changing.
Who am I?
She’d been chasing the answer to that question for so long, she’d forgotten what it felt like to be content. To be satisfied with ignorance. And now that she was certain she was brushing up against the real answer—the complete answer—she wasn’t sure she wanted to know anymore.
Because suddenly the truth felt like a blazing hot atmosphere, ready to burn her alive upon entry. Ready to scald away any hopes of ever being satisfied with that blissful ignorance again.
She thought back to that small titan box whose ashes were now drifting and dancing through space. The one thing her mother had protected, guarded, defended. For all those years. Like a baby bird too young to fly.
Like a secret too dangerous to reveal.
Alouette shut her eyes and tried to remember the feel of the intricate design carved into the lid. Two lions facing off, claws outstretched, teeth bared.
The same symbol etched into that man’s green robe.
The Paresse family crest.
She squeezed her eyes tighter and forced her mind to go back to that ship. To that couchette. To that moment lost in time when she’d held the titan box in her hands and pried open the lid to find two strands of hair tucked inside. One dark and curly, like her own, the other a glimmering shade of auburn. The same shade she’d seen only moments ago. As the Patriarche had stood in front of her and called her Lisole.
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