Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,110

the middle of the group. “Am I the only one on this ship who is not Vangarde?”

Alouette ignored him as her eyes swiveled back and forth, following the metal tag that was swinging like a pendulum. When she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet, it was as though the words were only meant to be heard by her. Disjointed thoughts whispered aloud in search of meaning. “Ten sisters. Ten strings of devotion beads. Plus mine equals eleven. Connected to the same network.” She gasped with a sudden epiphany. “Principale Francine! She gave me my devotion beads the night before I snuck out of the Refuge for the second time. She told me it was because they were going to make me a sister. But they knew. Of course they did. They knew I was sneaking out. They gave these to me so they could keep me safe.” Her head snapped up, her gaze finding Marcellus’s. “They’re tracking me.”

“Were,” Cerise replied in a low, somber tone that sent a ripple of dread through Marcellus.

Alouette’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Tears were already glistening in Cerise’s eyes as she let out a burdened breath and resumed the playback on the TéléCom.

It was the general who spoke next. And even though his voice was coming from all the way back on Laterre, it still felt like he was standing right there in the flight bridge with them. His imposing presence translating across millions of miles of space. “So, if we have two of them in custody, that means there are nine Vangarde leaders still out there?”

There was a long pause, during which Marcellus felt sweat start to pool on the back of his neck. When the directeur finally replied, there was something different about his voice. A levity that made Marcellus queasy. “That’s the good news, sir.”

“Good news?” the general repeated.

“We were able to run a trace through the server and pull status updates on all eleven devices. One is offline. Two are still active—those are the ones we analyzed, belonging to the operatives in custody. But the remaining eight are all dead.”

Dead.

The word felt like a stone sinking to the pit of Marcellus’s stomach. He glanced over at Alouette. She looked frozen. Paralyzed. A statue of disbelief.

“What do you mean ‘dead’?” The general’s gravelly voice held a hint of hope.

“The last time the remaining eight devices connected to the server was on Month 7, Day 32. The night of Rousseau’s attempted escape.”

Silence filled the general’s office. A silence so thick and so laced with insinuation, it seeped out of the TéléCom like a poisonous gas, spreading through the flight bridge, leaving charred streaks in the atmosphere.

Then the general asked the final question that stood between him and his long-fought victory over a rebel group called the Vangarde. “Where did the last connection come from?”

Marcellus felt the stars shift even before the answer came. Even before the directeur said those two words that confirmed everything Marcellus had been fearing for days.

“From Bastille.”

They really were on their own.

- CHAPTER 33 - ALOUETTE

IN THE DARK COUCHETTE OF the voyageur, Alouette felt like she was drowning. Drowning in space. Drowning in memories and regrets and shadows.

Drowning in sobs.

The tears drenched her face, her sweater, the sheets of the bed. The shudders shook her entire body. Until she forgot what it felt like to be still. Until she feared she might never be still again.

How could she ever be okay? How could she ever not blame herself for leaving them? If she hadn’t, maybe all the sisters would still be alive.

Or maybe, Alouette would be dead too. But at least then, she wouldn’t feel this ocean of regret crashing down on her over and over again. At least then, she wouldn’t have to endure the image of their ship exploding in a devastating ball of light with eight of her beloved sisters—her family—locked inside.

Did they scream?

Did they feel any pain?

Or was it over before they even realized what had happened?

The pain was almost too much to bear. It crushed down on Alouette. It suffocated her. It gnawed at her from the inside until she was just an empty shell. A doll made of whisper-thin paper.

She clutched her devotion beads in her hands and brought the little metal tag up to her trembling lips, whispering silent prayers to the Sols against its cool surface. For Principale Francine, Sister Laurel, Sister Muriel, Léonie, Marguerite, Nicolette, Clare, and Noëlle, who had perished on that moon, she prayed they had