Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,228

garden. Chatine was steps away from the champagne now. But Chacal was strangely nowhere to be found. Marcellus scanned the lawn, craning his neck to see over the crowd, but it was as if the inspecteur had suddenly vanished.

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