Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,36

general’s face made Marcellus’s stomach flip. He’d never seen his grandfather look quite so … so …

But Marcellus couldn’t even think of the right word. It didn’t exist. Not for the almighty General Bonnefaçon.

“Well, don’t just stand there like an imbecile, General,” the Patriarche roared. “FIND HER!”

The general shoved the Patriarche’s TéléCom into Marcellus’s chest before reaching into his pocket for his own. He hastily unfurled it and began punching at the screen.

“Chéri?” cried a small, fragile voice. Marcellus turned to see the Matrone now sitting bolt upright in bed, her eyes wide open. “What’s happening? Why are you shouting?”

The Patriarche turned toward his wife, looking like he was about to say something to try to appease her, but was interrupted by the general bellowing into his TéléCom.

“Warden Gallant. This is General Bonnefaçon. I am reporting a code orange. I repeat, a code orange. Prisoner 40102 has disappeared from her—”

The general halted abruptly and listened, his eyes blinking in response to the incoming information. Marcellus peered at the TéléCom to see the warden’s face staring back at the general, his thin lips moving rapidly. Marcellus could not hear what the warden was saying, but he noticed his grandfather swallow and stand up straighter, pushing his shoulders back and reasserting his usual rigid stance. It was as though he was physically preparing himself for everything that came next. For the repercussions of what he was about to hear.

For war.

“I understand,” the general said stiffly. “Yes, I am with Monsieur Patriarche right now. I will relay the information. Merci, Warden Gallant.”

The general disconnected the AirLink and turned toward the Patriarche, who met his stare with dark, furious eyes. “What is going on? Where is the wretched woman? Tell me what’s going on right this instant, or I swear to the Sols, General, I will—”

The general held up a hand, halting the Patriarche midsentence. “Monsieur Patriarche. I am delighted to be the one to deliver you this news.”

Delighted?

The Patriarche and Marcellus exchanged confused glances before turning back to the general.

“The warden has just received word from the droid stationed outside of Citizen Rousseau’s cell. Earlier tonight, scanners picked up a significant change in her vitals. By the time the droid entered her cell to perform a scan, her heart had stopped beating. Her body is presently being transferred to the Bastille morgue for disintegration.”

The Patriarche stared vacantly at the general, as though he were a droid with a faulty processing chip, unable to compute the words he was hearing.

From somewhere behind them, the Matrone let out a small sob. “Oh, thank the Sols,” she whispered into her hands. “Thank the Sols.”

But the Patriarche still didn’t seem to register the news. The general reached out and patted him congenially on the back. “Congratulations, Monsieur Patriarche. Citizen Rousseau is dead.”

- PART 2 - BASTILLE

The misery of the Third Estate knew no bounds. Endless days of hunger. Nights so cold that lips turned blue. Unending rain through leaking roofs. Hands rubbed raw from the soil in the fermes and the rocks in the exploits. Tiny shards of goodness sucked from their veins to buy a measly loaf of bread. For some, this misery was a wrong to be put right by the forces of good.

Others saw it as violence to be met with violence.

An injustice to be washed away in a rain of blood.

From The Chronicles of the Vangarde, Volume 8, Chapter 14

- CHAPTER 11 - ALOUETTE

ALOUETTE TAUREAU HAD LIVED THE last twelve years of her life in the dark.

Not because she’d lived in a Refuge hidden ten mètres below the surface of Laterre. Nor because she’d grown up protecting a secret library of First World books that hadn’t seen the light of day for centuries.

The darkness that had surrounded Alouette for all those years consisted of lies.

Deep, dark, all-encompassing lies.

She’d been told the Refuge was a sanctuary. A place for quiet contemplation and study.

Lie.

She’d been told the sisters were peaceful people who’d taken a vow of secrecy and solitude so they could protect the First World knowledge from destruction.

Lie.

She’d been told that their purpose for living ten mètres underground, in a bunker hidden away from the rest of the planet, was to guard the Chronicles—the heavy, clothbound, handwritten books that lined the back shelf of the Refuge library.

More lies.

As the giant door of the disembarkation bay creaked open and the bateau’s great loading ramp began to unfurl, Alouette could feel those lies lurking behind her in the shadows, ready to follow her off the bateau