Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,42

began to pace again. Marcellus stood back, behind his grandfather, afraid to even breathe.

Citizen Rousseau is dead.

He was still numb with shock. As if metal was dripping through his veins. And that word—“dead”—it felt so heavy. So final. So hopeless.

The Patriarche stopped pacing to yell at the technicien. “I want that feed up right this second—”

“The feed is up,” Rolland announced. She didn’t even blink in the face of the Patriarche’s wrath.

Frantically, the Patriarche spun around to face one of the dozens of screens that lined the walls of the warden’s office. His gaze flicked to each one, unsure where to look. A moment later, the center screen blinked to life, and Marcellus felt his heart skitter at the sight before him.

On the screen was a dark and dingy room crammed full of gurneys. Each one held an emaciated body, pummeled, beaten, and eroded from life on Bastille. The microcam scanned the room, panning over every body, every face. Their features were all different, and yet they were the same in their wretchedness. They had all died the same bleak, arduous, and miserable death in captivity. And in every single one of their faces, Marcellus saw his own father. Eyes glassy, hands spotted, fingertips blackened.

Thank the Sols Chatine was still alive up there. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what his heart would do if he had to see her in a place like this. Unable to stomach the sight of any more bodies, Marcellus turned away and searched the warden’s office for a safe place to look. His gaze finally landed on the glowing sculpture sitting on the small table next to him. He knew this elaborate model of the System Divine well. Marcellus had spent so many hours staring at it during the countless security briefings his grandfather had dragged him to over the years, he had the whole thing memorized. Every moon of Albion, every crater of Usonia, every floating rock in the Asteroid Channel. Each item was so carefully rendered with tiny lights, shimmering filaments, and delicate plastique molding. There was even a cluster of miniscule laser beams depicting the rings of Samsara.

“Move left,” the warden directed Rolland. “More. More. There!”

Marcellus reluctantly returned his gaze to the monitor. To the face that was now emblazoned on the screen. The face that everyone in this room had come here to see.

Citizen Rousseau.

Her cheeks had sunken into dark craters; her lips had shriveled to a thin, puckered line; and her skin was so dried out and wrinkled, it seemed to fold in on itself a thousand times. Gray hair fanned out in brittle waves, and her eyes—the same eyes that Marcellus had seen blaze with such fire and passion in old footage from the last rebellion—now stared blank and vacant, like two lifeless pebbles on the shores of the Secana Sea.

A stunned silence descended over the room. Over the planet. Marcellus took a step forward, out of his corner, just to make sure he was seeing the image clearly.

Seconds passed that felt like hours. There was no movement. No breath. No life.

“We have confirmation,” the warden announced. “Citizen Rousseau is dead.”

There was a hesitant stillness in the room, as though everyone was afraid to move. Afraid to even release a single breath that might cause this fragile hope to vanish into the air.

Then, celebration.

The room erupted in applause. Chaumont cheered. The warden pumped his fist in the air. The Patriarche’s face transformed into an exuberant smile as he gave the warden a congratulatory pat on the back. Even the implanted circuitry in Rolland’s face seemed to flicker a little faster.

Laterre’s most dangerous enemy was finally gone.

And everyone was rejoicing.

Everyone except Marcellus.

Marcellus turned away from the monitor, trying to collect his chaotic thoughts.

She’s really dead. What did this mean? For his grandfather? For the Vangarde? For the planet?

He knew the Vangarde had recently tried to break Citizen Rousseau out of Bastille. They had been unsuccessful, but his grandfather had been certain they would try again. Citizen Rousseau was the Vangarde’s most powerful weapon. Their best hope at a resurgence. They knew it. He knew it. Even the Patriarche knew it.

And now she was gone.

Marcellus itched to get out of this room, ride to the Frets, and drop another message to the Vangarde. If they were planning a second escape attempt, they had to call it off immediately. They had to know she was dead.

Marcellus scanned the office, watching the exalted faces and triumphant smiles, wondering if he could possibly