Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,60

was latched onto the monitor, his heart in his throat as he searched for a sign of her. Any sign. His emotions were as rippling and disorienting as that smoke. A heady mix of fear and dread and anger.

He’d told Chatine to leave the tower. Not climb up to the roof! But apparently that was exactly what she’d done, because not a few moments ago, he’d watched her run headlong toward the departing ship. He’d watched an explosif detonate just mètres away from her. He’d watched her tiny, frail body get thrown backward. And then he’d watched the smoke conceal everything, until there was nothing but gray.

Swirling, shimmering, and billowing gray.

“Take it down already!” the general shouted.

“Do not let that ship leave!” Moreau called out to her pilotes.

The smoke on the screen started to clear as the combatteurs repositioned themselves. Marcellus desperately scanned what was left of the roof. But still, he could not find her.

Where are you? he wanted to scream straight into the monitor.

Through the undulating patches of gray, Marcellus could see the Ministère’s fighters swarming the Vangarde ship, firing relentlessly at the helpless little craft. It buffeted and jerked, trying in vain to dodge the blasts. But it was hopeless. They were one ship against an entire fleet. The Ministère had them surrounded. And they weren’t even firing back. Marcellus knew there was no way they would get off Bastille alive.

“One ship still detected,” Moreau repeated, her voice weary and laced with frustration.

The view from the cockpit cam juddered as Moreau steered her combatteur down closer to the tower. The small Vangarde craft below her seemed to flash in and out of view as the fire blazed and the smoke swished.

Then, three more combatteurs streaked past her, their sleek bodies nothing more than blurs of shimmering silver. Explosifs began to fall on the tower like a rainstorm in the Frets.

Except this was no rainstorm.

Marcellus balled his fists until he felt blood seep from his palms.

The Vangarde ship continued to shudder and sway until finally, in a blinding flash of fiery light, it was gone.

Winked out of existence like a dying star.

Leaving nothing but smoke and ash in its wake.

The entire room was silent. Marcellus stared at the screen as a strange buzzing noise started to ring in his ears. Everyone waited. The Patriarche grabbed Chaumont’s hand and squeezed it. General Bonnefaçon folded his arms across his chest. Marcellus sucked in what felt like the last drop of air in the room.

“No ships detected,” Moreau reported.

A collective breath was released. Shudders of relief echoed through the warden’s office. And, for the second time that night, the room broke into applause.

Marcellus continued to stare at the screen filled with billowing gray ash. He clamped his teeth down hard on his bottom lip. Stopping himself from yelling out. Stopping himself from running forward and placing his hand on the screen. Like he could reverse the footage, replay it with a different outcome. A different end.

But no. He could not do that. This was the only end. And, as the storm of gray began to eddy, glow, and then puff away, Marcellus was certain it was the end.

For the Vangarde. For Citizen Rousseau. And most likely for Chatine Renard, too.

Because, as the ash and debris continued to clear, and Marcellus could finally see what was left of the tower—a fiery, smoking mess with twisted beams of PermaSteel and a mountain of charred mortar—he knew no one could possibly have survived that.

And yet, it didn’t stop him from searching. As Moreau continued to circle the wreckage, Marcellus’s gaze flitted desperately over the monitor. A moment later, a gust of wind appeared to sweep across the moon, chasing away a large plume of smoke from the roof of the tower, and that’s when he saw her.

Her body had been ripped apart by the explosifs. But her face was just as he remembered it. Just as he would always remember it.

Except it wasn’t Chatine.

It was Mabelle.

Marcellus stepped up closer to the screen, placing his palm flat across the surface. At the sight of her body—dressed all in black—lying on that demolished rooftop, something thick and hot and bitter filled his throat. A scream rising up. A scream that he could not let break free.

She was there. On Bastille. She’d refused to tell Marcellus anything about this mission when he’d asked, and she was a part of it. Even after escaping that horrible place, she had chosen to go back. And now he had lost