Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,66

and tore the ship up into the air, banking hard to the left. The explosifs detonated on the roof of the prison in a ball of blazing light.

Chatine coughed, expelling all the air from her lungs. She stared back at the roof, where a barrage of more explosifs was detonating, combusting nothing but air.

The pilote let out a whoop of self-congratulation. “Aha! Let’s see how good your aim is now, you stupide Ministère monkeys.”

“Is it over?” Chatine asked breathlessly.

“It’s over, baby.”

Chatine wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or the ship, but at this point she didn’t care.

The pilote jabbed at his controls and flipped two switches on a panel by his feet.

“Thrusters initiated,” the ship announced. “Ready for launch.”

“Better put this on.” The pilote tossed Chatine a large metal clamp and nodded toward her left wrist.

“What is it?” Chatine asked, turning it around in her hands.

“It blocks the signal from your Skin. So they can’t track us.”

Chatine pushed back her sleeve and fastened the heavy, clunky object around her wrist. Despite its weight, she felt instantly comforted.

The young man turned to check that her Skin was fully concealed before flashing Chatine a sparkling, roguish grin. “Okay, then. Let’s blow this joint. I, for one, am getting very tired of this view.”

- CHAPTER 19 - MARCELLUS

IT WAS ALMOST THE MIDDLE of the night when Marcellus finally made it back to the Grand Palais. He’d been wandering the streets of Ledôme for over an hour. Like a lost planet without an orbit, he didn’t know where to go. What to do. How to escape those gruesome images: Chatine being blasted into the air by an explosive, and Mabelle’s mangled body lying on that tower roof.

He staggered between the sculpted hedges and immaculate flowerbeds of the Palais gardens, before entering the Palais through the back terrace. He had just reached the base of the imperial staircase when his TéléCom dinged in his ear and he heard the familiar chime of a Universal Alert starting.

Confused, Marcellus unfolded his TéléCom and startled when he saw not his grandfather’s face on the screen, but Pascal Chaumont.

“Good evening, fellow Laterrians. I apologize for the late-night interruption, but this good news could not wait. Patriarche Lyon Paresse is pleased to announce that, as of this evening, Citizen Rousseau, prisoner of Bastille and former Vangarde leader, is dead.”

Marcellus angrily flicked the alert from his screen and returned his TéléCom to his pocket. Apparently, the Patriarche couldn’t even wait until morning to do the very thing the general advised him not to do.

He pounded up the steps of the imperial staircase and stalked down the corridors to the south wing. He just wanted to be alone. He wanted to lock the door. Shut the drapes. Shroud himself in darkness.

He rounded the corner and approached his rooms at the end of the hallway. But it wasn’t until he lifted his hand to the biometric lock that he noticed the door was already ajar.

Marcellus froze.

Had he forgotten to shut his door when he’d left?

Then Marcellus heard something inside. A scraping. A rustling. The squeak of furniture across polished floors, followed by a series of thuds and bangs. It sounded like a wild animal was scrounging around his rooms for scraps of food. He crept toward the open door and peered through the crack. His heart leapt into his throat when he saw the ragged, dust-covered coat he’d worn to meet with Mabelle at the copper exploit. The disguise was no longer tucked into the back of his closet, where he’d hidden it. It now lay exposed in the middle of the floor.

Like it had been dug up.

Uncovered.

Found.

And then came the voice.

“Keep looking. I know it’s in here somewhere.”

Every nerve inside Marcellus felt as if it were unraveling. That voice—harsh and gruff and, now thanks to his recent enhancements, disturbingly robotic—was the last voice Marcellus wanted to hear inside his rooms.

Standing up straighter, he shoved the door open and barged inside. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The state of the room brought Marcellus up short. Every drawer had been opened and emptied. His dressing room was completely torn apart. His bedsheets lay tangled on the ground. Even the paintings had been removed from the walls.

And just as he suspected, Inspecteur Chacal stood in the middle of the carnage, slapping his metal baton rhythmically against his palm, surveying the debris.

“Officer Bonnefaçon,” he said with a slight sneer, his circuitry flashing once. “Welcome back. Don’t worry. Just a routine search.”

“An unauthorized search,” Marcellus