Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,78

him going. And the only thing keeping him warm.

“… the perfect moment for us to move forward …

“… the Regime will finally rid itself of the déchets and be brought to order …

“… our dark nights will be over.”

“Or they’re just beginning,” Marcellus muttered into his helmet.

On some level, an alliance between the general and the Mad Queen made sense. What better place to develop a game-changing weapon than on the planet that had been the leader in weapons development for centuries? And Queen Matilda would certainly love nothing more than to see the Patriarche overthrown. In a disturbing way, it was the perfect alliance.

But, in so many other ways, it was completely senseless.

What about Commandeur Vernay? Queen Matilda had executed the general’s closest confidante and friend—and perhaps the only woman he’d ever loved. Was the general so willing to simply forget that? Was that how desperate he was for control?

And Marcellus also couldn’t shake another unanswered question. One that chilled him to the bone:

What was Albion getting out of this alliance?

On the horizon, the city grew larger, and Marcellus’s teeth were beginning to chatter from the cold. There was a reason no one crossed the Terrain Perdu on a moto. But Marcellus had no other choice. He couldn’t hire a cruiseur. Inspecteur Chacal would surely be tracking for that. He was a fugitive now. A wanted traitor.

Something flickered across the rear view on the moto’s console. It looked unnervingly like a headlight. Marcellus jerked his head back over his shoulder, causing the moto to swerve and dip. He fought to regain control as his eyes desperately scanned the vast horizon. But he saw only the cold, bleak landscape of the Terrain Perdu. Swathes of frozen grass, rocks jutting violently out of the ground, forlorn and tangled shrubs, and vast sheets of slick, unforgiving ice.

Was his sleep-deprived brain still imagining things?

He leaned farther into the throttle, pushing the moto up to top speed. The bitter wind tore through him and battered noisily against his helmet. By the time he careened into the city limits of Montfer and through the Bidon slums, he could no longer feel half of his body.

The muddied, trash-strewn streets were quiet, the city still asleep. He passed by rows of rusting makeshift dwellings before finally coming to a halt in front of the two-story ramshackle building at the end of a deserted alleyway.

After parking his moto where it wouldn’t be spotted, he approached the Jondrette Inn with caution, checking to make sure his disguise was well in place. He remembered all too well how the people in this city treated unwanted members of the Second Estate. The bruises of that beating were still fading from his skin and his memories. Which was why, before leaving the couchette, Marcellus had stolen some of Monsieur Renard’s clothes and, not wanting to leave any evidence behind, had stashed his officer uniform in a sac which was now strapped around his chest.

Steeling himself with a breath, Marcellus slowly climbed the steps of the inn and slipped through the rickety front door. But the moment he was inside, he came to a crashing halt.

This was not the inn he remembered from three weeks ago. The walls and ceiling and floors were the same, but there were no longer any tables or chairs in the room. The entire first floor of the building had been emptied of all furniture and replaced with people. So many people. Apart from the Marsh on Ascension Day, Marcellus had never seen so many bodies crammed into one place before. The inn was swarming with Third Estaters. Far too many for Marcellus to even take in at once. And there was a buzzing energy about them that unnerved him. It was electric, energized, bubbling like a pot just about to boil.

Marcellus’s stomach tightened like a vise. He pulled up the hood of Monsieur Renard’s coat and stood on his tiptoes, searching through the ocean of faces for the man he’d come to see. Would Marcellus even recognize him if he saw him? He dug into the back corners of his mind, grasping at the memory of the last time he was here. He couldn’t remember exactly what the man looked like, but he remembered him standing behind the bar when Chatine had asked him about Mabelle.

Marcellus was only a few paces from the bar now, but with the crowd this thick, he may as well have been planets away. He began to push his way through, scanning