Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,81

hope at locating the Vangarde.

Pushing his way through the chanting crowd, Marcellus stumbled up to the side of the bar. The man shot him a wary look and Marcellus wondered if he remembered him too.

“Back for another beating?” the man said with a twinge of amusement.

Yes, he definitely remembered him.

“I need your help,” Marcellus whispered. Although he wasn’t sure why he bothered. The crowd’s excitement had reached an earsplitting peak. “My name is Marcellus. But you might remember me as Marcellou.”

The man said nothing in response, just nodded that he was listening.

Marcellus drew in a breath. “I’m looking for some people. People I think you might know how to find.” He gave the man a pointed look that he hoped was meaningful.

But the man still did not speak.

Marcellus glanced over both shoulders before leaning in closer and carefully dragging his fingertip across the surface bar. Once. Twice.

The man glanced down at the perfectly formed V that Marcellus had etched into the layer of grime. He flinched before hurriedly collecting his features back into a stern, impassive façade. Marcellus waited, his heart squeezing in his chest.

Then, the man gave an infinitesimal, nearly imperceptible shake of his head. “Sorry, mec. That channel’s gone dead.”

“Dead?” Marcellus repeated in confusion. “What do you mean dead?”

“I mean no traffic. No communication. No nothing.”

“Do you know—” Marcellus started to ask, but just then, the crowd around him fell to a hush. The chanting had stopped, and suddenly, every pair of eyes was trained on the front of the inn where two more Red Scar guards were making their way from the door to the bar. And they were carrying something.

No, not something. Someone.

A girl.

At least, Marcellus assumed it was a girl from the sound of her cries. Her head was covered by a burlap sac, but he could see she was willowy and tall, and dressed entirely in black.

Silent and rapt, the crowd parted for the two burly guards. The girl bucked and writhed and tried to kick the tallest one in the face. “Get your hands off me! Let me go!”

But it was all in vain. The men were too strong. They effortlessly pinned her flailing arms and legs in place. As they approached the bar, the speaker’s guard knelt down to address the approaching men. An exchange took place, before the guard on the bar nodded, stood up, and whispered something into Maximilienne’s ear.

A smile slowly tweaked at her mouth.

“Well, well,” she said, turning back to the crowd. “You are all in for a treat tonight. My brother, Jolras, informs me that we have caught ourselves a little fish.”

Brother.

Marcellus stared at the pale-eyed guard on the bar, his thoughts racing. Nadette’s sister and brother were behind this group. Exacting revenge for their sister’s unjust murder.

The speaker smiled again. “Who would like to witness a demonstration?”

The crowd erupted once more, and Marcellus felt his stomach turn.

“By the sheer luck of the Sols, this girl was born into the Second Estate.” The speaker gestured to the figure under the burlap sac, who was now being hauled up onto the bar by Jolras. “She was raised with a titan spoon in her mouth and a beautiful TéléSky over her head. She has eaten more fruit and gâteau and cheeses imported from distant planets than you and I could ever begin to imagine. She has gone to sleep every night of her life certain that the Sols would rise tomorrow. She has been given every assurance of health, prosperity, and happiness that we have never had.”

A series of boos permeated the crowd. Once again, the girl tried to shout something, but Jolras nudged an elbow into her rib cage, promptly shutting her up.

“Would you like to see the face of your enemy?” Maximilienne asked.

The boos quickly turned to raucous cheers as fists jabbed into the air again. Maximilienne stepped up to the girl and ceremoniously yanked the sac from her head.

Marcellus froze, every centimètre of his body suddenly paralyzed.

He took in the girl’s long, usually sleek, black hair, now tousled from the sac; her slender face, stained with tears; and her small, heart-shaped mouth. He blinked rapidly, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. Who he was seeing.

Cerise Chevalier?

But it couldn’t be. What was she doing here? In the middle of a Third Estate protest in Montfer? Only the other day, Marcellus had seen her in the Ministère Cyborg and Technology Labs, jabbering on about borrowing her father’s TéléCom so she could secure a new dress