Marcellus shook his head. He was not following her. He could not comprehend the nonsense she seemed to be spewing.
And yet, Chatine thought, he’s still here.
He hadn’t left. He hadn’t walked away.
He’s still here.
“What are you talking about?” Marcellus finally asked.
But Chatine didn’t respond. Because there were no words that could make any of this clear. Forgotten or otherwise.
There was only the truth.
There was only her.
She reached up, and with her freezing, numb hands, Chatine began to rub at her cheeks, her forehead, her chin. Her skin pulled. Her flesh screamed. But she didn’t stop until it was all gone. Until she’d scraped away every layer of grime and filth. Years of concealment. A lifetime of hiding in the dirt.
Marcellus watched her with silent curiosity. His eyes wide. His jaw slack.
At what moment did he see it? she wondered. At what moment did he realize her ultimate con?
Was it in the arch of her cheekbones?
The feminine point of her nose?
The slender slope of her jaw?
Or was he still in the dark?
Not for long, though.
Chatine took a deep breath and slowly lifted her hands to her hood. As she peeled it back, she saw Marcellus’s face shift. She saw the comprehension begin to dawn like a cloud drifting away from a Sol. But it wasn’t until she unwound the knot at the base of her neck and shook out her long hair that the light finally broke through.
Chatine self-consciously touched the ends of her hair, which now fell almost to the middle of her back.
And she waited.
For what, she wasn’t sure.
A question?
A laugh?
An arrest?
But Marcellus just stood there, staring at her. Speechless, yet not silent. A small guttural sound escaped the back of his throat.
“Chatine,” she said quietly. “That’s my name.”
Then, she took one step forward and pressed her cold lips against his.
- PART 6 -
THE VANGARDE
Laterre’s moon held treasure. A vital metal that could only be found deep in the frozen and unforgiving rock. Those who broke the Regime’s rules were sent there to mine. Convicts became numbers, whose bodies blistered and crumbled as they dug the ore. Only the toughest prisoners would ever return from a place where droids were the keepers and stars the only friends.
But Bastille hid another treasure too.
The seed of a new beginning.
From The Chronicles of the Sisterhood, Volume 10, Chapter 22
- CHAPTER 60 -
MARCELLUS
MARCELLUS BARELY HAD TIME TO register what had happened before the boy was kissing him. No, not the boy. The girl. She was a girl. She’d been a girl this whole time.
This whole time!
Marcellus couldn’t wrap his mind around this. His memory skidded back through every conversation, every look, every movement. What had he overlooked? How hadn’t he seen it?
The profile on the Communiqué said the boy’s name was Théo.
But now Théo was Chatine, and Chatine was kissing him.
Deeply, intensely, endlessly.
His lips . . . Her lips were so cold on Marcellus’s own, but her body was so warm. It arched against him. Almost involuntarily, his arms slipped around her narrow back, pulling her closer. His fingers weaved through her hair, which was now loose and wet and tangled down her back.
It was wrong.
This kiss.
It was all wrong.
Yet Marcellus couldn’t pull away. There was something crackling between them. It couldn’t be stopped. Her kiss was hungry, demanding, needy. Everything else seemed to fall away. Vanish. The smoke from the destroyed fabrique. The rain falling everywhere. And all the deception, too. All the lies. Even the word “lark” had flown away.
Until there was nothing but Chatine’s rain-soaked lips on his.
Marcellus stepped into her, pressing himself against her. Kissing her back with the same fervor and desperation. And in that instant, Marcellus felt infinite. For the first time in his life, he felt unstoppable. Invincible, even.
“Good evening.” A voice caused Marcellus to jump back as though Chatine had bitten him. It was a familiar voice. An unsettling voice. The one voice on Laterre that could bring Marcellus crashing back to solid ground.
“Grand-père?” He glanced around wildly, expecting to see his grandfather’s pristine white uniform looming over him.
But the roof of the fabrique was empty. They were still alone.
“I have not heard from you in some time.”
There it was again. His grandfather’s voice. But where was it coming from? Marcellus’s shaky hands reached into his pocket, searching for his TéléCom.
“I do not appreciate being kept waiting.”
Marcellus finally managed to unfurl his TéléCom but frowned when he saw the screen was empty. His grandfather was not speaking to him.
Then who on Laterre . . .
Marcellus glanced up to see the boy—the girl—punching frantically at the inside of her arm.
At her Skin.
It seemed Marcellus’s audio patch was still synced with the chip in Chatine’s ear from when he’d connected to it at the Precinct. He could still hear everything she could hear.
“I’ll expect a full report from you by tomorrow morning, otherwise—”
Marcellus just managed to catch a glimpse of the general’s face before the message was abruptly cut off.
“Why is my grandfather AirLinking you?” Marcellus asked, still unable to make sense of it.
Chatine shook her head and waved her hand. “It was nothing. Just one of those silly Universal Alerts we’re all forced to listen to. Just forget it.”
She took a step toward him and wrapped her hands around his neck, pulling his mouth back toward hers. But Marcellus jerked away. “Wait. That doesn’t make sense.”
A Universal Alert?
But his grandfather had been sitting in his office during that message. And General Bonnefaçon didn’t send Universal Alerts from his personal study. Marcellus grabbed Chatine’s wrists, disentangling her grasp from around his neck. She tried to yank her left hand free, but Marcellus held tight, maneuvering it around so he could see the screen implanted in her flesh.
She fought. She struggled. But once again, he was stronger.
He pressed play.
“. . . otherwise I’ll be forced to call off our deal. We’re running out of time. Marcellus is still our best lead to the Vangarde base, but if you can’t finish the job, then I’ll find someone else who can.”
There was a finite beep, marking the end of the message, followed by silence.
Deafening, all-consuming silence.
Everything inside Marcellus went rigid. He could do nothing but stare openmouthed at the girl.
“You’re working for him?” Marcellus finally broke the silence. His voice deep and slow, dark and quiet. “For my grandfather?”
The girl actually had the nerve to scoff at this. And laugh. Like it was all a joke. Like his life, his loyalty, his shattered trust were just one big joke. “No. Of course not. I would never work for that pomp.”
“You’re lying!” Marcellus spat, releasing Chatine’s wrist and stepping away from her. He could feel his pulse thumping in his neck. “You’re spying for him. On me!”
She didn’t say anything. She kept her eyes pointed downward. At her Skin. Rubbing the darkened screen where General Bonnefaçon’s face had just been.
“Look at me!” snapped Marcellus, although his voice cracked over the words.
Finally, her gaze crept upward. So slowly, it was painful.
As Marcellus looked into her gray eyes—glimmering like rainwater—he could see it now. They were so delicate. So feminine. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed it before. His fists tightened until his fingernails
cut into his palms.
“Is that what this was all about?” he asked, his voice thick with disdain. “The disguise? The kiss? Everything?”
“No!” she cried out, her eyes suddenly full of desperation. “No, it wasn’t like that. I swear.”
But Marcellus ignored her cries. In fact, they only made him angrier. “All this time I thought you were helping me, but you were just hoping I would lead you and my grandfather to the Vangarde?”
“I’m sorry,” Chatine tried. “I can explain.”
“Save your explanations. I know how this works. I’m not stupide. You’re poor. You’re hungry. You’re freezing. You’ll do anything for a larg, isn’t that right? Isn’t that how your kind operates?”
He felt dirty thinking it. He felt even dirtier saying it. But it was true. She’d just proven it was true. All this time Marcellus had thought that this boy—girl—was different. But she wasn’t. She was just a lying, cheating con artist like the rest of them.
“Please.” Chatine grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “Listen to me. It’s not what you think. I mean, it was at first, but it’s not anymore. I swear it’s—”
“Why should I believe you? Why should I believe anything you say . . . ever? Roche was right. You are a traitor.”
Marcellus roughly yanked his hand from hers. He was finished. He didn’t want pitiful “pleases” and excuses. He just wanted to get away from her. Away from this rooftop. This girl, with her pathetic, cat-shaped gray eyes. Away from her lies.
He turned and started walking across the craggy rooftop.
“Marcellus, wait!” she called out.
He spun around, anger flashing in his eyes. “That’s Officer Bonnefaçon to you,” he spat. “You would be wise to remember your place, déchet.”
- CHAPTER 61 -
CHATINE
SOMEWHERE BEYOND THE DENSE CLOUDS, the Sols were setting and night was descending over the streets of Vallonay.
The Darkest Night.
Until this very moment, Chatine had never quite understood the name of the current season of Laterre’s orbit. She’d always known darkness, that much was certain. Her entire life, thus far, had been one of near-constant darkness. But this was a different kind of dark. This was a darkness that seeped into her skin, that eroded her bones, that blackened her heart.
Rain came down in droves. It was crooked. It was sideways. It was everywhere. It splattered up from the ground, attacking her from below.
As Chatine continued walking back toward the Frets, she pulled her flimsy coat tighter around her and readjusted her hood. Her hair was back in its usual knot and her face was streaked with mud again. She reached into her pocket, sliding her fingers over the curve of Marcellus’s ring.
She could still hear his words tumbling around in her mind. He thought she was the scum of Laterre. He’d called her a liar. He’d called her a déchet.
He was right.
She was garbage. She was worthless. While Azelle—sweet, innocent Azelle—had tried to live an honest life, Chatine lied and cheated her way through everything.
The memory of Marcellus’s eyes as he’d watched the general’s message play on her Skin was enough to punish her for a lifetime.
The fric with him.
Chatine had expected the Frets to be in an uproar. But everything was eerily quiet and deserted. It was as though the news of the bombed fabrique had shocked everyone into a stunned silence. And now they were just lying in wait. Waiting to see what the Ministère would do. What the planet would do.
But Chatine had no time for waiting. She was done waiting.
The fric with Laterre.
She had to leave. She had to get as far away from this planet as possible. Usonia, Reichenstat, Kaishi, Novaya. She’d even live on Albion with the mad queen if she had to. She no longer cared where she went, just as long as it wasn’t here.
But she was out of options.
The deal with the general was obviously off. There was no way she would ever find the Vangarde base now.
And all of her stolen trinkets were still in the hands of the Délabré, who had given her until tomorrow to dole out their share of a make-believe con. If she didn’t produce the largs, she would lose even more than she’d already lost.
Which meant there was only one way to get the amount she needed.
When she arrived at the mechanical room in Fret 7, she paused before the doorway, summoning the strength to do what she knew she had to do. Then she pulled back her sleeve and tapped to waken her Skin. Chatine took a deep breath and stared at the metal grate that covered the vent in the floor. It looked so innocent and unassuming. One would never know that it had been concealing a convict.
A convict that someone was willing to pay twenty thousand largs to find.
She tapped her Skin. When it prompted her to specify a recipient, she spoke slowly. “Inspecteur Limier.”
Then she waited for the AirLink to be accepted.
This was it. Her only shot. Her last-ditch effort.
There might be no record of the reward for Jean LeGrand in the Ministère Communiqué, but Chatine didn’t care. She now understood that this was not a Ministère matter. This was clearly a personal matter. She’d seen the way the inspecteur and the white-haired man had looked at each other in the Marsh yesterday. There was something significant there. An ancient rivalry. One that spanned years, if not decades.
Inspecteur Limier’s face suddenly appeared on her Skin, startling Chatine even though she’d been the one to initiate the connection. She could tell from his surroundings that he was riding in some type of vehicle. Possibly a transporteur.
“Renard,” the inspecteur said. Was it only her name that he pronounced with that mix of irritation and amusement? As though she was not only a nuisance to him but also a joke?
“Inspecteur,” she replied. She fought the urge to imitate his same tone. “I’m contacting you about a very urgent matter.”
The circuitry in the inspecteur’s face flashed once. “Yes?”
Chatine took a breath, keeping her voice light and airy. “Twelve years ago, you came to Montfer, offering a reward for information leading to the whereabouts of a criminal named Jean LeGrand.”
Limier cocked an interested eyebrow, prompting her to continue.
“I’d like to claim that reward.”
There was silence. Limier’s face was very still. If it weren’t for the flickering lights on his cheek, Chatine might have thought the AirLink had dropped. But then, a second later, the inspecteur started to laugh. It wasn’t a mirthful, human laugh. It was a bleak, robotic laugh that sent a chill down Chatine’s spine.
“What?” she asked uneasily. “What’s so funny?”
“You,” the inspecteur said through his mechanical chuckles. “All of you. You duplicitous Renards are all the same. Corrupt. Dishonorable. So willing to turn on anyone. Even one another.”
Chatine’s forehead crumpled. What was he talking about?
Limier’s laughter came to an abrupt halt. “I’m sorry, Théo,” he said, his voice once again emotionless and dry. “But I’m afraid you’re too late.”
Chatine felt her knees wobble. She grabbed on to a nearby pipe to keep from collapsing. “What?” she managed to utter. “No, that can’t be. I just saw him yesterday.”
How could she be too late?
“As did a lot of people,” Limier pointed out. “As did I.”
Chatine glanced around at the empty Fret hallway. Had the Policier already raided this place?
“So, you know where he is?” Chatine asked, her voice trembling. She refused to give up. She refused to accept the fact that her last hope—her last chance of escape—had led to yet another dead end.
“Yes,” the inspecteur said. “I’ve just received an AirLink, not a few minutes ago, from someone claiming the same reward. In fact, they already have LeGrand in custody. They sent me proof. I’m heading there right now to resolve this matter once and for all.”
Chatine
felt the blood drain from her face. She released the pipe she’d been clinging to for support and stood up straighter. “Who?” she asked through gritted teeth. “Who has him in custody?”
But she didn’t have to wait for an answer. She already knew.
Inspecteur Limier let out another gloomy cackle, and now Chatine understood the reason behind his amusement. “Your parents.”
- CHAPTER 62 -
MARCELLUS
THE MARBLE FLOORS SHOOK BENEATH Marcellus’s feet as he charged down the hallway of the Grand Palais’s south wing. Every muscle, every tendon and sinew, every nerve ending inside of him was on fire. He’d never known anger like this. It rushed through him, again and again, like an endless looping wave.
Everyone had deceived him.
Everyone had lied to him.
Alouette.
Théo—or Chatine or whatever her name was.
Even his own grandfather.
All along, that Fret rat had been spying for the general. Trying to lure Marcellus in so he would lead her to the Vangarde base and she would get a big, fat reward from his grandfather. And like a true imbécile, Marcellus had been sucked right in. Taking her along to Montfer, treating her like a friend, helping her, feeding her, telling her things he’d never told anyone before.
Kissing her.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the anger burning inside him so fiercely now, it felt as if it were going to consume every molecule of air in his lungs. Every last cell in his body.
As he strode onward down the corridor, the crystals in the chandeliers clinked, the paintings vibrated on the walls, and the china vases wobbled on their ornate side tables.
But he kept moving, as straight and unswerving as a paralyzeur pulse. With a single target in mind.
“You hired her to spy on me?”
The words tore out of Marcellus as he burst through the heavy double doors of his grandfather’s study.
The general looked up from the TéléCom on his desk. For a moment, he appeared startled. But then, with the swiftness and precision of a seasoned Ministère officer, he pulled his expression into something more neutral.
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