More unreadable.
“Take a seat, Marcellus.”
But Marcellus ignored him. He rushed forward, planted both hands on the surface of the huge desk, and glared at the general. “You sent her to spy on me!” His voice was thick and trembling, yet filled with all that anger. “You hired her to use me.”
“You need to calm down,” the general said, keeping a steady gaze on Marcellus. He lifted his chin and his lip curled, ever so slightly. “This is not the behavior of a Ministère officer.”
Marcellus banged a palm onto the desk, making the TéléCom jump. “But you clearly don’t think of me as an officer, do you? You never have. You’ve never trusted me. Was I ever in line for commandeur? Or was that just a decoy? Because you knew, in your heart, that I could never replace your precious Vernay.”
The flinch happened so fast, Marcellus almost missed it. The general pushed himself up from his seat, so he was eye level with his grandson. “Marcellus, you need to use your brain. You are not stupide. Although, I must say, you’re acting that way right now.”
Marcellus leaned in closer to his grandfather, refusing to look away. “I’ve been on trial my entire life. Ever since the day I was born, you’ve been waiting for me to screw up. To become a traitor. To let you down. Do you know how that feels? To have someone watching you like that? Waiting like that?” The words were tumbling out of him now, hot and furious and violent. “To have someone—your own grandfather—never fully believing in you?”
The general raised a hand. “Quiet, Marcellus.” His voice was so low, it almost sounded like a growl. “Like I said, you’re not using your brain. If you were, you’d realize you are a target.”
The general moved around the side of the desk, until he was standing right beside Marcellus.
Marcellus started to tremble. But he clenched his fists and forced himself to face his grandfather.
“A target for the Vangarde,” the general clarified in the same low monotone. “They want you, Marcellus. With your notoriety as my grandson and the blood of one of their former operatives in your veins, you could be a very useful pawn in their game.” He leaned in so close, his face was centimètres away from Marcellus’s. “I was trying to protect you.”
Marcellus could feel his cheeks burning, his hands shaking. “I don’t need protecting. And I don’t need to be a pawn in one of your games either. I don’t need some Fret rat—some girl—chasing me around, luring me into her plans. Your plans. Pretending to be my friend.” Much to his annoyance, his voice cracked on the last word.
The general eyed Marcellus for a long moment before throwing his head back and letting out a cruel, jarring laugh. “Oh, Marcellus. You fell for her, didn’t you?”
“I did not,” Marcellus bellowed, but his cheeks were burning.
Was there anything his grandfather didn’t know about him?
Was there ever a single moment he hadn’t been watching him?
Waiting for him to make a wrong turn?
“Trust me, you don’t want one of those girls, Marcellus,” his grandfather said, his expression returning to neutral. “Fret girls are nothing but trouble.” He raised an eyebrow, as if considering something. “I suppose, with some soap and a hot shower, she could be quite pretty. Pretty enough . . .” His grandfather paused. “For a déchet.”
“Stop!” Fury exploded through Marcellus, and before he could think about what he was doing, he lunged at his grandfather. “Arrête!”
But the general was too quick, too strong. He caught Marcellus’s fist in his own.
“Dear boy,” he said, gripping Marcellus’s hand and squeezing it. Hard. “You are so weak. Just like your father.” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “Your good-for-nothing, traitor father.”
Marcellus tried to yank his hand away, but the general’s grasp was too tight. “I am not my father!” he bellowed, hot and fierce, into his grandfather’s face.
He yanked his hand again, but this time the general released it, causing Marcellus to stumble backward.
“I am not my father,” Marcellus said again as he attempted to right himself.
“No?” the general asked, cocking his head. “It seems like you’re very much like him. Weak and pathetic and fraternizing beneath your estate.”
Marcellus reared up again. “If my father was weak, if he was a traitor and a coward, then whose fault was that? Whose?” Never in all his life had he ever spoken like this to his grandfather. It was terrifying and invigorating at the same time. And now that he’d started, he couldn’t be stopped. “It was your fault, wasn’t it? You were his father. You raised him. You failed, General Bonnefaçon. You’re the failure. You’re the weak one. You couldn’t even stand up to the Patriarche when he sent Commandeur Vernay to Albion. And now she’s dead. Because of you.”
And then it came.
Sudden, like a crack of lightning to his stomach.
His grandfather punched him, and Marcellus went down. Straight to the floor.
“You are a stupide boy!” He kicked Marcellus hard in the stomach.
Again and again.
“See!” the general roared. “Look at you! You are pathetic. You can’t even fight back. You never can!”
The pain was searing. The blows kept coming. Worse than ever. His grandfather had never beaten him like this before. Marcellus couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. All he could do was bury his head into his hands and curl up his legs to try to protect his stomach.
“Come on!” his grandfather yelled again. “For once in your life, show me, Marcellus. Show me you’re not weak. Show me you’re not just like your father!”
But Marcellus couldn’t. He couldn’t fight this man. He never could. The general was too strong, and Marcellus was too fearful. He wasn’t a fighter. He would never be a fighter. He would never be the officer his grandfather wanted him to be.
Hot tears pooled in his eyes.
His grandfather was right.
He was weak.
He was a fool.
He was nothing.
It was almost a relief when the kick came to the back of his head and everything went black.
- CHAPTER 63 -
CHATINE
FRIC! CHATINE PACED THE LENGTH of the mechanical room in Fret 7, cursing everything and everyone on this Sol-forsaken planet.
Why hadn’t she contacted Limier the moment she saw Jean LeGrand disappear under that floor grate yesterday?
Because she was stupide, that’s why.
Because she’d foolishly decided to go to the Precinct first. And now her parents had Jean LeGrand, and they were going to claim the entire reward for themselves. Twenty thousand largs!
Chatine racked her brain, trying to figure out where they had taken him. Where was Limier heading when she’d contacted him? From the view of the rushing scenery through the window, it didn’t appear to be inside Vallonay city limits.
Which made sense. Her parents would never have led Inspecteur Limier to the old Grotte at the docklands. That was sacred Délabré ground. Plus, she wouldn’t be surprised if they were doing this all on their own. If her father had chosen to not even involve Claque or Hercule, or any of his other despicable friends. That was the first rule in being a Délabré: Never trust a Délabré.
Fric! Fric! Fric! Chatine continued to pace.
Her father must have seen the white-haired man in the Marsh yesterday. He must have recognized him as Jean LeGrand and undoubtedly remembered the reward that had been offered. How could he not?
It was just as Inspecteur Limier had said. The Renards were all the same.
Well, now they were.
Chatine stopped pacing, as the crushing ache was suddenly back in her chest, threatening to squeeze her to death. Azelle had been the only honest one among them. She had been the only one who wouldn’t have called in for that reward. Because she would have been too busy dutifully assembling new Skins. She probably wouldn’t have even recognized the white-haired man who’d come to take Madeline away
.
But Chatine would never forget him.
Just like she would never forget her.
That worthless, wide-eyed clochard who had killed Chatine’s brother. Who had captured Marcellus’s heart. Who was probably with him right this very second, comforting him, stroking his hair, telling him to forget Chatine and her lies and the feel of her lips against his.
The girl who was beautiful and clean and . . .
Emerging from the gap in the floor right this second!
The grate scraped against the metal floor as the girl climbed through the narrow opening. Chatine dodged behind a rusty old contraption, concealing herself from view.
Madeline—or Alouette or whatever the fric her name was—carefully replaced the metal grate, stood up, and set off toward the hallway. As Chatine watched her go, she marveled at how different the girl looked. And it wasn’t just the new gray coat with its double buttons, enviably thick fabric, and upright collar. Nor was it the knee-high boots, which had replaced those ridiculous slippers she was always running around in. No, there was something in the girl’s gait. In the way she marched out of the room.
This girl was confident. She was focused. She was determined.
It instantly made Chatine suspicious.
She peered around the corner of the mechanical room doorway and watched as the girl strode purposefully in the direction of the Fret exit.
Chatine chewed on her lower lip. She had no idea where her parents were hiding LeGrand.
But this girl clearly had a destination in mind.
Chatine slipped out of the mechanical room and back into the shadows of the Frets. Right back where she belonged.
As she weaved alongside Frets 6 and 5, it soon became obvious where the girl was heading. And Chatine really didn’t want to go back in there.
Chatine hung back, unseen, as Alouette approached the giant and ominous black cube of the Vallonay Policier Precinct. Alouette slowed to a halt in front of the moto-docking station and stared up at the looming structure, as though trying to decide whether or not to go inside.
This is where she’s going? To the Policier?
Then Chatine noticed the girl pull something out of one of the pockets on her coat. It was yellowish-white, the color of an old eggshell. Alouette unfolded it the way you would a TéléCom, but it was certainly not a TéléCom. It almost looked like paper.
Chatine slithered out of the shadows but stayed close to the wall as she took a few steps toward Alouette. She squinted to try to make out what was on the page. It didn’t appear to be the Forgotten Word. Instead, there was some sort of picture. It was crude, as if it was hand-drawn. She could see something sleek and long with a gently curved underside.
Wait, Chatine thought. Is that a . . . ?
Chatine received the answer to her barely formed question a moment later when Alouette walked straight up to one of the hovering motos charging at the docking station, opened her coat, and pulled a strange-looking tool from an even stranger-looking belt that was cinched around her waist.
Chatine watched in disbelief as the girl inserted the tool into a gap between the moto’s engine and its display console. Then, with a swift flick of her wrist, she popped the shiny silver cover right off.
What on Laterre does she think she’s doing?
Alouette pulled a small flashlight off her belt and held it between her teeth, aiming the beam at the bike’s interior. After consulting her paper again, she reached inside and pulled free two wires. Next, her hand went to a pouch on the other side of her belt. She pulled out a pair of clippers, which she used to trim the ends of the wires. Replacing the tool, she then removed something thin and metallic from the same pouch. Chatine thought it resembled the strips of circuitry implanted in Limier’s face. She watched as Alouette threaded the wires through the wafer-thin filament.
Suddenly there was a hiss and a small shower of sparks.
Chatine stifled a gasp.
But Alouette looked completely unfazed.
She simply slipped the wires back into the body of the moto, popped the cover back on, consulted her paper one more time, and then hit a small switch near the handle. The narrow strip of lights lining the bottom of the moto blinked to life, and suddenly the vehicle was airborne, lifting farther off the ground as the engine idled quietly.
Chatine couldn’t believe what she’d just witnessed.
That girl had hacked a Ministère moto!
Chatine had never seen anything like that in her life. She didn’t even know that was possible. And she thought she knew every possible con, cheat, swindle, and hack there was.
Despite the fact that Chatine hated this girl with every bone in her body, she couldn’t help but feel impressed. Seriously impressed.
Alouette returned her tools to the belt and her paper to her pocket, straddled the bike, and engaged the throttle. The vehicle responded instantly to her touch, juddering as though eager to get going.
Alouette glanced over both of her shoulders into the darkness, and then, with a twist of her wrist and a kick of her foot, she was off, rushing past Chatine in a blur of lights and wind.
Chatine stared blankly at the girl’s vanishing form, still trying to make sense of everything that had just happened. Then, five seconds later, she realized her only lead on the reward had just whooshed past her, and she was still standing there like an idiot.
She leapt into action and ran toward the last remaining moto hovering at the docking station. She tried to remember everything the girl had done, but with no tools and absolutely no knowledge of the inner workings of a moto, she was helpless.
Chatine had no other choice. She had to do it her way.
She rolled up the sleeve of her coat and tapped at her Skin. When the screen prompted her to speak, she pulled her face into a grimace and recited her message, alerting the sergent on duty that someone had just stolen a Ministère moto and taken off, out of the Frets.
Then she slipped underneath the hovering moto and waited.
Less than a minute later, Chatine heard the front doors of the Precinct whoosh open and the sound of footsteps approaching.
It had to be silent.
It had to be fast.
It had to be debilitating.
She readied herself, steadying her breathing and coiling her muscles. The footsteps grew louder, and then the two giant black boots appeared on either side of the moto. The vehicle sank a millimètre as Sergent Chacal settled into its seat.
Do it now!
She snaked her arm up from under the idling moto and took hold of the metal baton that was fastened to the sergent’s belt. With the grace of a cat, she gently slid the baton from the holster.
Almost there, she told herself. Just a few more centimètres.
The weapon eased out little by little but then snagged on something. Chatine felt her arm halt.
A blast of warm air rushed across Chatine’s face as the sergent started the engine, adjusting the throttle. Chatine gritted her teeth and gave the baton a strong tug. It lurched free from the holster, but the force of her pull knocked it out of her hand, and it fell to the ground with a clank that seemed to ring out across the entire planet.
“What on Laterre?” Chacal said, leaning over the left side of the bike.
Chatine snatched the baton and rolled right, vanishing under the shadow of the moto.
But Chacal must have seen something, because suddenly he was off the seat. He was bending down. He was crouching to peer under the vehicle.
He was in the perfect position.
Chatine stood up. “Good evening, Sergent,” she said pleasantly.
Chacal’s head whipped up but Chatine had the baton ready. As it made contact with his face, Chatine heard a satisfying crunch. She wasn’t sure if it was the sergent’s nose, cheek, chin, or all of the above, but it didn’t much matter. Blood splattered Chatine’s face and hair, and Chacal went down hard, letting out a very unmanly, high-pitched yelp as he hit the ground.
“That�
�s for Roche,” she said, dropping the baton next to his head.
Then she straddled the bike, revved the engine, and sped off after Alouette.
- CHAPTER 64 -
MARCELLUS
MARCELLUS FELT NOTHING AT FIRST, except the cold floor beneath him.
“Look at you! You are pathetic. You can’t even fight back.”
Marcellus’s eyes fluttered open. He stared at the burnished, decorative ceiling of his grandfather’s office for a few moments before his gaze slipped over to the nearby windows. From where he lay, Marcellus could see the TéléSky that hung over the Palais gardens. It was inky and deep blue, a suggestion of the night to come. Sols 1 and 2 had already set, but Sol 3 was still dangling low on the horizon.
“Show me, Marcellus. Show me you’re not weak. Show me you’re not just like your father!”
Marcellus winced, his head pounding and his ribs aching. He wondered if he’d ever be able to get up from this cold, hard floor.
He wondered if there was any point.
Nobody would care if he did or didn’t, would they? No one would care if he never got up again. There was no one left to care. His grandfather had beaten him senseless and no doubt left for more important Ministère matters. Chatine was a backstabber and a spy. And Alouette? The kind girl who’d tended to his bleeding head? The intriguing girl he’d opened up to? The girl with those huge dark eyes that made him believe he could trust her? She was a member of the Vangarde, a rebel, and a terrorist. Like Mabelle. Like his father.
His cold, dead terrorist father.
As he watched the last Sol finally slip away and the TéléSky glow deep indigo in its wake, Marcellus thought of his father stretched out on that table in the morgue. He remembered how weathered and trampled and beaten his father’s body had been from all those years on Bastille. Then he wondered how long he himself would have lasted there, if he’d ever been in his father’s place.
“I am not my father!”
Marcellus’s own words came back to him now, and he suddenly realized just how true they were. Marcellus wasn’t like his father, because there was no way he would have survived on that cold and icy moon for all those years.
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