“Yes, that’s true. We do need you, Marcellus. But not on the outside.”
His confusion quickly gave way to dread. He suddenly felt nauseous. Sick. Cold. He shook his head. “No. I can’t. I—”
“You’re the only one who can get close to him.”
Marcellus clawed his fingers through his hair, letting Mabelle’s words sink in. “You want me to go back there? You want me to be in the same room as him and pretend that nothing happened? That he’s innocent? I can’t just go back to being blind.”
“Not blind,” Mabelle corrected. “The opposite of blind. Your eyes are wide open now. And we need those eyes inside the Palais. We haven’t been able to get anyone inside since my arrest seven years ago. And now it’s more important than ever that we do.”
Marcellus swallowed, feeling like he might throw up.
“Why do you think I sent you that message in your father’s prison shirt?” Mabelle went on. She was suddenly on her feet too, forcing him to look at her. “You have to understand; we didn’t expect any of this. We thought we were fighting against the Regime, the Patriarche, a five-hundred-year-old corrupt institution. The Vangarde didn’t know until a few months ago that the general was also fighting against the Regime. We are up against not one enemy, but two. And that uniform you wear is not a curse. It’s a gift. It’s a key. To go where no one else can go. To see and hear things that no one else can. If we’re going to defeat General Bonnefaçon and stop him from taking over the Regime, we need your eyes and your ears. We need you to continue to be the general’s dutiful, doting protégé.”
Mabelle’s gaze was so intense and piercing, Marcellus had to look away. He tried to rein in his wild, tempestuous breath, but it was like trying to rein in the storm outside.
“Did you know?” he whispered sharply. “That he was planning to murder the Premier Enfant?”
“No,” Mabelle said emphatically. “Not until it was too late.”
“But you have proof, right? That he killed her? We can use that. We can show the Patriarche and get my grandfather arrested and—”
“We don’t have proof. Like you, we only have our suspicions. Our instincts.”
“So that’s what you want me to do? Get proof that he’s guilty?”
Mabelle shook her head. “You won’t find it. The general is a clever, careful man. He would have covered his tracks too well. Distanced himself from the crime to ensure it could never be traced back to him.”
Marcellus shut his eyes as the memories bombarded him once more.
The head of Nadette Epernay thumping into a metal can.
The tiny coffin of Marie Paresse shooting into space.
“May she rest with the Sols.”
“How did you know?” Marcellus blurted out.
The weathered skin on Mabelle’s forehead crinkled in confusion.
“You said, ‘The Vangarde didn’t know until a few months ago that the general was also fighting against the Regime.’ How did you know that?”
Mabelle sighed, looking forlorn. “We have intel that the general is working on something. Something horrible and destructive that will threaten the lives of everyone on this planet.”
An icy chill trickled down Marcellus’s spine. “What?”
For a moment, Mabelle’s gaze drifted out the window, as though she were trying to summon strength from something—anything—out there. “He’s building a weapon.”
Marcellus felt the planet tilt beneath his feet. Was this what it felt like when that explosif went off seventeen years ago? Like the ground was giving way beneath them? Like the sky was crashing down around them? Like they might never breath again? It was several seconds before he could speak. Yet the words came out minced and mutilated. “What kind of weapon?”
“We don’t know,” Mabelle admitted. “But we believe it to be the general’s endgame. The way he plans to take control of the Regime. Our intel comes from a source who is working directly with the general. Unfortunately, the operative who has been in communication with that source was captured by the Ministère two weeks ago.”
“The two women,” Marcellus said with sudden realization, remembering the Vangarde operatives that he’d questioned at the Policier Precinct. The tall, rangy one who called herself Jacqui, and the shorter, dark-haired one who barely spoke. “They were caught trying to break into the Bastille warden’s office.”
“Yes,” Mabelle confirmed. “One of them goes by the name of Denise.”
“The one with the scars on her face?”
Mabelle nodded. “She used to be a cyborg. Before she joined the Vangarde.”
Used to be?
Suddenly, everything about that woman’s face started to make more sense. The pattern and placement of her scars, the lines running down her left cheek. He had no idea that a cyborg could have their circuitries removed. He’d always assumed that cyborgs were cyborgs for life.
“She was the only person who knew how to contact the source,” Mabelle went on. “She was our only lead for finding out what the general was working on and how to stop it.”
Marcellus felt his throat go dry. Those two operatives had vanished from the Policier Precinct only hours after Marcellus had questioned them.
“I don’t know where they are,” Marcellus said desperately. “The general has a secret facility somewhere. He’s never told me much about it. I just know that every so often prisoners—high-profile ones—will disappear from the Precinct and come back days or weeks later, completely broken. Or they don’t come back at all.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” said Mabelle. “This is helpful information. We will try to root out their location, but in the meantime, we need someone to track down this weapon.” Mabelle caught Marcellus’s gaze with a meaningful look.
The realization sank into the pit of his stomach. “That’s what you want me to do. You want me to find out what he’s working on.”
“What he’s working on. Where he’s working on it. Who he’s working with. When it will be ready. Whatever you can find. We have exhausted countless resources on this, and we have still uncovered nothing.”
Marcellus felt the weight of impossibility bearing down on him. He pressed his fingertips into his temples. “If the Vangarde can’t find anything, what makes you think I can?”
A knowing smile tweaked at Mabelle’s lips. “Because I raised you, ma chéri. I know you. I believe in you.”
Marcellus began to pace the length of the tiny hut. “But the general already suspects me of working with you. He even hired a girl from the Frets to spy on me. He’s already distrustful.”
“Then you’ll have to work extra hard to convince him of your loyalty.”
Marcellus let out a growl of frustration. “He’s the greatest military strategist this planet has ever seen! If he finds out I’m spying on him, he … he …” A shudder worked its way down his spine. “All of you would be in danger.” For the first time since he’d left the Palais that night, Marcellus felt hopelessness settle over him. An entire ocean of it.