Before returning to Ledôme, he’d washed the dirt from his face and changed back into the crisp white trousers and lapelled jacket that he loathed so much. He was, once again, Officer Bonnefaçon, the grandson of General César Bonnefaçon, and the son of the notorious dead traitor, Julien Bonnefaçon. He was, once again, Laterre’s commandeur-in-training, a dutiful servant of the Ministère.
And today, he would have to look his grandfather in the eye and pretend that he didn’t just pledge his life to bringing the general down.
He felt sick with dread and impossibility. He couldn’t help but think that the Vangarde had made a huge mistake in entrusting this task to him. It still felt like a fool’s errand. The general was too clever, too secretive, too strategic. How was Marcellus ever going to find this weapon? Where would he even begin?
Releasing a sigh, he tipped his head back and glanced up at the Paresse Tower that stood tall and regal at the center of the roundabout, watching over every street and park, every manoir and garden. Erected twenty years ago by the former Patriarche, Claude Paresse, to celebrate the Laterrian Regime, the tower used to be one of Marcellus’s favorite sights in Ledôme. The view of the magnificent structure, motionless and vast, shooting up into the TéléSky, used to inspire him.
But today, like everything else around him, the Paresse Tower felt gaudy and grandiose and so very wrong. Now Marcellus could see it for what it really was: a tower erected to mark centuries of oppression and inequality. A landmark built to celebrate the elite few who were fortunate enough to live in luxury in this climate-controlled biodome while the rest of the planet starved and froze.
Today, the tower only served to make him angrier.
He kicked off from the ground and sped the rest of the way back to the Grand Palais. After docking his moto outside the gates, Marcellus walked the length of the perimeter, scanning the little fleur-de-lis ornaments that topped each post of the titan fence, until he located the one that was bent at a slight angle. He climbed the fence and slipped through the invisible breach in the security shields, silently thanking Mabelle for her ingenuity.
He remembered the first time she had shown him the bent ornaments, when he was just a little boy. She’d made a game out of locating them. “Which ones are not like the others?” It wasn’t until years later, after Mabelle had been arrested as a Vangarde spy, that Marcellus realized Mabelle had bent them on purpose. To mark the loopholes where she had compromised the shields surrounding the Palais grounds, allowing her to come and go without being noticed or tracked.
Marcellus let himself in through the servants’ entrance and climbed one of the back staircases to the south wing, where he and his grandfather lived. As the head of the Ministère and the Patriarche’s primary advisor, General Bonnefaçon was awarded dedicated residences in the Palais. It was an honor that used to make Marcellus feel lucky, privileged, prestigious. Now these walls felt like prison bars. And the spacious, well-appointed rooms that he passed along the way only served to remind him that this morning’s visit to the copper exploit had not gone as he’d planned.
When he’d crept through the dark, sleeping Palais only a few hours ago, he thought he was leaving it for good. He thought he’d never have to return. He was fueled by the idea that he would never have to be in the same room as his grandfather again. He’d thought that joining the Vangarde would take him away from all of this. Just as it had for his father.
And yet, here he was. Back within these suffocating walls. With his grandfather’s loathsome lies clinging to every fiber of every tapestry.
“Access granted.” The door to his rooms opened and Marcellus lifted his palm from the panel on the biometric lock and barged inside. He stalked over to the bed, collapsed down onto it, and screamed into one of the silk pillows. Loud and hard until his throat burned and the sound silenced the voices of doubt and helplessness in his head.
“Are you finished?”
Marcellus sprang up from the bed and glanced around, his heart leaping into his throat when he saw his grandfather standing near the door to the balcony. The general’s tall, muscular frame was half silhouetted by the artificial Sol-light streaming in through the gap in the curtains.
“G-G-Grand-père,” Marcellus said, stammering slightly. How long had he been standing there? “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been waiting for you,” his grandfather said coolly.
Marcellus’s pulse spiked as a hundred thousand crimes filtered through his mind at once.
Does he know where I’ve been?
Marcellus glanced back down at the ruffled comforter of his bed, where he’d just thrown his little tantrum. His grandfather had seen that.
“You weren’t answering your AirLinks.” The general nodded to the TéléCom that was folded up and sitting idly on Marcellus’s bedside table. Even though the tracking capabilities on the device were deactivated, he’d still left it behind as a precaution.
“Yes … um … ,” Marcellus began, wishing that, just this once, he could talk to the general without stammering like an imbecile. “I just stepped out to get some air and I … forgot it.”
His grandfather lifted an eyebrow. “And Chacal says he stopped by the TéléSkin fabrique yesterday—where you were supposed to be investigating the recent attack—but you weren’t there.”
Marcellus felt a storm brewing in his chest. His grandfather had appointed him lead officer on the investigation of the recent TéléSkin fabrique attack. It had killed twelve workers, including Chatine’s sister, and they still had no idea who was responsible. But Marcellus had been so busy deciphering the message that the Vangarde had slipped to him in the Frets and mentally preparing himself for his meeting with Mabelle, he’d let some of his officer duties slide. But he never thought that clochard Chacal would rat him out for it.
Marcellus fought to keep his face neutral as he tried to come up with a believable excuse. “I’m sorry, Grand-père. I haven’t been myself since the funeral.”
The general’s cool hazel eyes bored into Marcellus. “Must I remind you that Laterre is in a precarious state right now?”
Thanks to you, Marcellus thought bitterly but he shook his head and muttered, “No, sir.”
“Tensions are mounting. The Third Estate are getting out of control, rioting almost daily. And with Inspecteur Limier still missing, we need everyone around here to pull their weight.”
The fearsome head of the Vallonay Policier had vanished two weeks ago. He’d ventured out to the Forest Verdure to arrest two wanted criminals and never came back.
“This is not the time to be lazy and distracted, Marcellus.”
Marcellus felt his blood start to boil. His fists clenched at his sides, desperate to strike, to pound, to pummel. But he forced himself to remember Mabelle’s words.
“… you’ll have to work extra hard to convince him of your loyalty.”
Marcellus swallowed down the rage. “Of course, Grand-père. I apologize for my actions. It will not happen again.”
The general scrutinized him, the edge of his jaw pulsing. It’s what his grandfather did when he was holding something back. Then, silently, he stepped forward and reached a hand toward Marcellus’s face. Marcellus flinched as his grandfather dragged a single finger across his cheek. When his hand retracted, Marcellus could see the smear of mud on the general’s fingertip. Remnants of his disguise.