Fallen Angel
Chapter One
Fear, like the rumor of plague, can empty a city's streets.
Paris, on that hot September evening of 1792, seemed
empty. The citizens stayed behind closed doors as
though, after a week of slaughter, they were suddenly
ashamed of the horrors they had fetched on their city.
There was a silence in Paris, not an absolute quiet, but a
strange, almost reverent, hush in which a raised voice
seemed out of place.
Fear, on that evening, smelled like a charnel house.
Four horsemen rode through the streets. There was a
menace in the sound of their hooves, a menace that made
the hidden, listening citizens hold their breath until the
sound passed. Death had become a commonplace that
week, not decent death at sickness's end, but the death of
the slaughterhouse. The hollow sound of the hooves was
urgent, as if the horsemen had business with the horrors
that had choked Paris' gutters with blood.
It was a hot evening. If it had not been for the stink in
the city it would have been a beautiful evening. The roofs
were outlined with startling clarity against a watercolor
sky. Clouds banded the w ... read full excerpt from: Fallen Angel [Michaels] ebook
