Chapter One Abel #2
She blinks slowly, as if she can’t connect my name with my history. Before I tried to cure my brother’s dragon curse, I was great at my job. Now I have a reputation to recover. That shouldn’t be hard to comprehend, even for a drunk.
The girl smiles sweetly. “I know who the dragon is.”
Her claim halts me. Civilians don’t typically approach slayers with information. Sighting reports usually go through the Gendarmerie. There must be a catch—a reason she came to me directly. “Please explain.”
Beside us, an elderly innkeeper with a broom opens the inn’s front door. One sweep of ash outside and she’s squinting at me, as if I’m the one pinning this drunk girl to a wall and not the other way around.
“Who’s your friend?” The girl presses her glass into my hand and scratches Lucy’s chin. I flinch out of her reach, but my bulky pack hits the wall. I don’t like this thief’s hand anywhere near my pack’s pockets. Especially not near my journal. My research is too important to lose.
The innkeeper glares. I try not to look guilty.
“There’s nothing going on here—” I start.
“Is that so?” The girl skims a fingertip down my chest and traces my slayer badge, then turns away with a wink. “Well. C’est la vie, Monsieur Abel.”
My lead is walking away. Swaying, in fact. Even the innkeeper slams the door on me with a self-righteous huff.
There must be a way to get the girl to stay.
First rule of dragon hunting: Consider the bait.
“Her name is Luciole,” I try.
“Luciole?” The girl returns, smiling as if she knew I’d stop her. I’m flirting with her using the slayer’s handbook. Diu spare me.
“Lucy for short.” I run a hand through my hair. “Want to hold—”
Shockingly, Lucy leaps off my shoulder and into the girl’s arms. With a satisfied whine, she buries her face into the girl’s scarred chest and curls up in her embrace.
“Ah. ‘Firefly.’ ” The girl giggles and kisses Lucy’s forehead. “Bonsoir, ma Luciole. I’m Claire.”
I frown. Only two groups of people study the Old Tongue: the Church’s Council of Cardinals and Slayers Guild members. A few expressions float around the general population, but the meaning of Lucy’s full name isn’t common knowledge.
Claire—if that’s her real name—shifts Lucy to one shoulder and reaches past my head, toward my pack. “What else can you show me?”
“Wait.” I stiffen as her chest presses up against mine. The wine glass slips from my fingers and shatters. My eyes dart skyward. Again, Noctu’s owl constellation silently laughs at me. But when Claire grasps the horn of my dragon-skull helmet, my senses rush back to me.
Second rule of dragon hunting: Establish limits and keep the target within them.
I grab her wrist, spin us around, and push her up against the wall. “I know you stole that man’s coins,” I say, voice low.
She hiccups. “I did nothing of the sort.”
“You dropped them down your bosom.”
Red blooms in her cheeks, though I suspect that’s less because of embarrassment and more because she got caught.
She grins. “Fetch them, then.”
“That’s not—” My boots crunch the broken glass. “I’ll keep quiet if you…”
I follow her stare over my shoulder and catch sight of the two men who fought over the coin purse. They walk together between the stalls, all busted lips and black eyes. One struts toward a man in a clean Gendarmerie uniform patrolling the Night Market.
“Let’s take this inside.” Claire smiles suggestively. “Before I get too sleepy?”
She’s not subtle—she’s definitely trying to escape the authorities.
I grit my teeth. Without releasing her, I lean to check the prices chalked onto the board on the door: fifty silver lunes per night for the cheapest single bed. That’s almost half of my savings. I’ve been hunting and camping for a reason. I can’t afford this.
She can, if we use the coins she stole, but I refuse to “fetch them.” Still, thief or not, this girl claims she knows the dragon’s identity. She’s my only lead. If I don’t find this dragon, countless people could lose far more than money.
Great. Looks like I’m helping a criminal run loose.
“Come, Lucy,” I mutter. Lucy hops obediently from Claire’s shoulder to her sulking spot on mine. Claire wobbles, eyelids drooping. What convenient timing.
“Hey. I know you’re acting.” I release her wrist. Her arm falls slack as she leans into me. “Wake up. I’ll get you a room. I won’t try anything. I just need infor—”
I catch her under the arms before she collapses. I crane my head for a look at her face. By the Gods. Did she pass out?
I sling her arm over my shoulder, ignoring Lucy’s nippy protests. When I open the inn’s front door, a gold-tipped quill zings past my head. It thuds into the door behind me like a dagger.
“This isn’t that kind of establishment,” the innkeeper snaps from the front desk.
“I can explain,” I sigh.
The innkeeper swipes up the broom and thrusts it in my face. She’s a head shorter than me, but that wrinkled glare would make even a dragon shrink a few inches.
“You have ten seconds to tell me your intentions for that girl, slayer,” she says, “or this broom goes so far up your rear, you’ll be chewing the bristles.”
It’s safe to say both War-Torn Gods are laughing at me now.