Chapter Two Claire
The Gods forged our world from two domains of creation magic: fire and fumes, and ice and ore. These are the building blocks of our existence. However, make no mistake; the Gods are very capable of wielding magic independently. One fearsome example is forged from pure fire: the dragon curse.
—Sermon on The Tale of Stars (L’Histoire des étoiles), Part I: The Book of Origins
Chapter Two
Claire
I rub the sleep from my bleary eyes. The first thing to greet me is a trophy head of a buck mounted on the wall. Immediately, I want to steal it.
It’s not just any buck—it’s a fawna. Fawna sightings bring good luck, so any pawnshop would pay good money for it.
But the pink flowers that blossom from the antlers pose a pretty problem.
They are fragile. And conspicuous. On second thought, not worth the trouble.
Such a shame. It’s not the only pricey feature in this room, though.
Silk sheets, a private washroom, and pillows stuffed with fluffy down? Well, well. This inn is fancy.
A certain boy paid handsomely to keep me talking.
Last night rushes back to me, a stark reminder of my goal. Abel Estellio. I finally found him.
So why, pray tell, is Abel asleep on the floor, slouched beneath the fawna’s head? His ankles and wrists bound with rope, for that matter. I certainly didn’t tie him up.
I clutch my throbbing head. The last thing I remember is those two sleazy men searching for me.
That, and the bodies piled behind the market.
I’m no stranger to dragon-made carnage. The reminder had me flirting for free drinks all night—and not in the fun way.
Tipsy Mademoiselle is my most effective persona, but when she turns real, she’s dangerous. Tipsy Claire takes risks.
Oh, curse me. I told him my name.
I look at Abel. Adorably oblivious, he snores lightly. Gold curls, olive skin, light stubble…If it weren’t for his uniform, he’d strike me as a handsome farm boy. Not a highly trained, highly expensive dragon hunter.
At the foot of the bed, Abel’s pack leans temptingly against his dragon-skull helmet.
Carefully, I lift the pack and sort his items across the comforter: a waterskin, a folded canvas tent, a map of Florent, and a roll of ratty camping furs.
Junk. All of it. Slayers live like nobility, thanks to the hefty price on dragon heads. They don’t camp.
I remove a moondagger next. Made of the only substance capable of killing a dragon, moonmetal weapons require a slayer badge to purchase. This could catch a solid price if I need to pawn something.
My breath catches when I see what I’m looking for at the bottom of the bag.
The infamous journal of Abel Estellio.
With hope so close, my grip on the dagger shakes. Finally, I can read his findings.
“Looking for this?” Abel says.
I flip the moondagger up my sleeve and startle on purpose, kicking his waterskin to the rug. Thump. The diversion isn’t necessary. His eyes remain closed. He doesn’t move, except to awkwardly lift a coin purse from its hiding place inside his crooked elbow.
Aww. He thinks he outsmarted me.
“You undressed me,” I say coolly. I’m wearing a new chemise, my dress and coat nowhere in sight. “A crime for a crime, monsieur.”
“You got drunk, stole a man’s coins, framed another, got him assaulted, targeted me, then faked falling asleep to con me into renting a room with you to avoid getting arrested.
” He drops the coin purse. It lands lightly, more leather sound than metal.
“Don’t insult my morals. I didn’t do a thing to you. ”
“You still undressed me.”
“No, the innkeeper did. You vomited on yourself in the lobby.”
I roll my eyes to distract from the heat in my cheeks. Yes, that tends to happen when Tipsy Claire sees burned bodies. I’m working on it.
“She changed you into clean garments from a rather expensive outfitter next door and took your clothes to the laundry. The only reason she didn’t call the Gendarmerie is because I explained the circumstances—minus your thievery—and showed her my slayer badge.
She still tied me up and burst through the door every hour last night to ensure I behaved myself.
Thankfully this was the last room available, or she would’ve charged me for an additional one.
” He opens one tired eye, sizing me up. “You owe me seventy silver lunes, by the way.”
My pride takes a kick to the stomach. That’s enough coin to purchase a decent saddle.
“Where are my belongings?” I challenge him. Besides my clothes, I had a satchel. It held my coin purse, a map of towns I visited, a flask, riding breeches, and sleep powder. I can’t leave without my sleep powder. That’s a black-market sedative. Months could pass before I find another dealer.
“The innkeeper took them. Apparently, to keep me from stealing from you.” He huffs. “No justice.”
“Why don’t you turn me in? Get your justice.”
“Because you can pay me back with information. If I like what I hear.” Abel props an elbow on his knee and aims his sharp blue stare at me. “Tell me who the dragon is.”
Aha! If fuzzy memory serves, I did tell him I knew the true identity of the dragon that attacked Bourlin. I was not entirely hopeless last night; I snagged the only slayer in the kingdom willing to cure dragons.
“You want to find my dragon?” I ask. “You’re certain?”
“For a proper bounty.”
The answer throws me like a bucking horse. There’s only one reason he would seek a bounty. He isn’t here to cure the dragon.
He’s here to kill it.
Somewhere along the line, he ceased his research.
Why?
I clench the moondagger’s hilt. Considering the damage to his reputation, it’s possible that he’s only pretending to return to his slayer duties. That way, the Slayers Guild can’t ban him from using their resources to identify victims of the curse.
The safest route for me is to lie until I can coax the truth from him.
I avert my gaze in a faux display of shame. “To be honest, I don’t know the dragon that attacked Bourlin. Just a dragon. And I don’t know the dragon’s name.”
He tips his head back and groans. “Noctu, end me now.”
“I’m sorry for deceiving you.” I sniffle. “It’s just that I’ve been looking for you for so long. I needed you to stay.”
“Me?” He frowns. “Why me, specifically?”
“Your kill record is perfectly serviceable for my purposes,” I say, deflecting the question, then dare to ask: “Or are you still attempting to cure dragons?”
His jaw tightens, and he looks away. Not a word passes between us. No indication of whether his brother is alive and well or dead in the form of dragon bones. Frustration fights to make it to my face, but I maintain my neutral expression.
If he doesn’t want to talk about the cure right now, that’s fine. I’ll gain his trust, then see if he deserves mine.
I try a new angle. “I don’t have enough coin for anyone else.”
“You assume I come cheap.”
“Don’t you?”
He rubs the space between his eyebrows. “Yes. I do. Explain, please. I’m here to help.”
I resist the twitch that pulls at the corner of my lips. Help? That’s how he’s framing it? Very well. I’ll give the cute boy with the gentleman’s moral compass the damsel he wants.
I lower my gaze and hunch my shoulders, revealing a deeper view of the scar tracing the curve of my breast. A tiny change to feign vulnerability, with a touch of seduction to chip at his logic. The trick is not to overdo it.
“About six months ago, a dragon killed my papa. It slashed at me before it burned down my village.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Which village?”
“Sellecastel.” I allow myself a small, sad smile. The best part about this act? I don’t even have to lie. “My hometown.”
“You’re certain the dragon wasn’t slain?”
I nod. “That’s why I approached you last night.”
“The way you acted suggested you had other motives.”
“I’m sorry. I was drunk and desperate to keep your attention.” I give him a sharp stare of my own. “I’ll do anything to put that dragon’s head on a spike.”
He tilts his head. “Most people report dragons to the Gendarmerie.”
“That’s why I’ve been stealing.” I play the pity card. “Can you blame me? You slayers might as well be mercenaries with the prices you charge. There’s no Gendarmerie left in Sellecastel to prepare a bounty. I’m the only survivor.”
His fingers curl toward the hint of a spare dagger in his boot. “You’re the sole survivor?”
My heartbeat quickens. He could’ve cut himself free, but he didn’t.
“Don’t look at me like that. Just because I survived doesn’t mean I’m the dragon,” I snap. “My papa was the best horse trainer in the kingdom. He taught me everything I know. Controlling a spooking horse well enough to escape was all in a day’s work for me.”
“Yet you don’t know the dragon’s human identity.”
I clench the stolen dagger. The razor-sharp edge kisses my wrist. “No.”
“It was close enough to scar you.”
“I know which direction it went. I’ve been tracking it.”
“You?”
“Don’t look down on me. I’m not fluent in the Old Tongue, but I studied enough to understand your rules of dragon hunting. I can assist with a hunt.”
His brow furrows. Of course he’s skeptical. But I need him to believe me. I need him to think my information is worth pursuing.
Someone rattles the door’s lock. The tinderfox—Lucy, was it?—startles awake on the pillow beside mine. Abel hobbles to his still-bound feet. When he does, the door opens, and the bristled end of a broom forces him to hop back.
“Good morning, madame.” He sighs.
My clothes and satchel hang from the innkeeper’s arm. She gives me a grandmotherly smile that I return. I’m not one to refuse good favor.
“Feeling better?” She shoves Abel’s belongings toward the pillows. Lucy’s gold fur flashes and unleashes a burst of warmth as she skitters up against the headboard.
I accept my clothes, careful to keep the dagger hidden. “Yes, madame. Sorry for the trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” She cuts Abel’s bonds with a kitchen knife, then jabs her broom at him. “You’ve done your part, slayer. Get out.”
“My name is Abel.”
“The Estellio name earns no favor in my inn. Out.”