Chapter Twenty-Six Abel #2
Blood gushes from the eye socket and spurts down the front of my uniform. The dragon shrieks, then slams to the ground. My boots follow with a bone-jarring thud, but I don’t risk assuming I’ve won. With a war cry of my own, I shove the sword hilt-deep.
His huffing nostrils relax. The mouth muscles slacken around his bared teeth. I rip the sword out, allow the blood to spatter my chest, and stagger backward. Half to assess, half to feign my own injuries as planned.
Gasping, I abandon the sword. Fatigue pushes into my muscles. Dragon blood drips down my front and speckles my boots. With sore arms, I remove my helmet, then circle the dragon to inspect him for any sign of life. A twitch, a breath, a hint of steam.
The steam thins, then stops flowing entirely from the malformed wing.
Forcing a long, deep inhale, I accept the sight I laid before me.
Gérard Dupont, the first victim of my mercy.
And yet I almost failed him. If it hadn’t been for that last moment when he was distracted, I would have died.
He would’ve woken up knowing he’d killed again.
But I did it. My hunting method worked. As close as that fight ended up, the advantages I gained from his cooperation were more than worth it.
This can change slayer culture for good.
Lucy eats the last embers, then sprawls flat on her belly, chin to the grass like a tired hunting hound.
“Thanks, Luce,” I tell her. “You’re a lifesaver.”
I peel off my overcoat, then pretend to examine my own body for damage. The dragon blood that sprayed my neck during the kill strike conveniently soaks the collar of my tunic. I clutch the side of my neck, as if to stanch my own bleeding.
If I’m going to fake my death, I’d better make it look good.
Thud.
I tip backward, then hit the ground. A needling sensation spikes down my biceps and up the side of my neck as I push to all fours. My sight blurs, but not quite enough to miss the blood that snakes down the bolt lodged in my shoulder. It drips into the grass between my splayed fingers.
Pat. Pat. Pat.
I’m shot.
Someone shot me with a crossbow.
Lucy alerts me to movement in the line of trees. I follow her stare. Twenty, thirty blue-cloaked figures emerge from the trees clutching crossbows and sickles, quiet behind their masks of crescent-moon smiles. Silverwolves flank them, snarling and eager to kill.
What happened to the Gendarmerie?
A musket goes off as if in answer, but I’m far from saved. A bolt whistles past my ear. I try to crawl away, but I pitch forward. Air bursts from my lungs as my chest connects with the ground. Lucy pants and paces. The slick texture of her tongue barely registers on my cheek.
Drugged. I’ve been drugged.
My arm trembles as I reach for the dragon’s right wing.
Draping it across Lucy and me like a shield is all I can do.
Bolts puncture the thick hide in front of my face but don’t pass all the way through.
My hand doubles in front of me. It grows heavy and aimless and refuses to reach for the sword I cast aside.
Hoofbeats thunder. Garbled shouts fill the air.
Curdled screams, too, as silverwolves growl and yelp.
Bolts crack in all directions. Musket shots scent the air with gunpowder.
Metal clashes. How long will this last? The suns blur.
I lose track of the minutes. All I can do is sag against the dragon’s ribs and stare as Lucy crawls into my lap. Is she shaking, or am I?
“Abel!”
The shout hits me as if calling from underwater. I blink, slowly. So slowly. The world shrinks to that voice. Claire’s voice. My imagination, of course. She promised she wouldn’t be here. Good thing, too. She can’t save me from this.
“Abel!”
Lyle’s voice that time. My eyebrows twitch.
The dragon’s wing pulls back like a curtain. Sunslight glares into my itchy eyes as I squint at the silhouette that kneels before me. A cool hand touches my feverish cheek. My head pounds from the shout of my name. Abel, Abel, Abel.
“Abel, stay awake. Lyle!” Claire screams over her shoulder. She’s a blur of dark hair and suede coat. Gendarmes on horseback gallop in the background. Silverwolves leap out of the way. Red streaks chase blue streaks deeper into the maze of trees. “Lyle, hurry and help me with him!”
“Marshal Bard is bringing the stretcher,” Lyle shouts from somewhere distant. Then he’s beside me in minutes, seconds, I can’t tell when. Since always, I suppose. My best friend.
“Your mother,” I rasp.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asks. “Do you feel pain?” He peels my tunic back and presses a swath of fabric around the bolt lodged in my shoulder, but at this point I don’t feel anything.
Another bolt thuds into the dead dragon’s flank to my right. Claire yelps when a second one rips through her skirt and grazes her thigh. She gasps and presses a palm to it.
“Gods, Claire,” Lyle whispers. “You’re—”
“Help him!” she exclaims.
My eyebrows twitch, the closest thing to a frown I can manage. She and Lyle exchange terse, quiet words. Is she hurt?
I attempt to sit up, then wince at a throb of pain. My heart pounds against my ribs, working overtime to power my lungs, my mind, my life.
“Stay relaxed or the drug will move faster,” she says.
“Lift him on three,” Lyle says. “One, two—”
They haul me to my feet. My knees won’t lock. I’m overheating and shivering at the same time. An assassin runs past, away from a red blur. I squint after the figures, but all colors shift and churn. My eyelids droop. Where am I? What am I doing?
The dragon lies beside me, too weak to move. Micah. Micah is hungry. I need to feed him. A deer. No, a fawna. I can’t rest yet. I need to hunt a fawna and bring it here to Micah. He needs his energy, and we both could use a little luck.
“Don’t sleep,” a distant voice says.
“Stay with us,” says the other.
Sky and trees. A carriage ceiling. Murmurs from a bustling crowd. Gray walls and a bright lamp above my face. White-uniformed figures that lean over me.
I try to move. Hands hold me down. A wet cloth covers my mouth. A flicker of clarity accompanies a sharp, sweet smell.
Micah.
My mind tumbles backward—to Micah chained to the cavern walls. Micah’s dragon body, unmoving. The fawna I hunted that bright morning heavy on my shoulders. Fresh blood, slick down my back.
“Micah?” I say. He doesn’t react. I drop the fawna in front of him. Sit on the cavern floor beside him. Wait.
Wait.
Wait for a breath that never comes.