Chapter Sixteen Abel #2
But Micah hadn’t done anything out of excessive greed. He’d barely even known about Madame Afi’s offer to apprentice him. If that knowledge was all it took for him to succumb to the curse, then my role as a slayer—as an enforcer of good morals—didn’t make sense.
Either Micah was a sinner or dragons were not sinners at all.
Whom had I been killing, if not the greediest among us?
A crinkling noise jolts me from my thoughts. I snatch a dagger from my belt. Claire sets a large brown paper bag on the dresser between our beds.
“Why so jumpy?” she laughs, and opens the bag. “I don’t bite very hard.”
“I didn’t hear you come in. Did you make contact with Lyle?”
“He’s safe, but Madame Afi’s captors slipped him a second demand while he was at the church.”
My heart jolts. “What do they want?”
“Your location plan for Ignition Day.” She waves me off before I run with that statement. “Focus on your hunt. I already told Marshal Bard.”
I toss my dagger aside. “I’m sure he appreciated the complication.”
“My pretty face softened the blow.” She winks. “Just figure out your plan for that dragon. He wants as much advance notice as possible to form a strategy.”
“I’ve barely thought about this dragon at all.”
“I know it’s hard, but it doesn’t help Madame Afi to worry,” she replies. “It’ll take time for the Gendarmerie to sort through the moving parts. Just do your normal job, then leave the criminal side to the experts.”
Normal. Right.
I tip my head back against the headboard. The smell of fresh bread wafts. Lucy perks up from her place on Claire’s bed. She salivates as Claire reaches inside the bag.
We haven’t eaten since we boarded the carriage this morning. According to the clock tower outside, the hour nears two. “What did you buy?” I ask.
“The best onion soup in Jardincourt—so claims the sign outside La Cuisine du Roi.” She says the name with the thick Old Tongue accent and makes a showy reveal of a boule loaf. “Complete with fresh-baked bread bowls.”
“Did you pay for it?”
“Only yours. Mine was on the house after I found a bug in it.”
Found. Right. “Is free food the reason you’re so chipper?”
“If there’s anything you should know about me, it’s that I adapt quickly.”
That’s quite the pivot, considering the pushback she gave over putting the hunt for her dragon on hold. Good to know she’s not plotting sabotage. Probably.
“Keep an eye on Lucy,” I warn, just as Lucy perches her front paws on the dresser. “She’ll steal if you’re not paying attention.”
Claire rips off a piece of bread and pops it into her mouth. A subtle “Mm!” marks her approval. “Do tinderfoxes eat human food?” she asks.
“It’s like a treat. Don’t give her too much.”
“Ah.” She rips a piece for Lucy, shoos her back onto the bed, and makes her sit before letting her have it. “One for ma Luciole.”
Bread in mouth, Lucy dives beneath the pillows, leaving no sign of herself except smacking sounds as she chews.
The notes strewn across my comforter hook my attention again—and the sinking feeling in my gut kills my appetite.
Claire hums as she fills the bread bowls with soup, unaware.
At least she’s finding enjoyment in Jardincourt’s cuisine.
I suppose opportunities like this are the reason she stopped complaining about the detour.
I, on the other hand, can’t bring myself to appreciate the small things.
Not until Gérard Dupont stops reading like a human and starts looking like a profit.
“Abel?”
Claire’s weight sinks down next to me on the edge of the bed. I look up at her with a start. The voices of passersby and merchants rush through the open window.
“I called your name twice.” She sets my soup on the dresser. “Eat before your bowl gets soggy.”
“Right. Thank you.”
“Don’t forget your napkin.” She dangles one in front of my face, meanwhile licking a dollop of soup from her thumb. “Every time we eat you never forget your napkin.”
I grab it. “You just have bad etiquette.”
She frowns at the notes. “Are you nervous?”
“Yes. It’s typical,” I lie, flattening the napkin on my lap. “My job is dangerous. How I feel beforehand doesn’t change my ability to perform it.”
I can’t tell if I’m trying to convince her or myself.
Perhaps both. Before Micah turned, I was eager to slay every dragon I could.
I haven’t slain one since. I need to find my way back to that eager mindset or I’ll fail to slay Gérard.
Worse, Claire might cut her losses and hire a slayer with a better record.
“I wasn’t insulting your skill set. You’re allowed to have feelings.” Claire pops another mouthful of bread. “I wouldn’t have hired you if I didn’t think you could do it.”
The reassurance barely registers. How could it? I was trained. I was among the best. Yet when the job turned personal, I froze up and got my parents and my familiar killed.
My eyes are skipping along Hanna’s notes for the fourth time when a soup-soaked chunk of bread appears in front of my face.
“Eat,” Claire says, waggling it.
“Give me a minute. And use a spoon for once.”
“Can’t slay dragons on an empty stomach.”
“Later.”
She waves the mouthful in front of my eyes.
I try to read around it. The more I avoid, the more she leans against me.
I’ve seen enough of her tricks to know she’s challenging me, and she won’t stop until someone wins.
Even Lucy thinks it’s a game. She abandons another attempt at Claire’s bread bowl to jump on my notes and roll belly-up.
Second rule of dragon hunting: Establish limits and keep the target within them.
“Fine,” I relent, grabbing Claire’s wrist. I bite the piece right out of her fingers.
Heat spreads through my face immediately.
Stupid. Stupid. Logically it made sense to disarm her, in a way, but I didn’t establish a limit. I crossed my own professional boundary.
What other rule could I have employed? Rule three: Anticipate the target’s patterns and counter accordingly?
I don’t know what I’m doing. The rules blur when I’m with her.
It takes everything in me to keep chewing, eyes down, and not to smack myself in the face from humiliation.
Noctu end me. I wish I could throw myself back into the Tordou River.
I clear my throat and reach for a new page to memorize. “Happy? I have work to do.”
Claire’s hand finds my cheek.
Everything stills. The teasing smile is gone from her lips. We’re nose to nose, so close I can smell fresh bread on her breath and count the freckles on her cheeks. Her brown eyes lower—as if she’s looking at my mouth.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
Claire freezes, wide eyes locking onto mine. I turn away. It’s my fault for instigating this, but—
“This isn’t professional,” I say.
Her hand slides away from my cheek. Confidence returns to her demeanor as she tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I noticed you shaved. It’s adorable.”
Claire takes her soup to the window and sits on the sill, gazing out at the city as she eats. It’s a five-story drop. She’s unfazed, zero sense of danger. Something tells me she doesn’t value her life much.
“I get it, you know,” she says. “You wouldn’t have anything to do with a thief if you could help it.”
I straighten, unsure what the right words are for this. “That’s not why I—”
“I know. I got carried away.” She rips a chunk of bread and scoops another mouthful of soup. I can’t tell if the waver in her voice is real or if it’s because her mouth is full. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
I’ve never been astute with my emotions, let alone other people’s. But I don’t need to be an expert to understand that Claire, for all her shamelessness and entitlement, feels guilty for her sins, too.