Chapter Twenty-Two Claire
If the slayer so determined to set a record for the number of targets slain in one day were not already dead, I would sentence him to the guillotine. I hereby declare a minimum requirement of one slayer per dragon when using the dragon pits.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Claire
Faire la Déroute is the tacky kind of charming.
Ringed slices of tree trunks serve as tables.
The bar could use a polish. Bronze statues of deer guard the exit.
Wildflowers adorn their antlers—an obvious attempt to use the upcoming holiday’s most common decoration to make the bucks look like fawnas.
The lively crowd makes it easy to casually observe Gérard’s interactions with others.
He’s relatively good-looking—stocky build, short beard, and a slight bump on his nose that’s more endearing than a flaw.
Nine years my senior, and according to the witness interviews among Hanna’s notes, survivors who knew Gérard called him a womanizer with a tendency to throw the family money around.
That image cracks as the night deepens. He chats with almost everyone.
Old men, young women, couples even. More than once, he purchases a glass of whichever wine his conversation partner has deemed their favorite.
Eventually, everyone thanks him and mingles with their original company.
Gérard watches each person turn their back with strained eyes.
He’s not a shallow, shameless flirt. He’s friendly and generous. He wants human connection, however temporary.
Watching him squeezes my heart. I look into my half-full glass, wishing Tipsy Claire could take over for me.
After a few refills, it’s clear alcohol’s effect is fading on me, just like sleep powder will.
To add insult to injury, every time I swirl my glass, the deep ruby color spawns visions of blood on my hands.
I should’ve ordered a white.
Across the room, Abel gives me a signal—tapping his drink menu—to bring him more details of what I’ve observed.
Impatience sours my wine as I stalk over, anticipating similar questions as before.
What did he say to that woman? What is he laughing about?
Why did he buy that man so many drinks? Questions from a slayer who can’t reconcile Diu’s curse with the man he sees.
“I told you everything I witnessed,” I hiss. “Face it. Gérard is a pleasant individual. Hanna’s observations are half-truths filtered through slayer bias.”
“You still haven’t spoken to him directly.”
“What information are you digging for, exactly?”
Abel’s narrow gaze slides to Gérard, who sits alone. Patrons have begun to filter out.
“Are you looking for a moral reason to slay him?” I ask.
His jaw clenches as if bracing for a slap. Perfect guess, then, if I may say so myself.
I swallow more wine. “What I don’t understand is why you won’t simply have him arrested. Pick a dragon pit and get it over with.”
“I’m not ready for that.” Abel thumbs the rim of his water glass in contemplation. “Ask him if he’s ever met a slayer,” he says. “See how he reacts.”
“What for?”
“I want to know if he’d be receptive to talking to me directly.”
“Without the Gendarmerie to back you up?” I ask, incredulous. Dragons and slayers are mortal enemies. Gérard would run the first chance he gets. Abel should know that.
The lanky bartender mops the floors and yawns as he announces, “Ten minutes to closing.”
At the now-empty bar, Gérard’s shoulders hunch further.
“We’ve wasted too much time.” I sigh. “I’ll do what you asked. Just keep away and let me work.”
“Signal me over the second you need me.”
“I’m not a damsel.”
“You’re not alone. We’re a team, all right? Whether you hate me now or not.”
I am alone. I’m cursed.
The only person who might understand me is Gérard.
My face retains its air of calm as I spin on my heel and make my merry way to Gérard.
Along with a full bottle, an array of tasting glasses sits on the bar in front of him.
All empty save for the single shot glass he toys with.
No obvious taste preference, it seems. Just an alcohol-resistant dragon trying to chase the buzz.
I set my glass beside Gérard’s and sit on the barstool. He looks up from his hunch. Despite his bloodshot eyes, an unrestrained smile erases his previous expression, like a lonely child making his first friend at church.
“Wow. You hold your drinks almost as well as I do,” I tease.
He gestures with his thumb over his shoulder. “I’d challenge you to take back that ‘almost,’ but that bastard cut me off.”
The bartender’s back is turned, but a flinch hitches his mopping rhythm. I scoot my barstool closer to Gérard until we’re shoulder to shoulder. If the bartender can hear this conversation, so can Abel.
“That bartender is mean.” I pout. “He cut me off too.” I feign gripping Gérard’s shoulder for balance and yell at the bartender, “You get out of here, bastard!”
Abel raises a quizzical eyebrow at me. The bartender’s mopping quickens, and he shuffles farther from us.
Gérard erupts into a fit of snickers, obviously appreciating my adoption of his insult.
Finally, a reason to grin. If there’s one thing the Dames Blanches taught me about creating connection, it’s that echoing someone else’s words makes the target feel understood.
I tap his bottle. “I’d say you have a few mouthfuls left here. Care to split it?”
“Delighted to.”
The wine comes out red.
Blood again. My once-sister’s blood. My balance sways. Gérard’s hand finds the small of my back, keeping me centered on the barstool.
“Maybe we deserve to be cut off,” Gérard laughs.
I open my mouth. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
“Oh, ma chérie,” Gérard croons. “It’s just the booze.”
He offers me a handkerchief. I take it, reassured of my character assessment. He’s still a mark, though—for my purposes, not Abel’s. Trust must be gained if I want him to hear my offer to take the sleep powder.
I raise my glass. Patience. “Cheers to Ascension Day, Monsieur…?”
“Gérard Dupont.” He clinks his glass to mine. “Your name?”
“Marie.” The alias I chose after reading Hanna’s notes about Gérard’s family background. There’s nothing like a same-name coincidence to fabricate a connection.
“Noctu be damned. That’s my little sister’s—”
He tries to turn his whole body toward me but slips from his barstool. His drink-holding arm sweeps the glasses off the countertop. The room flips sideways. Holding my hip, he drags us both to the floor, dropping us onto a heap of overturned barstools and broken glass.
I scramble out of Gérard’s grip and sit up. Blood leaks between my fingers where the stem of a wine glass pierced through my palm. Abel shoots to his feet, hands planted on his table. I shake my head at him and clench my teeth against the pain, slipping into a perfect look of calm.
Gérard kneels in front of me, which blocks Abel from view, and takes my wrist in a vise grip.
Heart in my throat, I pull against him, but his thick fingers clamp tighter.
I watch with horror as my skin betrays me, pushing the glass out before it heals with a wisp of steam.
Just like Micah’s body did with foreign objects lodged in his back.
Gérard’s bloodshot eyes widen. “You—”
“Leave her be, Gérard.”
Abel’s footsteps draw near. I yank my hand from Gérard’s slackened grip, wiping my blood with the underside of my skirt and springing to my feet in a single movement.
Gérard blinks slowly between me and Abel, shoulders curling, anger and fear flushing his cheeks. “Who are you people?”
“Our fall was an accident, kind monsieur. Gérard didn’t mean to,” I say to Abel with a singsong tone. I offer Gérard a hand up. If Abel takes a hint and leaves, I can salvage this. I can talk to Gérard alone, dragon to dragon.
“My name is Abel Estellio,” Abel says, flashing his slayer badge. “Claire is my assistant.”
“You said your name was Marie!” Gérard exclaims, jumping to his feet.
All the human connection I won from him is lost. He’ll never trust me enough to accept the sleep powder now.
All I can say is “I’m sorry.”
Abel’s hand on Gérard’s shoulder turns him and me into stone.
“There are plainclothes gendarmes stationed outside,” he lies. “You have no chance of escape. We know you’re a dragon, Gérard Dupont.”
The bartender drops his mop. Gérard’s frightened eyes narrow on me. Slowly, I draw my arm behind my back, the one with the blood spots on the sleeve. Don’t tell Abel. Don’t tell don’t tell don’t tell, please don’t!
“What will you do with me, slayer?” Gérard asks, though his stare doesn’t leave mine. “Display me in the square so the masses can spit on me?”
“Come sit at my table.” Abel’s attention flits to me. “Both of you. I want to explain something.”
Both of us? I follow Abel and Gérard to the table, feigning innocence. He gestures for me to sit next to him, across from his prey.
“My journal, please,” he says to me.
I hesitate, unsure why it’s necessary, but then dig through my satchel and offer it to him. While he unwraps it, my carefully crafted persona cracks under Gérard’s scrutiny. With Abel’s eyes down, I give the subtlest shake of my head.
“What will you do with me?” Gérard repeats. He laces his fingers together in front of his mouth, terror clear in his white knuckles. The glassy look in his red eyes quivers, sending a wave of guilt through me for not alerting him to a slayer’s presence.
I risk a glance at Abel’s expression. He’s watching Gérard, fingers resting on his journal’s cover. Then his icy features melt into something…sympathetic.
He lifts a hand for the bartender’s attention. “Will you bring Gérard a glass of water, please?”
The bartender’s complexion turns ghostly, but he moves quickly. Water sloshes over the cup’s lip in his shaky hands. Gérard accepts it with a nod, as if he savors this meager show of human decency.
“What are you doing, Abel?” I whisper. My mouth is dry. I’m tempted to ask for a glass of water for myself, but frequent drinking is a nervous tell.