Chapter Twenty-Three Claire
A sister has fallen at Le Miroir d’Ivoire. Please take care of her.
—Anonymous dove message to unknown Dames Blanches leadership
Chapter Twenty-Three
Claire
Abel waits in the glow of the lamp outside. Mild relief settles across his handsome features when he sees me. I pull my hood over my head to hide my scar from passersby. The fur lining wards off the night’s biting chill.
“Was everything all right?” he asks.
“He wanted to know if you were trustworthy.” A white lie can’t hurt. “I told him you were.”
“That’s an odd thing to ask a slayer’s assistant.”
“It’s different when it comes from a woman. You know how these things go.” I wave him off. “Is Monsieur Abel jealous?”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He rests a guiding hand on the small of my back and starts down the road. My cheeks heat and I look away.
This is my plan. Not a con, not self-torture, but a peaceful wait. It doesn’t need to be anything more. As long as I have Abel—this Abel—I can enjoy life for one more month, knowing I will atone for my sins when the time is right. I’m back on a moral path Papa would be proud of, helping Madame Afi.
When Abel’s hand disappears into his coat pocket, the warmth of his touch cools. A familiar pang lodges in my heart, beneath my scar. I rub at it, but it doesn’t fully fade.
“Abel,” I say.
He halts a step after I do and turns toward me.
The lamplit road casts his face in shadow, and without Lucy or the dragon skull to give him away, he doesn’t stand out among the handful of late-night wanderers.
To anyone’s eye he’s a normal man in upscale attire on his way back to his town home, not a slayer burdened with murder.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
“There’s something you need to know.”
Anne-Sophie would admonish me for trusting anyone with my secrets.
“I…” I bite my lip. “I used to be a member of the Dames Blanches.”
Surprise lifts his eyebrow, though it’s mild. “Well, you had to have learned your methods somewhere. Why bring this up now?”
That’s the wrong secret. The wrong truth. The truth of my dragon identity sticks in my throat. I need to confess, but I feel so safe with him—so at peace—and I don’t want to ruin it.
“Some of my sisters were more…intense with their thievery. The brazen ones held people for ransom,” I offer instead. “So I know a thing or two about hostage schemes. But I can’t make countermeasure recommendations to the Gendarmerie without drawing scrutiny.”
“I can,” he says eagerly. “What do you recommend?”
“No criminal makes a move as big as the assassins did in Ravinfort without desperation involved. You need to give them what they want, or they’ll only escalate.”
He crosses his arms. “Gérard’s death, right?”
“Your death. This is about censoring your research.”
“We haven’t officially confirmed that.”
“Consider Ravinfort. Why slaughter that outpost specifically, if not for the fact that Lyle basically told everyone you’d found a cure?” I remind him. “We should operate under the assumption that they want you dead to prevent your knowledge from saving dragons.”
“But I can’t save dragons.”
“They don’t know that.”
“Maybe Hanna’s lead is a test, then. Slaying Gérard will prove I have no cure. Problem solved.”
“You’re still a witness to the slaughter of Ravinfort. They’ll want you dead for that.”
“So your recommendation is what? I die?”
“Boys. So dramatic.” I roll my eyes. “I’m telling you to stage your death after you kill Gérard. That’ll take the target off your back.”
“I’m not trained for acting. Even if I were, I still need to breathe. They’ll know I’m faking it.”
“You don’t need to stop breathing to make it believable.
” I poke his chest. “What you need is a full-scale theater production. What do you think the assassins will do if they see the Gendarmerie drape a white sheet over you? Emerge into broad daylight to examine your body, or slither back into hiding?”
“They’ll think I succumbed to my wounds and keep their distance. They’ll release Madame Afi, no questions asked.” His eyes widen. “But she’s a witness to her own kidnapping. They’ll kill her.”
“Very astute.” I smirk. “But we can prevent that. The assassins obviously value anonymity. Once you’re ‘dead,’ the Gendarmerie can swoop in and take prisoners, whose release can be leveraged for her safe return.”
“You think Marshal Bard would willingly let a criminal go free?”
“Under the right conditions. Don’t forget that we also need to expose their whole operation. Marshal Bard should consider offering immunity in exchange for selling out the others. Maybe even a monetary reward. The right incentive can prompt any criminal to betray their own.”
My Dames Blanches sisters are proof of that.
“Genius,” he marvels.
“Oh? I thought I was a criminal mastermind.”
“What’s the difference?” He laughs. “We should suggest this to Marshal Bard as soon as possible. I’m sure he’d like to finalize the plan before Ascension Day.”
Optimism brightens his expression, but the danger to Madame Afi sits in my chest like a stone. I wish there were a guarantee I could save her life to make up for the ones I took, but advice is all I can offer.
A scrape sounds from an alley behind us. I whirl and draw the dagger from my coat pocket. A cat hisses and flees to the opposite alley.
Cats, not killers. My heart—spare me—would do well to learn the difference.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Before we’re caught unawares.”
He offers his hand.
I shouldn’t take it. It’s too warm, too comforting, too addicting. I have a whole extra month of guilt to endure before I accept the judgment I deserve. At the same time, I just offered a strategy. Something good. Can’t I accept a little good in return?
I pocket the dagger and fit my palm—too perfectly—within his.