Chapter Twenty-Five Claire
I am afraid my brother is correct, to some degree; magic was too much for your species. A change to your way of life is necessary.
—Apology from Diu to the Immortals, before revoking their magic
Translated from The Tale of Stars (L’Histoire des étoiles), Part III: The Age of Mortality
Chapter Twenty-Five
Claire
Friends and families hurry toward their perfect viewing spot for the Ascension Day parade. The crowd bobs and weaves as I search the heads for Abel’s golden hair.
Cold afternoon air chapping my lips, I steal a sip of hot apple cider with a second cup warm in my other hand. The sweetness is sharp on my tongue in the best way, like a bite of Papa’s favorite red apples. We picked them together every year.
Soon, Papa. I’ll be with you.
“Claire!” Abel shouts. He raises a hand above his head.
I reach his side, where he stands on the street corner across from the clock tower. Gendarmes navigate the elaborately dressed crowd. They patrol the parade route in pairs, but a handful remain here with their muskets propped on their shoulders.
I offer him a cup. “One for Monsieur Abel.”
Abel stops rubbing his bare hands together to accept his cider. His reluctance to spend stolen coin on hot drinks faded fast. Ten minutes outside and he stopped feeling his fingers.
“Who was right?” I tease.
“Thank you,” he says, relenting.
“That’s not my name.”
“Don’t push it.”
He turns his sidelong glance back to the crowd across the street, but I catch the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Is Gérard still there?” I ask.
Abel gestures across the street with his steaming cup. “To the right of that lamppost. The gendarmes say he’s complying.”
Aha! There’s our dragon. Gérard waits for the parade beside a glamorously dressed woman. He “converses” with a mime in exaggerated gestures. Meanwhile, the woman attempts to hide her blush with the wide brim of her pink satin hat.
Over the past few days, Marshal Bard incorporated my play dead idea into his rescue plan.
The gendarmes will block Jardincourt National Park to visitors tonight, lie in wait at key watch points, then allow Abel and Gérard inside before daybreak.
Once the suns eclipse and the deed is done, the Gendarmerie will “recover” Abel’s body, then arrest any assassin who tries to sneak away.
Hopefully it works.
“Gérard appears to be enjoying himself,” I remark. “All things considered.”
“Between you and me, he’s lucky I found him under these circumstances,” Abel says.
“You mean Ascension Day? Or with a hostage attached to his death?”
“Both. The population influx increases the odds of multiple new dragons spawning in the city at once. If it weren’t for that, Marshal Bard might’ve petitioned the Guild to replace me with a resident slayer who was willing to take Gérard to a dragon pit,” he explains.
“The conditions for Madame Afi’s return probably tipped any indecision in my favor. ”
“Luck or no, I’m sure Gérard appreciates what you’ve done.”
A sense of kinship sinks into me as Gérard and I trade nods. Two dragons, victims of Diu’s curse, counting down the days until death—yet thankful for the kindhearted slayer fate has placed in our path.
I sip my cider and relish the flood of warmth. “Mm!”
Abel huffs a little laugh.
“The cinnamon is a good touch,” I say, licking my lips. He looks away and takes a giant gulp to hide his blush. I pat his back as he coughs. “I hope Lyle is coping. I’m sure he’s nervous about tomorrow.”
“He’s probably worried himself sick that his mother won’t survive this.”
As for me, fear for tomorrow—for my slayer’s life—doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the festive atmosphere today. If anything, I should. It’s my last Ascension Day.
“Poor Lucy must be bored,” I say.
“Let’s buy her a treat on the way back. She’ll give us attitude all evening if we don’t.”
I press a hand to my chest. “Righteous Abel Estellio condones the use of our funds on nonessentials?”
“It is…technically an essential purchase. I can’t have her disobeying commands during the Ignition.” Abel flexes his fingers, red from the cup’s heat. “Would you mind picking something up for her on the way back?”
“Already done. There was a pretzel cart on the way to the café.” I pat the lump beneath my coat—my satchel, stuffed with the paper bag full of pretzel bites inside.
“Don’t judge. You’re the one who said it’s technically an essential purchase.
Just because I want to spoil her doesn’t make that any less true. ”
“No judgments here.”
He reaches into his inner coat pocket and draws out a dessert plate–sized tin. Bronze piping borders the navy surface. étoile Chocolatier—the shop name?—is stamped in white cursive letters beneath it.
“This is for—”
The crowd’s cheers cut him off. Drumrolls rattle the storefront windows. I stand on my toes to look past the countless heads that shift for a glimpse up the street, where the marching band starts. The final drumbeat makes way for the first blare of trumpets.
Abel grumbles. I giggle and cup my ear. He leans close, and his breath on my cheek sends a shiver of warmth through my skin.
“This is for you,” he shouts over the noise.
“When did you find time to buy this?” I’m half shouting as I take the tin.
“I may have slipped away from my post for a few moments.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Look at you, breaking all kinds of rules lately.”
“I bought this with my own coin. It isn’t much, but I wanted to express my gratitude. You gave me confidence to face the Ignition again, Claire. That’s three times now you’ve saved my life.”
My laugh sounds forced. “Don’t count your fawnas yet.”
Everything I did was out of selfishness, and he’s thanking me for that?
I shove my cup into his free hand and pop the tin open.
Beneath the wax paper is a pile of…What kind of sweet are these?
They’re flat but thick, with dark chocolate on the bottom, white chocolate on top.
Tiny salt crystals dust the dark side like stars.
“Sky chocolate. A seasonal favorite,” he explains. “Try it.”
I bite off a corner with an easy pop. It’s bitter, sweet, and salty at once, like delicious chaos on my tongue.
I make a show of mulling over the flavor, then lick the salt from my fingertips, one by one—but my bravado slips.
My vision blurs. It takes every ounce of my effort to smile my thanks instead of cry.
“I love it. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” I say truthfully. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The first float—a simple arch, with a black curtain embroidered with stars—passes by.
Two men emerge dressed as the Gods, in robes of red and blue.
Diu wears a crown of sunsrays. Noctu’s crown looks like shooting stars.
The second float carries Jardincourt’s latest rotation of cardinals.
They throw silver confetti at the crowd, as if dispersing the celestial magic that created the Immortals.
The parade trudges on. I savor my treat.
Floats carry fake sword fights and red streamers for blood.
The felled warriors rise again and continue the carnage.
The portrayal of the Dark Days casts hesitation on the crowd, but once blue-and-red-flag twirlers follow—marking the sky changes of the Gods’ War—the true cheers begin.
The Ascension has occurred. Then come the mortal humans.
Dancers toss winter wildflowers from a float of a giant fawna.
Children carry a banner for their orphanage.
One boy wanders from his group, and an accompanying priest grabs the back of his collar to keep him from slipping in icy gutter slush.
“Promise me you’ll stay at the hotel while I slay Gérard,” Abel says suddenly.
“I will. We’ve been over this.”
“You didn’t listen back in Ravinfort. But you can’t save me from a dragon. And if things go wrong with the assassins, your presence would add a hazardous variable.”
Laughter erupts from the crowd. Men dressed in oversized silverwolf costumes raise their paws and growl at children lining the street. They jump-scare their parents instead.
“Promise me, Claire.”
“I consume sleep powder the night before every Ignition,” I admit, then add a lie of omission to defer questions. “It allows me to sleep through my fear.”
“So that’s what those jars are for.” His brow furrows. “I’m sorry. I should’ve anticipated you’d use something like that.”
“Now do you see? I don’t want to interfere.” I hold eye contact to convince him. “I have a personal stake in your success, remember?”
His stare lingers for a moment, as if searching for hints of deception. He’s terrible at reading ill intent, but even if he’s picked up a few tells from me, he won’t find any deceit.
His expression softens. “Thank you.”
I hold out a piece of sky chocolate for him to bite. “Your turn.”
He tries to give my drink back, but I lift both hands, emphasizing that mine are occupied too.
“Don’t tell me you’re too embarrassed to accept a little help,” I tease.
He bites the whole piece out of my hand instead. He gestures with both ciders and lifts his eyebrows pleadingly. Take your cup back, he seems to say. I stifle a laugh and release him from his misery.
We watch the parade. King Philippe and Queen Danielle, dressed in finery, wave from a silver carriage, surrounded by gendarmes and the purple-uniformed Royal Guard.
A dragon float comes next.
A slayer pretends to attack the model dragon in various ways. Peak excitement rouses the people around us, so passionate that a father with a young girl on his shoulders nearly knocks me aside for a better view.
Florent finds enjoyment in the sport of hunting dragons. Hunting me. Their glee presses in. And then come chants of slayers’ names. Their heroes. Hanna du Fay. étienne Houdin. Abel Estellio’s name is conspicuously absent.
“You have a large mountain to climb,” I whisper. “Their minds won’t change easily.”
Abel smiles. “It’ll be worth the effort.”
The tension within me dissolves. Once Gérard and I are gone, Abel will have two new kills under his belt to prove that his compassionate hunting method works.
I’m okay with my fate.
I really am.
A tiny speck of white floats down in front of my face. It lands on my hand and melts. I look to the sky. Snowflakes fall over us and cling to Abel’s hair. I tuck the tin under my arm and turn my palm up. The parade falls away while I catch as many as I can. I’ve never seen snow before.
Abel laughs, watching me. It’s rare for him to laugh—really, fully. This might be the first time I’ve heard him do that.
I raise a challenging eyebrow. “What?”
He shakes his head, turns back to the parade, and sips his drink. “Nothing.”