Chapter Twenty-Six Abel
A silverwolf’s first instinct is to camouflage itself. Attacks are unheard of, but it is best practice not to provoke wild animals.
—Visitors’ sign outside Jardincourt National Park
Chapter Twenty-Six
Abel
The icy grip of night clings to Jardincourt National Park, but sunsrays inevitably emerge victorious above the maple treetops. On the other side of the sky, the last traces of night fade into the rapidly brightening daylight.
A breeze rustles through the clearing, sending brittle leaves tumbling across the grass. Lucy bounds after them, unaware that I’ll need her fire-eating abilities in just a few minutes.
Gérard resigns himself to sit on the ground in front of me.
We’re alone—supposedly. Beyond the clearing, only gendarmes lie in wait amid the tangle of walking trails and dense maple trees.
A songbird-like whistle makes me flinch.
Marshal Bard told me the gendarmes would use birdcalls to signal safety, and musket shots for danger.
But after I hear owls, it’s an effort to shake off the sense of bad luck.
Everything feels like danger this close to the Ignition.
Less than five minutes until the suns eclipse.
In my gloved hands, Hanna’s shackle design opens with the squeak of a prison cell. I kneel in front of Gérard. He sits cross-legged, eyes on the sky instead of the blades. The bob of his throat betrays his neutral expression, as if his full-body trembles don’t give his fear away already.
“Is today a good day to slay?” Gérard asks.
“It’s a perfect day,” I reply. “Clear skies. Suns fully crested over the horizon. Makes for good lighting conditions.”
“That matters?”
“Absolutely.”
“What about the park? Did I choose a good location?”
“The grass is dewy after last night’s frost, but it’s not muddy. That creates decent footing that won’t easily spread fire.”
His nod is shallow. “Then luck is on our side today.”
I roll up his sleeve. Not to clamp the shackle around his bare skin, but to use it as a cushion against the blades. Once he transforms, the blades will shred through the cotton just as easily as they will slice through the limb. There’s no need to make him bleed or endure pain while he waits.
“How does that feel?” I ask, latching it. “Is the pressure too deep?”
“No. It feels stabilized.” He touches the moonmetal. “This is really happening, isn’t it? I only have minutes left to live.”
“Think of your sister,” I suggest. “Think of Marie.”
Empty consolation. Gérard, to his credit, humors me with a nod.
“Slayers say a prayer before we hunt. Would you like to pray with me?”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
I draw my moonmetal dagger and wrap his fingers around the hilt, then clasp mine around his.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ready.”
“Noctu, stay your hand. Diu, guide my blade,” I recite. “Return Gérard’s fire to the stars.”
“Return my fire to the stars,” he echoes, then scoffs. “I trust you to get rid of my fire more than I trust Diu to take it back.”
To trust me—a mere mortal—above Diu is blasphemous. Especially considering my history of attempting to seize control of his magic. But who am I to lecture Gérard on his beliefs? He’s about to die.
“Thank you for trusting me, Gérard.”
Collecting my pack and helmet from the grass, I head to the cover of a yellowing tree.
A quick draw of a dagger allows me to catch a reflection of the suns on the blade.
Less than a minute until they eclipse. My new crossbow clicks as I load it with a bolt.
Fastened overcoat—check. All my moondaggers wait sheathed in the strap across my chest. The moonmetal sword rests heavy on my back.
I call for Lucy, who trots to me with a leaf in her mouth.
I barred her from the fireplace last night.
I need her hungry if she’s going to have the appetite to keep the fires out of my way.
“We’ll save Madame Afi,” I tell Micah’s skull. “Just help me with Gérard first.”
Lucy drops the leaf and whimpers beside me. Her ears stiffen.
“Easy does it, Luce.” I scratch between her ears, the way Claire does. “It’s scary the first time, but I know you can do it.”
Finally, with a long, reluctant breath, I set my helmet over my head.
The sky flares with bright, white sunslight. Gérard’s face slackens; then time…accelerates.
Steam bursts from his every orifice. One blink and his eyes turn gold.
He doubles forward, spine ripping through his clothes, tail lashing.
At the same time his skull elongates and grows spiked horns.
From scapula to fingertip, the bones elongate and expand.
The fleshy red membranes of his wings peel away from his back and race down the enlarging biceps—
The shackle severs Gérard’s left wing mid-formation, true to Hanna’s design.
Blood sprays from a raw stump. Gérard’s human forearm, deformed with talons and a scattering of scales, flops into the grass.
The dragon’s first roar spikes into a squeal.
Without a second forelimb to lean on, he loses his balance and topples forward.
His scaly chest hits the ground with a crushing thud.
I make a break for him, crossbow raised, Lucy at my heel, approaching from behind the healthy wing that keeps me from sight.
This is nothing like my previous hunts. There’s no rush of danger. No exhilaration that comes with a critical strike. It feels too easy, like I’m cheating.
I can’t trust it.
Distance half closed, I take a knee, then fire. The bolt strikes the space between the throat and the chest, where the fire gland resides. Just in time. He coughs up embers that catch on the dry leaves.
“Lucy, eat!”
Lucy races dangerously close to the dragon’s forked tongue and devours the fire before it can spread. Blackened leaves and grass crunch under her quick feet. The dragon bares his fangs in a snarl.
“Come!”
I load a second bolt and fire. This time I miss the fire gland.
It hits the shoulder instead. Already the first bolt wiggles in his throat, the healing magic pushing it out from the inside.
I need more damage to that gland or I won’t be able to risk a closer approach.
A direct hit from dragon fire guarantees death.
Just as Lucy returns, the dragon sweeps his head in my direction. Unable to line up a shot, I sprint through the grass.
Shockingly, he heaves himself up, weight shifted to one side, haunches tucked as if preparing to lunge.
I circle left to force him off-balance—but the powerful tail sweeps toward me.
I dive over it, somersault to my feet, then fire my third bolt into his flank.
His weight buckles, but the bolt in his throat finally falls to the grass with a soft pat.
He attempts to breathe fire at me but spits smoke instead. Good. Not quite healed yet. But things are still ramping up.
Lucy yips, stock-still, as if torn between helping me and running away. Now that she’s eaten, gold mixes with her rusty red fur. She’s eaten almost half of her fill.
“Away!” I command. I’ll save her for later.
The tail barrels toward me again. I dive over it. The wing steams profusely. The bones have grown back. Only the ligaments and membrane are missing.
In less than a minute, that wing will have healed completely.
So much for cheating.
Seventh rule of dragon hunting: A dragon’s flight equals loss of life.
If he takes flight, every gendarme in this park is as good as dead.
There’s no dragon-pit netting to prevent it.
To add insult to injury, the suns have slipped past each other, ending the eclipse.
The best slayers have usually won by now.
I usually win by now. Archive records prove that after this point, a slayer’s success rate drops exponentially.
Forget the fire gland. Forget the wing. I’m going for the kill.
From my position behind him, I have one realistic option: the eyes. Mounting his back is the only way to reach them without the risk of being burned alive. I have to act now. The longer this goes on, the riskier it gets. For Gérard’s sake—for Madame Afi’s sake—I can’t fail.
I toss the crossbow aside. Quick as fire on kindling, I draw two moondaggers, close the distance between us, and lodge them hilt-deep between the dragon’s ribs.
The dragon shrieks and bucks. With a bellow, I use the hilts as leverage to heave myself onto his back, then land in a crouch.
Daggers abandoned, I draw two new ones—the last two.
My new crossbow snaps under his talons. No time to mourn Lyle’s craft. I grit my teeth and dash up his spine, toward the skull. He rears. The bloody skeletal wing flaps in angry tandem with the normal one.
I sink my two daggers into his nape. He thrashes, whipping his neck around like a snake. Fire streams from his mouth. Gold eyes glare back, over his shoulder. The wings flap again. Thankfully, he fails to fly. A frustrated roar shudders through the scales.
This is it—my last moment of leverage. I abandon the daggers and lunge, grab his horns with both hands, and grip the base of his skull with my knees for stability.
My sudden weight drops his head to the ground.
Whiplash sends pain spiking down my neck.
I bite through the pain, embracing it, refusing to slip from this dragon’s back like my father did from Micah’s.
I promised mercy to Gérard. The mercy Micah deserved.
I reach back for the long sword.
The tail lashes up his spine and catches my ankle. The force drags my balance to the side and I slip off his neck until I’m dangling from one hand. Sweat drips down my forehead. The slitted pupil dilates on me.
One thrash of his head and I’ll be on the ground. A failure, as all of Florent branded me. The Estellio line, burned to cinders.
“Lucy, come!” I shout.
A flash of gold catches the corner of my eye. The dragon switches focus to her. The opening is so subtle, I almost miss it.
Better make this quick.
I flip the sword into my hand, then plunge the tip through his eye.