Chapter Twenty-Seven Claire
We would like to borrow the bones before you allocate them to an outfitter. Her Majesty the queen has a splendid idea for a display.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Claire
I sit at Abel’s bedside in the hospital, head bowed, my hands restless.
Lucy snores in my lap, exhausted. Abel’s olive skin has paled, and his sweaty hair is flattened from six long hours in bed, unconscious.
Sweat rolls down my own cheek. Tears threaten to invade my eyes.
But not because he’s hurt. Because Lyle stands over me, reading Abel’s journal front to back.
All because he witnessed steam rising from the wound to my leg.
“You can’t tell him about me,” I whisper. “Please.”
Lyle points to the entry about medications with a shaky finger, the one that proves Micah built resistance over time. “This is why you didn’t turn yesterday?” he asks. “By overdosing medication?”
I nod. “Sleep powder.”
“You woke dangerously close to the end of the eclipse. Minutes earlier and you would’ve turned.”
“Check the last page.”
He flips to the back. “Oh. He charted the rate of medication resistance.”
I bite my lip to prevent myself from crying.
Hours after midnight, I calculated the amount I should ingest based on that chart.
It was torture sitting in a fire cellar with strangers while I waited to drug myself.
I still hadn’t meant to wake up so early.
I’ve only ever used the powder once per month, but since my first Ignition, that’s seven times.
Its effectiveness on my body is starting to wane.
“Gods, I don’t know what to say.” He rubs his mouth, eyes roving over the bloodstains on the pages. “The things he did…”
“They’re horrible. Borderline similar to the cruelty of the Immortals.”
“True. But if it had been Ma who turned, I can’t say I wouldn’t have tried to gain control of her magic and save her, too.” His smile is strained. “Are you surprised to hear that?”
“Yes. ‘All dragons must die,’ as your motto goes.”
He grimaces. “Maybe the forge has been sheltering me from the hard decisions slayers have to make. But at the end of the day, I love Ma more than I fear dragons. I trust Abel felt the same way about Micah.”
The rip in my skirt draws Lyle’s stare. I shift Lucy on my lap, as if that can hide the perfectly healed skin beneath.
“You know, every time Abel grumbled about Estellio luck throughout his life, I shouldn’t have laughed,” he admits. “Micah was cursed. Hanna was murdered. Now the next object of his affection is knocking on death’s door. He truly has the world’s worst luck.”
“Object of his affection?”
“I see the way he looks at you.”
Something lodges in my throat. The way Abel looks at me. “I know I have to die eventually. I just don’t want anyone else but him to do it.”
“He’s injured. He cannot slay you in this condition.”
“He will heal. He has to.”
“Many slayers never do.”
“Let me help him try to recover.”
“He already lost Micah. I won’t deprive him of a minute with you.” Lyle hands the journal back to me. “Just don’t break my friend’s heart. He’s been through enough.”
Worry lines strain Abel’s pale expression. Even in his sleep, he can’t find rest.
“Did the Gendarmerie manage an arrest?” I ask hopefully. “Abel will sleep easier if he knows we’re one step closer to saving your mother.”
“They arrested one,” Lyle replies. “A man.”
Only one? There were so many attackers.
“One might be enough,” I offer.
“But now they know Abel isn’t dead.” He rubs his eyes. “You saw what happened. Once they shot Abel, everything fell apart. He couldn’t play dead. We had no choice but to rescue him.”
“It’s not too late to pretend he died in surgery.”
“I still disobeyed their instructions by seeking help from the Gendarmerie. What if they kill Ma to retaliate?”
“I don’t think they’ll make any rash decisions. They’ve been very meticulous in their planning.”
“I hope you’re right. I can’t take the dread much longer.
” He inhales as if collecting himself. “Marshal Bard made a good point, though. Just because the plan went wrong doesn’t mean we aren’t better positioned to rescue Ma.
Now that we have a prisoner to interrogate, he thinks we’ll gain useful information. ”
The surgeon enters the room. I press my lips together, Lyle doing the same while Dr. Castille pulls back Abel’s blankets and inspects the thick bandages wrapping his shoulder. The bloodstains are brown and dry. A sling secures Abel’s right arm across his chest and keeps his shoulder immobile.
“Has he moved at all?” Dr. Castille asks, monotone.
I shake my head. “Are you sure he’ll survive the poisoning?”
Upon Abel’s rush into surgery, I told the doctors that I suspected baneberry poisoning. Everything I know about it is hearsay from my time in the Dames Blanches, so I’m not sure whether it’ll cause lasting damage.
“We see deaths from baneberry only when ingested. A lethal dose is impossible to coat a weapon with.” Dr. Castille cleans his glasses with his sleeve. “I’m surprised you recognized the poison. How did you know?”
I lower my gaze to Lucy. “I’ve seen the effects before.”
Lyle raises an eyebrow but thankfully says nothing.
“Well, it won’t kill him. At this dose, it acts like a paralytic. He should wake within the next few hours.”
Lyle and I release simultaneous sighs. Thank goodness.
My gaze lingers on Abel’s face, and my heart squeezes. A month ago I wouldn’t have worried about his well-being. My survival was all that mattered.
“You two work with him, correct?” Dr. Castille asks. “You’ll tend to him once he’s discharged?”
“She will.” Lyle ruffles my hair. “Take care of him, and tell him not to worry. He will anyway, but do it for me.”
“I will. Thank you.” I swallow a wave of emotion.
“Send a dove if you need anything…or anyone.”
Anyone. A new slayer. An awful last resort, but a responsible one. So I nod.
Lyle waves over his shoulder as he leaves the room.
Dr. Castille continues. “I’ll have a nurse supply you with medications and fresh bandages.
He’ll require help changing them. That shoulder must remain immobile or he’ll risk permanent muscle damage.
” He pulls the blankets back over Abel. “Assuming no complications, it should take three weeks to heal. Then he’ll need careful exercise to restore range of motion. ”
Three weeks? That cuts too close to the next Ignition.
“What about next month’s Ignition? He has another dragon to slay. When can he return to work?”
He frowns. “Mademoiselle, this can’t be rushed. He must follow the timeline if he wants to slay dragons again.”
He doesn’t want to. In a morbid way, a permanent injury would be a gift. A fair excuse to abandon his duty.
“It will likely be frustrating for him,” he adds. “Make sure he doesn’t rush. Have him go on walks for circulation and to ensure his other muscles remain active. No heavy lifting. That includes his equipment.” He gestures to Abel’s weapons piled in the room’s corner.
“I can carry them.”
“Good. If all goes well, he should only miss one Ignition. Just take your time.”
I manage a nod. I have enough sleep powder for two more Ignitions.
Once Dr. Castille leaves, I watch Abel for hours. My stomach rumbles. I ignore it. Carefully, I lay a sleeping Lucy at the foot of the bed, then tug the blankets closer to Abel’s chin. I don’t realize I’m smoothing his hair until it’s tame. I snatch my hand back and curl my fingers into my skirt.
It’s all right. I can tend to him until he’s ready to slay me.
Until then, he doesn’t need to know anything.
Something brushes my hair from my forehead. Stray ends unstick from my parted lips. I lift my head from the hospital bed and blink sleep from my eyes. Abel’s hand comes into focus in front of my face.
“Your hair was stuck to your drool,” he says, voice hoarse with sleep.
Feeling the crust on my chin brings me wide-awake. I sit up, rub it off, then clear my throat. “Pardon me for not looking my best after saving your life. Again.”
“About that—”
“I remained in the fire cellar until the dragon was slain. I kept my promise.”
He opens his mouth to argue; then his tired eyes widen as he attempts to push upright. “Madame Afi—”
“Rest.” I press a gentle hand to his chest. “She’s still missing, but the gendarmes managed an arrest. Lyle went to the marshal to discuss their next steps.”
He sinks back into the pillow. “I should’ve done something differently,” he rasps. “Played dead sooner.”
“This isn’t your failure to carry. The Gendarmerie were supposed to protect you.”
He stares at the ceiling. “I don’t understand how the assassins bypassed the perimeter undetected.”
“Who knows? But I had a hunch that they might. That’s why I went to check on you.”
He huffs a laugh. “Is it four times now you’ve saved my life?”
“I would like a statue built in my honor.”
His gaze lowers to my hands in my lap. I stop wringing them—I didn’t even realize I was doing it.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“A bolt struck your leg, didn’t it?”
“I’m fine. It was close, but it only caught my skirt.”
He frowns. “Are you sure? My memory is hazy, but you flinched, and—”
“I don’t mind giving you a look.” I slip my skirt teasingly over my knee.
“Please be serious. I was worried. If something had happened to you…”
“I know, I know. Your funding would be gone. Our deal would be cut short.”
“Claire. Stop.”
My stomach clenches. No one has cared about my well-being since Papa died. I’ve forgotten how to respond to it. Unable to look at him, I watch Lucy snore, sprawled on the bed near Abel’s feet. The truth—the full truth—would be so much easier. I wouldn’t have to pretend around him anymore.
“I need to tell you something,” I say, my voice smaller than ever. A lump forms in my throat—words stuck on their way to my tongue, like the last time I tried to tell him.
“Claire?”
Abel frowns at me. His free hand twitches, as if he’s contemplating whether to reach for me. Or is that my wishful thinking?
Don’t wish anything. Go quietly. Be with Papa.
I open my mouth again. To my relief and dismay, a slew of other words comes out instead.
“The doctor said you’ll be out of work through the next Ignition. Unless you pace yourself with your recovery, you may never regain the range of motion you need to slay dragons.”
He runs his free hand through his hair. “Great.”
“Never fear. I’ll take good care of you while you heal. I’ll tend to Lucy, carry your things, help you dress”—I curl a lock of hair around my finger—“help you undress…”
At that, Abel doesn’t groan as I expect. Instead, his gaze lowers in thought.
“I think we’re beyond the terms of our deal,” he says.
I pause, finger stuck mid-twirl. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve done more for me than any client should. Tending to an injured slayer?” He shakes his head. “You don’t owe me that. I know you don’t know what to do next, but you have your own life waiting for you. Perhaps it’s time you look for it.”
“You can’t afford round-the-clock care. The law may cover your hospital expenses, but it doesn’t cover that. You won’t turn a profit if you spend your bounty on an injury.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I’ve got your next job lined up, remember?”
“I can send a dove once I’ve recovered.”
“A deal is a deal, and you’re going to accept my help whether you like it or not.” I’m rambling, but I shrug through it. “I’m staying.”
“It’s not your responsibility.”
My insides churn under the pressure of his attention, so I rise with a huff. “I know you’re eager to get rid of me, but—”
“I’m not. Why would I be? You’re resourceful. Empathetic. Perseverant. Even Lucy gives you her seal of approval. She’s a good judge of character.” He smiles at Lucy, who stretches in her sleep.
“Oh, nonsense,” I laugh awkwardly. I’m turning away when Abel’s hand clasps my wrist. I halt in place, unsure what to do.
“Claire.”
I gather my wits and turn with stubborn confidence. “Yes?”
“You’re more beautiful than you think.”
I stare at him. His eyes are half lidded, sunken in from this angle. Traces of poison must linger in his system, because for Abel to say something like that, he must be hallucinating.
I toss a lock of hair behind my shoulder. “We established my beauty already.”
Abel’s grip slips from my wrist to my fingertips. “I meant on the inside.”
His gaze remains on our joined hands. My heart constricts. I give Abel’s fingers a quick squeeze to hide the tremors before I pull my hand away.
“I’ll tell the doctor you’re awake,” I manage.
I swipe his sword off the floor as I go. I need to take his belongings back to the inn. That’s why I’m leaving.
As I close the door behind me and lean against it, sword clutched to my chest, I know I’m telling myself a lie.
“Mademoiselle?”
It takes a few blinks, but the blur of my tears clears enough to see a nurse’s kind, round face. She digs through her apron pocket until she finds what she’s looking for—a handkerchief, which she hands to me. I take it and wipe the wetness from my cheeks to regain some composure.
An emotional assistant won’t reflect well on Abel’s reputation. I must collect myself.
“Monsieur Estellio is lucky to have such a caring belle,” she says.
My heart nearly stops. “Belle?”
“No need to hide it. I can tell. You were asleep at his bedside for the last, oh, three hours.” She places a hand on her cheek, the other arm crossed over her chest in deliberation. “I debated bringing you a cot, but it seemed such a shame to disturb you. Is he awake?”
I barely process the businesslike shift in her last question. With so much raw emotion swirling in my mind, all I manage is a nod before I move aside to let her through.
“Don’t worry. He’ll survive.” She pats my shoulder and steps inside.
I stand with my back pressed to the wall, hugging the handkerchief and sword, then slowly sink to the floor. I look at the ceiling with wide eyes and stare at the lamp there, recognizing for the first time in months what it means to be finite.
A sob chokes me. I cast these stupid material objects aside and press the heels of my hands to my tear-filled eyes.
They fail miserably at stanching the flow.
My chest heaves as I gasp through a horrible realization: In my quest for death, a life of torture wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened to me.
I would rather face Micah’s fate a thousand times than find someone new to lose, but I can’t mask this feeling anymore.
I’m in love with Abel.