Chapter Twenty-Eight Abel
A slayer’s word is sufficient grounds for any suspected dragon’s immediate arrest.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Abel
A nurse is talking to me, but her words don’t sink in. Now that I’m being discharged, it takes immense willpower not to forgo the pain meds, leap off the edge of this bed, then return to the inn and settle in with Claire.
“Are you listening?” the nurse huffs.
“Sorry, can you repeat that?”
Her exasperated hand gesture slams down on the rolling tray. Two small medicine jars and a measuring spoon rattle. “Where did I lose you, Monsieur Estellio? Surely my other patients can wait. Your discharge, as well.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve received such a warm welcome from hospital staff.
Hospitals are mandated to prioritize slayer treatment, but in a way, I’m glad they aren’t obligated to be kind.
Slayers tend to have entitlement issues.
Between the money and pride, most slayer parents don’t think to teach their children humility.
“Would you mind starting from the beginning?” I ask. The deadpan look on the nurse’s face prompts me to add, “Please. And thank you, by the way.”
She sighs. “These are your pain medications. Pay close attention or you’ll stay in pain.”
As if on cue, the ache in my shoulder spreads up my neck. Great. The dose she gave me at around seven this morning only took the edge off. It’s midday, so I hope the instructions allow for another dose.
“Take two willow-bark tablets with breakfast and two with dinner for the next three weeks,” she instructs.
“Nothing with lunch?” The ache in my shoulder intensifies. “How are these supposed to keep me out of pain?”
The nurse gives me a pointed look. “The only way pain fades completely is if your body is numb. If you’re going to function, you’re stuck with these.
” She shakes the jar of brown tablets. The label has my name scribbled on it.
“Don’t get smart and think you can fix your pain with a higher dose. We’re not giving you more than this.”
“Fine,” I concede. An itch builds around my stitches. I rub it lightly through the bandage with my fingertips. I could use a tunic and coat. Warmth would help.
“This”—she points to the smaller jar, with about a half inch of white powder inside—“is sleep powder.”
That’s what Claire uses to sleep through her fear during the Ignition. “Why sleep powder?”
“The next few nights will be rough.” She shows me the measuring spoon. “One teaspoon mixed with water ten minutes before you sleep. Drink the full glass. No food or it’ll set in slower. Do it right and you’ll sleep like a baby until morning.”
“Shouldn’t I need more than that?”
Normally I wouldn’t question a nurse, but Claire brought home multiple full jars during our stay in Jardincourt. If she needs that much of the drug to sedate herself through the Ignition, one teaspoon can’t possibly have the potency for a full night’s sleep.
The nurse crosses her arms. “How much would you give yourself?”
“Half a jar per night?” I guess.
“Are you crazy? What are you trying to do, knock out a dragon?”
That hits me like a wake-up slap.
If Claire’s supply is that excessive, then her doses—
Gods. Gods.
Higher doses. Dragons need higher doses.
No. Not possible. She must be dealing it alongside pickpocketing to earn us money.
“Why are you pale?” the nurse snaps.
“I’m fine.”
“Good. You’re cleared to leave.”
The nurse bags the medications. Claire walks through the door, our coats draped over her arm. Her eyes remain averted. She’s just in time to accompany me to the inn.
Wordlessly, she helps me into my tunic and coat. The nurse hands her the paper bag, then leaves us alone.
“Ready to go?” Claire asks. “Lucy won’t rest without you.”
I shouldn’t have told her she’s beautiful.
That was too forward, and too personal. She hasn’t visited for days, except to transcribe my Guild-mandated incident report, which included the dragon’s identity, location of slaying, property damages, and all involved injuries.
With my hazy memories and my dominant arm in a sling, I needed my assistant to record everything.
She kept her eyes down throughout.
My stare follows the length of her dragon-claw scar, then drops to the brand-new skirt that hides her thigh. The thigh that nearly took a direct hit from a bolt.
“I’m as ready as I’m going to be,” I say, and follow her to the carriage that will transport us to the inn. During the whole ride back, I do my damnedest to ignore the rapid beat of my heart.
It feels new, returning from a hunt to a bare-bones room.
No gold, no candelabras, no chandeliers, no family portraits or verdigris statues passed down from my ancestors.
No oppressive weight of expectations, no “How was your day?” from parents who weren’t asking for my feelings but for the number of soleils that my bounty would contribute to the family estate.
“Is something wrong?” Claire asks, shutting the door behind us.
Claire—she doesn’t see a professional slayer with a large income but a man who hates his job. She’s a thief who somehow sees me before she sees my bounty.
I look away. “I’m fine. Tired.”
What are you trying to do, knock out a dragon?
The ground beneath my feet has been too stable. Too secure. I don’t trust it.
“Did you deliver my incident report to the Gendarmerie?” I ask.
“I gave it to Marshal Bard himself. He’ll save it for the slayer archives once we’re sure it’s safe.
” Claire hangs my coat in the closet, then sheds her own.
She’s quick about it—not bothering to brush off the light dusting of snow before she pats a whining Lucy.
“Anything else we need to take care of?”
“No. Our work is done.”
Hopefully Marshal Bard can motivate the prisoner to shed some light on where he came from. My job as a slayer won’t be easy to continue until then.
“I had the housekeeping staff bring more pillows so you can sleep sitting up.” She busies herself with arranging them. “You should relax. I’ll go find us something for lunch.”
I linger near the foot of the bed. My equipment—all of it—rests neatly beside the roaring fire. The whole room is replenished: a full stack of firewood, fresh candles, clean towels, and a pitcher of water next to my bag of medicines.
A welcome home for a slayer. From Claire. From the girl who somehow survived a dragon attack, who stockpiles sleep powder, and who emerges from every dangerous encounter she meets without a scratch.
“Order lunch from the inn’s kitchens,” I say. “Most of the assassins escaped. You’re too recognizable now that they’ve seen your scar in daylight.”
“I’ll ask a gendarme to escort me. I’ll be fine.”
She might be reckless, but she isn’t stupid. Which means she’s not in her right mind.
“Are you avoiding me again?” I ask.
She organizes the contents of the dresser but doesn’t turn around. That’s confirmation enough.
“Is it because of what I said at the hospital?” I guess.
“Yes,” she admits.
Relief hits me with the weight of a dragon’s tail. Avoidance is a perfectly natural reaction to my unprofessional comments. It has nothing to do with Diu’s curse. She’s not a dragon. This is a problem I can fix.
“I crossed the line.” I stare at the stretch of floor between us. “I didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable. You seemed hard on yourself, so I just…wanted you to know what I saw.”
Her fingers press into the dresser’s edge. “I’m not a good person.”
“You are to me.” I step toward her. “You’ve faced decisions no one should have to make. No one can fault you for wanting to survive.”
She doesn’t move, not even to indulge Lucy, who paws at her ankles.
I continue. “I don’t expect anything. Just know that you’re worth more than your crimes. I want you to live a good life again.”
At that, she turns. Her stare holds mine.
“I’m not the person I was before I got this scar. That person was honest and thoughtful and generous,” she says, then smiles sadly. “I’m selfish now. I take advantage of your weaknesses just so I don’t have to be alone.”
I swallow and try not to read too far into that last part. “You’ll find happiness again, Claire. Sooner or later.”
“I’d rather find it sooner.”
She steps closer. So close.
“Do you know where I can find it?” she asks.
My free hand flexes at my side. My desire to touch her cheek is so strong, it’s like an instinct.
But I can’t. If I’m reading her behavior wrong, I’ll drive her away for good and lose my chance at a second target.
One humane slaying is lucky. Two is a pattern.
I need a pattern to prove my hunting method is worth implementing.
Too much is at stake. The future of slayer culture. The treatment of people who fall victim to the Ignition. My journal’s safe delivery to the archives. I need Claire’s help to make those things happen. I can’t lose sight of my job.
Sometime during my stupor, her hand takes mine. As if she read my mind, she presses my palm to her cheek and closes her eyes.
“You can touch me,” she whispers.
My breath shudders. All sense and reason go with it. I run my thumb over her sparse freckles, the smooth skin across her cheekbone. And Gods, she sighs at the contact. My pulse quickens from her proximity, her warmth. At how lucky I am. For once.
Doubt creeps in. The clues stack together in my mind: the sleep powder, the bolt in her thigh, the blood on her sleeve after she and Gérard fell onto shattered glass. The sole survivor of Sellecastel.
Her scar.
I let my fingers trace its impossible existence, from her jaw to her throat to her collarbone to the curve of her breast—where she guides my hand farther and holds my palm over her rapid heartbeat.
If she’s been the Sellecastel dragon this whole time, this wound should’ve healed. The scar shouldn’t exist. Is she a dragon or not?
All the work I did to become a better person crumbles under the urge to experiment.
Instinct takes hold. Claire gasps in surprise as I push my fingers through her hair to grasp the base of her head. I tug her closer and press her body flush against mine. Those cherry-brown eyes bore up into mine.
I hesitate.
“You can kiss me,” she says.
Not a breath later, I do.