Chapter Thirty-One Abel #2
“I know who you are,” she replies. “I’m Abigail Payen.”
“Payen…” I turn to Lyle. “Didn’t you send a dove to her from Jordes?”
“She’s the one,” Lyle answers. “We caught her up on what’s happened since then while you were in the hospital.”
Marshal Payen levels all three of us with a sidelong stare. “You should have informed me about your plan much sooner. Especially you, Bard.” She resumes her surveillance of the station. “At least your station is properly guarded.”
Marshal Bard takes to his desk. “Let’s keep this brief.”
He summarizes the basis of our Noctu cultist theory. Tension fills Marshal Payen’s at-ease stance. I brace myself to be called a heretic.
“So your investigation has reached a dead end,” she says instead.
“You believe our theory?” I ask.
“The evidence is unprecedented. I’d be concerned if your conclusions didn’t acknowledge that.”
“These crimes started in Varsonne.” Marshal Bard makes an offering gesture. “If you have any ideas to proceed the case, I’m open to them.”
“Just one,” she answers. “Transfer custody of the prisoner to me. I will take said prisoner back to Varsonne, where I will release him.”
“Release him?” I echo. “What good will that do?”
“Silverwolf attacks have been rumored to occur within the forests above Varsonne for years. That behavior is easily explained if the cultists are using the silverwolves to guard a base of some kind.”
“A base. Like a full-fledged military organization?”
“They sure fought like militants,” Marshal Bard says, crossing his arms. “Their formations were impeccable. I still can’t figure out how they breached my perimeter.”
Lyle pats my back. “Don’t look so horrified. Ma was abducted in Varsonne. If the cultists have a base there, she probably never left it.”
“Then she was never going to be delivered to the church here,” I reply. “What if she’s already—”
“Let’s not jump to that,” Marshal Bard says. “I had a medical examiner check Madame Afi’s hand. The bruising indicated active blood flow at the time it was severed. We just need to find where she’s being held and rescue her.”
“So you’ll release the prisoner in hopes that he’ll lead you to the base?” I ask Marshal Payen. “That’s a little optimistic, don’t you think?”
She smiles wryly. “This is where my plan requires a leap of faith.”
“Faith?”
“The prisoner is under magical influence and not thinking clearly. His desperation for that eau de vie might make him careless enough for us to follow.”
“His magic could be dangerous.”
“Regardless of what his magic can do, he is sickly and needs help. With any luck, he’ll run straight for his nearest allies. Their secrets will unravel from there.”
Luck. That’s not a phenomenon that treats me well.
I look at Lyle. Dark circles weigh down his eyes, but his posture is set, as if none of this is a surprise and he welcomes it. I know he’s desperate to try anything to find his mother, but silverwolf activity and babbled words aren’t the kind of clues I would act upon.
“Are you sure you want to risk the cultist escaping for good?” I ask. “As much as I want Madame Afi safe at home, that man is the strongest lead we have. Patience could reveal better opportunities.”
“We have muskets,” Marshal Payen interjects. “We’ll shoot him before he roams too far.”
“You can’t assume he will heal from a gunshot wound. He’s visibly sick. That’s enough evidence to think twice about treating ice healing the same way you’d treat Diu’s curse.”
Even my experiments on Micah were as slow and careful as I could possibly make them, yet I still failed to prevent his death. One ill-placed gunshot could kill the only person we have who knows where to find Madame Afi.
“We have no other leads, and no means to gather additional clues,” Marshal Bard says. “We may as well try what Marshal Payen has in mind.”
“There’s too much at stake. I’m the only person in Florent who has experimented on magic. You should wait for me to—”
“Stop,” Lyle says. He approaches me with a smile too patient for someone whose mother could die at any moment. “Would the marshals kindly give us the room?” he asks them.
The marshals exchange a look, nod, then leave the office, presumably to process next steps without me.
“I know trusting your gut is hard for you,” Lyle says. “But I need you to trust mine on this one.”
“The plan doesn’t sound very solid. It’s based on a lot of assumptions, and there might be something you missed.”
“Maybe so. But it’s my turn to hunt, Abel.” He squeezes my good shoulder. “Be with Claire. Stay safe and heal. I promise we’ll send a dove if there’s anything you need to know.”
Never in my life have I felt this useless. But Lyle is right. Realistically, with my arm in a sling, there is nothing I can do for anyone.
“Pray for us, will you?” he jokes.
With the Gods toying with people’s lives left and right, the thought of entrusting my best friend’s fate to prayer makes me nauseous.
“Good luck, Lyle,” I say instead.
This time, leaving the station feels different.
Desk workers—even stone-faced Angéline—pause in their paperwork to watch me pass. Their stares drop to my sling, then the fat coin purse—Gérard’s bounty—that Marshal Bard gives me on the way out. Both are proof that I fought a dragon and lived to tell the tale.
My reputation is improving, but I don’t give a damn. Everyone I care about is dead, missing, or Diu-forsaken, and there’s nothing I can do but lick my wounds.
Except that’s not entirely true. Claire is still here, waiting for me at the door with a smile that I force myself to return.
She doesn’t need to know anything about Noctu, or his magic. It will only worry her.
For the next two months, her happiness is my only concern.