Chapter Thirty-Three Abel
Effective immediately, church bells shall be responsible for signaling Ignition Day orders to the city. Two-beat tolls will prompt evacuation to fire cellars. Four-beat tolls will signal safety to emerge.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Abel
Back at the inn, we’re not allowed to sleep.
Outside our window, gendarmes direct civilians to fire cellars on the streets below.
The full moon washes the rooftops in silver.
Every bell in the city is tolling a warning to prepare for the Ignition, the echo constant, pressing in on my skull as Claire and I hurry to change out of our court attire and pack our belongings.
“Only small items are allowed on our person,” I remind her, kneeling to pick out my best dagger. “Refill the waterskins. We might be underground for a while.”
She doesn’t answer.
I glance over my shoulder. She stands at the window, still as stone, watching the silhouettes of owls as they flit from rooftop to rooftop, with their duplicate form looming in the stars. Moonlight drowns her irises in silver.
“So many owls,” she whispers, hugging herself, like she’s finally convinced that they bring bad luck.
“No time for stargazing,” I say gently, then guide her away from the window.
The housekeeping staff bangs on the door until I let them inside. They confiscate the bulk of our luggage, linens, towels, curtains, and even our few logs of firewood. Another wave of staff removes the mattresses.
“Just a few more minutes,” I tell them.
“Come to the fire cellar before the end of the hour,” the last one replies. “That’s when we bolt it shut.”
They exit as quickly as they came.
I lock the door.
Lucy paces without a blanket to burrow under. By the light of the moon, Claire spills the contents of her satchel—her sleep powder and my journal—onto the floor. Focus returns to her eyes, as if the owls never stole it.
I flip to the back page and point to the chart. “Here. The dosage must escalate depending on how much you took last. The more you consume of a drug—”
“The faster a resistance develops,” she finishes, too calm for my liking. “Not to worry. I won’t measure wrong.”
The jar pops open in her steady hands. I offer the measuring spoon, but she pours the remainder into the cup of water.
“Not that much—” I reach for the cup, but she leans away to gulp the mixture down. “Gods, Claire! Now you’ll need even more next time!”
“It’s all right. I don’t need a next time.”
She closes the journal with a thump.
Worried murmurs fill the fire cellar. It’s packed from wall to wall with inventory, luggage, and the guests. Everyone huddles in groups, anxious breaths like fog under the light of a single lamp by the door.
Claire—her arm slung over my shoulders—goes weak at the knees just as I find us a space in a dusty back corner.
It’s a true feat that I manage to maneuver us until we’re seated with our backs against the cold brick wall.
Her head lolls against my still-sore shoulder.
The evenness of her breath tells me she’s out cold.
Lucy snuffles Claire’s limp hand until she’s wiggled her head under the shelter of her palm.
Outside, the bells fall silent.
The innkeeper blows out the lantern. We plunge into darkness.
Soft sobs break the silence. Prayers, too: Spare us, Diu. Keep your dragons far away.
Fifth rule of dragon hunting: Do not endanger civilians.
How many people are in this cellar? Fifty? Sixty? Claire won’t turn—she shouldn’t—but someone else could. In a city this populated, there’s no safer option. Packed against so many people, unarmored and injured, I feel the terror of death by dragon finally sinking in after all these years.
“Monsieur. Is she all right?” whispers the person next to me. “I saw her faint on the way in.”
“She worries more than most,” I lie. “Happens every Ignition.”
“I would too, if I had that scar.”
Claire breathes softly. The sleep powder will work. It always does. Combined with my calculations, there’s no room for error. Still, I keep my ear close to her face to monitor her breathing. The lack of a weapon in my hand has a way of shaking my faith in myself.
Sixth rule of dragon hunting: Keep all resources easily accessible.
I draw the one moondagger I stashed in my coat pocket and angle the blade across her jugular.
Anyone in this cellar could turn. Most likely Claire.
Gods, I can’t slay her.
During my experiments, Micah’s dragon form consistently ignored me when he saw Noctu’s owl constellation.
Tonight, Claire demonstrated the same behavior in the palace gardens, and again at our hotel window.
Thinking back, I’d seen her do it once before, when we camped at the Tordou River.
She called it stargazing, but to me she looked hypnotized.
Once is a coincidence. Twice is a pattern.
That was more than just stargazing. And her fixation on those owls—as if she suddenly bought into my bad luck superstition—that can’t be a coincidence, either. I’ve observed similar behavior from two dragons now. Only in Claire’s case, she was in human form, and she said something about it.
I want to go north.
Those words sobered me instantly.
No slayer has ever bothered to research dragon behavior beyond the purpose of hunting them.
I’m the only exception. Even then, I kept Micah in chains.
I focused on his behavior in dragon form and ignored his human words.
Claire is free to interact with the world.
Her environment is completely different from Micah’s.
Variables like that can change the outcome of any experiment.
We wait in silence. My back aches. Lucy whines for freedom. Lack of sleep weakens my grip on the dagger. Fear strengthens it. The hours drag toward dawn like a cart stacked high with corpses.
Eventually, the city bells ring.
The civilians rustle with movement—then still. Wait. Silently count the number of tolls.
One. Two. Three. Four.
We release a collective sigh of relief. Four tolls.
Safe to emerge. If any dragons were killed, it happened swiftly and cleanly.
Lucky. I tip my head back against the wall and clench my eyes shut against the sting.
The innkeeper pushes the doors open. Sunslight filters inside. Claire remains asleep and unaware.
No more experiments. That’s forbidden ground.
I must keep my promise to show mercy to Claire.