Page 2 of Fire to the Stars

My stomach growls. I have one month until the next Ignition Day. If I don’t catch up to this dragon before it transforms again, I won’t eat.

Ineedthis bounty.

“Lucy!” I call.

The telltale glimmer of gold fur catches my eye. Lucy zigzags through the vineyard’s remains, sniffing for leftover embers. Tinderfoxes are notorious sneaks. With the smell of smoke everywhere, she’s bound to run off.

“Come,” I command.

She perks up, ears pointed toward the buzz of voices atop the hill. Then she darts toward a pebbled road that cuts through thevineyard. It leads to two lampposts—the entrance to Bourlin’s famous Night Market.

I curse my pack’s weight and bolt after her. A passing cart horse spooks. A corpse thuds to the ground, sparking a string of insults from the driver. “These bodies are on their way to the cemetery! Show some respect!” he shouts.

I wish I could pay my respects to the dead, but Lucy has plans to disturb the living.

Cold air scrapes my throat as I dash past charred trees, ash-smeared storefronts, and the imploded stained glass of the Church of the War-Torn Gods. Merchants carry inventory back from their fire cellars and into freshly swept shops. In the crowded market, Lucy’s white-tipped tail weaves between stalls of wine barrels, cheeses, and stale baguettes. Scraps of what the market typically offers. Still, the space is crowded. Customers shout over spilled wine, more concerned with drinking away their sorrows than rebuilding.

A bonfire, piled high with broken water barrels and other dragon-touched belongings, comes into view in the market’s center. I slow to a walk and drag a hand down my face. There’s no stopping what will happen next.

Lucy springs nose-first into the flames. Firewood collapses under her weight. The impact spews sparks at the patrons enjoying its warmth. Her teeth gnash as she eats the flames, her stolen snack sending red-hot ripples through her coat.

“Whose tinderfox is that?” an aproned salesman snaps. A barmaid gestures at me with a handful of dirty wine glasses. I grimace. The badge pinned over my heart is a dead giveaway. Tinderfoxes are obvious familiars for slayers.

“Thanks for showing up, MonsieurEstellio,” a woman sneers.

“The dragon tax is wasted on you,” says another.

“King Philippe should stick your neck in the guillotine.”

Word sure spreads fast. I wish I weren’t accustomed to this. At the last town where I tried explaining myself, I ended up drenched by a bucket of spoiled milk. Even Lucy kept her distance for days.

Silence is the smart choice. I’ll search for leads tomorrow once the townspeople’s shock—and alcohol—has worn off. Lucy and I can set up camp outside town for the night.

On my walk to the shrinking bonfire, a young woman—a girl, really—catches my eye through the sparks. The fire, and perhaps one drink too many, flushes her pale skin. Raven hair falls in waves past the brass buckles that fasten the front of her suede swallowtail coat. Gray rabbit fur lines her hood, and a leather satchel hangs at her hip. Expensive taste.

In a word? Stunning. But it isn’t her beauty that holds my attention. Two parallel scars mar the right side of her face and run from her jaw to the curve of her cleavage. Scars from a dragon’s claws.

She’s dragon touched.

A stumbling townsman, easily twice her age, straightens his frock coat and clinks his full glass of white wine with her dwindling red. She spares him a glance, unbothered. Amazing that people don’t avoid her. Testament to her charm, I suppose.

“Are you dense, slayer?” the aproned salesman hollers. “That mongrel is getting ash everywhere!”

Ash already is everywhere, but I keep that to myself. No need to draw extra attention to the damage I failed to prevent.

I fling a silver coin his way and mutter apologies in passing. Lucy prances out of the weakened bonfire and perches on the stone perimeter, the glow in her coat replenished. Her eyes narrow sleepily—full stomach, no doubt. Yet she whines in protest when I scoop her up, as if subjecting these people to the October chill wasn’t enough fun for her. Her coat’s heat, heightened from engorging herself, warms my skin as she squirms.

“No, Lucy,” I warn. Her tail smacks my face.“Luciole!”

With a final whine, Lucy curls up in the space between the back of my neck and the dragon-skull helmet mounted on my travel pack. Her favorite sulking spot.

As I’m about to leave, the man next to the dragon-touched girl takes a lock of her hair and smells it. I hurry to intervene. My reputation as a slayer isn’t great, but I’m not about to keep my head down while a drunkard takes advantage of an unfortunategirl.

The moment I reach for his shoulder, a second man stumbles between us and waves a clumsy finger at the girl’s face.

“Thief!” he slurs. “I bought you a drink and you stole my coin purse!”

The girl’s eyes widen. “Monsieur, I—”