Page 26 of Fire to the Stars

I lift the overcoat off my back in invitation. “For survival, right?”

“If it makes you feel any better, kick me in the morning.” He mutters, “Preferably not in the groin.”

I try to relax as he lies behind me. He leaves a hair of cold space between our bodies. I reach back to drape his arm over my waist, pulling us firmly together. I blush at my inadvertent sigh; he must’ve heard it, but I can’t help melting into his warmth. Even though there’s nothing between us, this closeness hits me like a drug.

When I close my eyes, a tear slips past my eyelashes. Half a year has gone by since I felt another person’s warmth. Even Anne-Sophie didn’t embrace me like this. I didn’t realize how much I missed human contact.

Maybe it’s because I ceased to be human at all.

It is futile to question why Noctu shaped the night sky with that owl constellation upon his Ascension. What benefit does worrying yield besides reminding us of the apocalypse he wants?

—Sermon onThe Tale of Stars (L’Histoire des Étoiles), Part III: The Age of Mortality

Chapter Eight

Abel

The low light of sunsrise drags me from sleep.

I barely slept. For all my talk about survival, Claire is a beautiful girl. Insufferable, but beautiful. The dawn air has a brisk chill to it—I make that my excuse to collect more firewood instead of continuing to lie there with her.

My hands still shake from the weight of that woman’s sickle against my daggers. Her strength felt inhuman. AndGods, she killed Hanna.

I breathe through my nose until my nausea settles.

Claire is sleeping surprisingly soundly, and I don’t know what to make of that. When she slit that woman’s throat, it was like watching another slayer fell her first dragon. Bloody. Frenzied. Cathartic. But slayers spend their entire childhood preparing to kill. Claire has no fighting experience, yet she didn’t hesitate to save my life. Her bravery exceeds even the Guild’s standards for a beginner.

Then again, Claire is a con artist. Maybe her skill set is bloodier than she lets on.

I shake my head at myself. As I think back, her form with that dagger was terrible. There’s no way she’s hiding a murder record.

Best to let her sleep awhile longer.

I get dressed, restart the fire, and take down the damp fabrics from the clothesline. To determine our location, I climb the rock formation behind us. There seems to be a small settlement about a half hour’s walk downstream.

Unbelievable. We could’ve walked there last evening. Instead, we spent the whole night shivering under that damn owl constellation, which forced me to crossfartoo many lines with a client.

If that isn’t the definition of Estellio luck.

At least we’ll have a place to find transportation. In the meantime, I wait on a log at the fireside and make a point of not staring at a new inch of leg every time Claire shifts under my overcoat. Lucy’s head sticks out from the collar, beneath Claire’s chin. I shake my head at the sight. The nerve of that tinderfox. I wish I had that kind of courage around women. At least her coat is gold again.

While I wait for Claire to wake, I focus on the bigger problem. The smiling silver mask in my hands. The mask of Hanna’s killer.

Nostalgia sinks my stomach. I had feelings for Hanna when I was younger. Headstrong girls had always been my type. Then she literally kicked the attraction out of me. Now girls like that scare me a little. Still, Hanna was the talent of a generation. If she didn’t survive, I doubt the rest of her family did. Their castle was in ruins. The archive, too. And the Metekus’ shop. Lyle andMadame Afi are my closest—well, after what I did to Micah, myonly—friends. Gods, I hope they’re safe.

With a satisfied hum, Claire rolls onto her back and stretches her arms over her head. I nearly drop the mask. Lucy slips out from under the overcoat and licks her cheek.

“Good morning, ma Luciole,” Claire coos, and rubs her ears.

I scratch my stubble, unsure how to break last night’s tension. I settle for “I’m glad you slept well.”

Her smile crumples. She sits up, a tight fist holding the overcoat to her chest. I turn around on the log to give her privacy.

“Your clothes are relatively dry.” I fight not to bounce a knee. “You should put them on.”

She remains silent, but I can tell from the rustling that she’s getting up.

I’m not handling this well. In my defense, none of my previous clients were this much trouble. Get hired, slay the dragon, collect the bounty. That’s how the process works. It should be a straightforward endeavor.