Page 61 of Fire to the Stars

Abel

Claire is late.

Not that we discussed a time for her to return. She’s her own person. But a glance through the curtains shows it’s well past sunsdown. Oil lamps offer limited lighting along the pedestrian walkways, but drunks are frequenting the taverns. Lewd calls aren’t uncommon. Claire is clever—her actions at Bourlin’s Night Market proved that—but she’s one girl. Intelligence may not be enough if the wrong person corners her.

“Stop that,” I tell Lucy. She’s been pacing on Claire’s bed, alternating between licking the candle flames and burrowing under the blankets, for the last two hours. Cabin fever. I drag the quilt out from under her and shake the fur off. She whines at me, her entertainment stolen.

“What?” I retort. “Sixth rule of dragon hunting: Keep all resources easily accessible. I need her nearby at all times.”

Lucy cocks her head at me, ears twitching.

Groaning, I drag a hand down my face. I’m conversing with a tinderfox. This silence is maddening. Claire has avoided me ever since she tried to kiss me.

I’m deluding myself. This isn’t about that. This is about her reading my journal. I heard her flip through the pages. I heard her hitched breathing.

She knows what I did.

Bad timing for a rift with my assistant. The strip of parchment Angéline sent to our room this afternoon waits on the dresser, under the glow of a candle.

It’s Gérard Dupont’s schedule.

Lodging, duration of stay, and directions to Faire la Déroute—a popular tavern. Angéline conspired with the concierge at Gérard’s hotel to arrange a time for me to confront him, during his wine-tasting reservation.

I can’t stomach that information right now.

I’ll search for Claire. The night is dark enough to hide my face. I’m starving without dinner anyway, and Lucy probably needs to relieve herself.

I throw my coat on. “Lucy, come.”

Lucy bounds off the bed and races to the door. Her ribbon catches under her paw and falls loose. I consider removing it—she’s squirming with excitement to leave—but I take the extra second to retie it. The way Claire accessorizes her reminds me of Micah.

Gods. Imissher.

The door bursts open. Lucy leaps back. I’m light on my feet, moondagger drawn in one movement, swallowing the hesitation to fight a human attacker.

Claire slips through and slams the door, chest heaving.

I lower the dagger. “What—”

Claire gasps and whips around. Her back hits the door; then she slides to the floor. Lucy yips with happiness and dives into the mess of her skirts—then her hackles rise. Her relentless sniffs draw my attention to the bloodstain that soaks Claire’s abdomen.

Fear thrusts me into emergency mode: emotionless, logical. The mindset I enter when a fellow slayer is injured. This is the part of slayer training that’s still comfortable.

“Did one of the assassins do this to you?” I push Lucy aside. “Where are you hurt?”

“Get back!” She recoils, eyes wide and fearful, like a cornered animal. Her arms fly up to protect her stomach.

Fromme.

“Don’t hurt me,” she whimpers.

Did my journal frighten herthismuch?

“Never,” I tell her, sheathing the dagger. “I would never hurtyou.”

“Even if I told you this isn’t my blood?”

Gods.Shehurt someone.