Page 64 of Fire to the Stars

If a slayer is the only weapon that can kill me, so be it. I will tip off Gérard, let him escape, then at the last possible second redirect Abel’s attention toward me.

So long as he stays by my side through the next Ignition, my perfect death is guaranteed.

If the slayer so determined to set a record for the number of targets slain in one day were not already dead, I would sentence him to the guillotine. I hereby declare a minimum requirement of one slayer per dragon when using the dragon pits.

—His Majesty King Adrien II on the decimation of Cotonac, 1190 AA

Chapter Twenty-Two

Claire

Faire la Déroute is the tacky kind of charming. Ringed slices of tree trunks serve as tables. The bar could use a polish. Bronze statues of deer guard the exit. Wildflowers adorn their antlers—an obvious attempt to use the upcoming holiday’s most common decoration to make the bucks look like fawnas.

The lively crowd makes it easy to casually observe Gérard’s interactions with others. He’s relatively good-looking—stocky build, short beard, and a slight bump on his nose that’s more endearing than a flaw. Nine years my senior, and according to the witness interviews among Hanna’s notes, survivors who knew Gérard called him a womanizer with a tendency to throw the family money around.

That image cracks as the night deepens. He chats with almost everyone. Old men, young women, couples even. More than once, he purchases a glass of whichever wine his conversation partner has deemed their favorite. Eventually, everyone thankshim and mingles with their original company. Gérard watches each person turn their back with strained eyes.

He’s not a shallow, shameless flirt. He’s friendly and generous. He wants human connection, however temporary.

Watching him squeezes my heart. I look into my half-full glass, wishing Tipsy Claire could take over for me. After a few refills, it’s clear alcohol’s effect is fading on me, just like sleep powder will. To add insult to injury, every time I swirl my glass, the deep ruby color spawns visions of blood on my hands.

I should’ve ordered a white.

Across the room, Abel gives me a signal—tapping his drink menu—to bring him more details of what I’ve observed. Impatience sours my wine as I stalk over, anticipating similar questions as before.What did he say to that woman? What is he laughing about? Why did he buy that man so many drinks?Questions from a slayer who can’t reconcile Diu’s curse with the man he sees.

“I told you everything I witnessed,” I hiss. “Face it. Gérard is a pleasant individual. Hanna’s observations are half-truths filtered through slayer bias.”

“You still haven’t spoken to him directly.”

“What information are you digging for, exactly?”

Abel’s narrow gaze slides to Gérard, who sits alone. Patrons have begun to filter out.

“Are you looking for amoralreason to slay him?” I ask.

His jaw clenches as if bracing for a slap. Perfect guess, then, if I may say so myself.

I swallow more wine. “What I don’t understand is why you won’t simply have him arrested. Pick a dragon pit and get it overwith.”

“I’m not ready for that.” Abel thumbs the rim of his waterglass in contemplation. “Ask him if he’s ever met a slayer,” he says. “See how he reacts.”

“What for?”

“I want to know if he’d be receptive to talking tomedirectly.”

“Without the Gendarmerie to back you up?” I ask, incredulous. Dragons and slayers are mortal enemies. Gérard would run the first chance he gets. Abel should know that.

The lanky bartender mops the floors and yawns as he announces, “Ten minutes to closing.”

At the now-empty bar, Gérard’s shoulders hunch further.

“We’ve wasted too much time.” I sigh. “I’ll do what you asked. Just keep away and let me work.”

“Signal me over the second you need me.”

“I’m not a damsel.”

“You’re notalone. We’re a team, all right? Whether you hate me now or not.”