Page 73 of Fire to the Stars

“Thank you,” he says, relenting.

“That’s not my name.”

“Don’t push it.”

He turns his sidelong glance back to the crowd across the street, but I catch the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Is Gérard still there?” I ask.

Abel gestures across the street with his steaming cup. “To the right of that lamppost. The gendarmes say he’s complying.”

Aha! There’s our dragon. Gérard waits for the parade beside a glamorously dressed woman. He “converses” with a mime in exaggerated gestures. Meanwhile, the woman attempts to hide her blush with the wide brim of her pink satin hat.

Over the past few days, Marshal Bard incorporated myplay deadidea into his rescue plan. The gendarmes will block Jardincourt National Park to visitors tonight, lie in wait at key watch points, then allow Abel and Gérard inside before daybreak. Once the suns eclipse and the deed is done, the Gendarmerie will “recover” Abel’s body, then arrest any assassin who tries to sneak away.

Hopefully it works.

“Gérard appears to be enjoying himself,” I remark. “All things considered.”

“Between you and me, he’s lucky I found him under these circumstances,” Abel says.

“You mean Ascension Day? Or with a hostage attached to his death?”

“Both. The population influx increases the odds of multiplenew dragons spawning in the city at once. If it weren’t for that, Marshal Bard might’ve petitioned the Guild to replace me with a resident slayer who was willing to take Gérard to a dragon pit,” he explains. “The conditions for Madame Afi’s return probably tipped any indecision in my favor.”

“Luck or no, I’m sure Gérard appreciates what you’ve done.”

A sense of kinship sinks into me as Gérard and I trade nods. Two dragons, victims of Diu’s curse, counting down the days until death—yet thankful for the kindhearted slayer fate has placed in our path.

I sip my cider and relish the flood of warmth. “Mm!”

Abel huffs a little laugh.

“The cinnamon is a good touch,” I say, licking my lips. He looks away and takes a giant gulp to hide his blush. I pat his back as he coughs. “I hope Lyle is coping. I’m sure he’s nervous about tomorrow.”

“He’s probably worried himself sick that his mother won’t survive this.”

As for me, fear for tomorrow—for my slayer’s life—doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the festive atmosphere today. If anything, Ishould. It’s my last Ascension Day.

“Poor Lucy must be bored,” I say.

“Let’s buy her a treat on the way back. She’ll give us attitude all evening if we don’t.”

I press a hand to my chest. “Righteous Abel Estellio condones the use of ourfundson nonessentials?”

“It is…technicallyan essential purchase. I can’t have her disobeying commands during the Ignition.” Abel flexes his fingers, red from the cup’s heat. “Would you mind picking something up for her on the way back?”

“Already done. There was a pretzel cart on the way to the café.” I pat the lump beneath my coat—my satchel, stuffed with the paper bag full of pretzel bites inside. “Don’t judge. You’re the one who said it’s technically an essential purchase. Just because I want to spoil her doesn’t make that any less true.”

“No judgments here.”

He reaches into his inner coat pocket and draws out a dessert plate–sized tin. Bronze piping borders the navy surface.Étoile Chocolatier—the shop name?—is stamped in white cursive letters beneath it.

“This is for—”

The crowd’s cheers cut him off. Drumrolls rattle the storefront windows. I stand on my toes to look past the countless heads that shift for a glimpse up the street, where the marching band starts. The final drumbeat makes way for the first blare of trumpets.

Abel grumbles. I giggle and cup my ear. He leans close, and his breath on my cheek sends a shiver of warmth through myskin.