Page 77 of Fire to the Stars

Lucy yips, stock-still, as if torn between helping me and running away. Now that she’s eaten, gold mixes with her rusty red fur. She’s eaten almost half of her fill.

“Away!” I command. I’ll save her for later.

The tail barrels toward me again. I dive over it. The wing steams profusely. The bones have grown back. Only the ligaments and membrane are missing.

In less than a minute, that wing will have healed completely.

So much for cheating.

Seventh rule of dragon hunting: A dragon’s flight equals loss oflife.

If he takes flight, every gendarme in this park is as good as dead. There’s no dragon-pit netting to prevent it. To add insult to injury, the suns have slipped past each other, ending the eclipse. The best slayers have usually won by now.Iusually win by now. Archive records prove that after this point, a slayer’s success rate drops exponentially.

Forget the fire gland. Forget the wing. I’m going for the kill.

From my position behind him, I have one realistic option: the eyes. Mounting his back is the only way to reach them without the risk of being burned alive. I have to actnow. The longer this goes on, the riskier it gets. For Gérard’s sake—for Madame Afi’s sake—I can’t fail.

I toss the crossbow aside. Quick as fire on kindling, I draw two moondaggers, close the distance between us, and lodge them hilt-deep between the dragon’s ribs. The dragon shrieks and bucks. With a bellow, I use the hilts as leverage to heave myself onto his back, then land in a crouch. Daggers abandoned, I draw two new ones—the last two.

My new crossbow snaps under his talons. No time to mourn Lyle’s craft. I grit my teeth and dash up his spine, toward the skull. He rears. The bloody skeletal wing flaps in angry tandem with the normal one.

I sink my two daggers into his nape. He thrashes, whipping his neck around like a snake. Fire streams from his mouth. Gold eyes glare back, over his shoulder. The wings flap again. Thankfully, he fails to fly. A frustrated roar shudders through the scales.

This is it—my last moment of leverage. I abandon the daggers and lunge, grab his horns with both hands, and grip the base of his skull with my knees for stability. My sudden weight dropshis head to the ground. Whiplash sends pain spiking down my neck. I bite through the pain, embracing it, refusing to slip from this dragon’s back like my father did from Micah’s. I promised mercy to Gérard. The mercyMicahdeserved.

I reach back for the long sword.

The tail lashes up his spine and catches my ankle. The force drags my balance to the side and I slip off his neck until I’m dangling from one hand. Sweat drips down my forehead. The slitted pupil dilates on me.

One thrash of his head and I’ll be on the ground. A failure, as all of Florent branded me. The Estellio line, burned to cinders.

“Lucy, come!” I shout.

A flash of gold catches the corner of my eye. The dragon switches focus to her. The opening is so subtle, I almost miss it.

Better make this quick.

I flip the sword into my hand, then plunge the tip through his eye.

Blood gushes from the eye socket and spurts down the front of my uniform. The dragon shrieks, then slams to the ground. My boots follow with a bone-jarringthud, but I don’t risk assuming I’ve won. With a war cry of my own, I shove the sword hilt-deep.

His huffing nostrils relax. The mouth muscles slacken around his bared teeth. I rip the sword out, allow the blood to spatter my chest, and stagger backward. Half to assess, half to feign my own injuries as planned.

Gasping, I abandon the sword. Fatigue pushes into my muscles. Dragon blood drips down my front and speckles my boots. With sore arms, I remove my helmet, then circle the dragon to inspect him for any sign of life. A twitch, a breath, a hint of steam.

The steam thins, then stops flowing entirely from the malformed wing.

Forcing a long, deep inhale, I accept the sight I laid beforeme.

Gérard Dupont, the first victim of my mercy.

And yet I almost failed him. If it hadn’t been for that last moment when he was distracted, I would have died. He would’ve woken up knowing he’d killed again. But I did it. My hunting method worked. As close as that fight ended up, the advantages I gained from his cooperation were more than worth it.

This can change slayer culture for good.

Lucy eats the last embers, then sprawls flat on her belly, chin to the grass like a tired hunting hound.

“Thanks, Luce,” I tell her. “You’re a lifesaver.”