Page 78 of Fire to the Stars

I peel off my overcoat, then pretend to examine my own body for damage. The dragon blood that sprayed my neck during the kill strike conveniently soaks the collar of my tunic. I clutch the side of my neck, as if to stanch my own bleeding.

If I’m going to fake my death, I’d better make it look good.

Thud.

I tip backward, then hit the ground. A needling sensation spikes down my biceps and up the side of my neck as I push to all fours. My sight blurs, but not quite enough to miss the blood that snakes down the bolt lodged in my shoulder. It drips into the grass between my splayed fingers.

Pat. Pat. Pat.

I’m shot.

Someone shot me with acrossbow.

Lucy alerts me to movement in the line of trees. I follow her stare. Twenty, thirty blue-cloaked figures emerge from thetrees clutching crossbows and sickles, quiet behind their masks of crescent-moon smiles. Silverwolves flank them, snarling and eager to kill.

What happened to the Gendarmerie?

A musket goes off as if in answer, but I’m far from saved. A bolt whistles past my ear. I try to crawl away, but I pitch forward. Air bursts from my lungs as my chest connects with the ground. Lucy pants and paces. The slick texture of her tongue barely registers on my cheek.

Drugged. I’ve beendrugged.

My arm trembles as I reach for the dragon’s right wing. Draping it across Lucy and me like a shield is all I can do. Bolts puncture the thick hide in front of my face but don’t pass all the way through. My hand doubles in front of me. It grows heavy and aimless and refuses to reach for the sword I cast aside.

Hoofbeats thunder. Garbled shouts fill the air. Curdled screams, too, as silverwolves growl and yelp. Bolts crack in all directions. Musket shots scent the air with gunpowder. Metal clashes. How long will this last? The suns blur. I lose track of the minutes. All I can do is sag against the dragon’s ribs and stare as Lucy crawls into my lap. Is she shaking, or am I?

“Abel!”

The shout hits me as if calling from underwater. I blink, slowly. So slowly. The world shrinks to that voice. Claire’s voice. My imagination, of course. She promised she wouldn’t be here. Good thing, too. She can’t save me from this.

“Abel!”

Lyle’s voice that time. My eyebrows twitch.

The dragon’s wing pulls back like a curtain. Sunslight glaresinto my itchy eyes as I squint at the silhouette that kneels before me. A cool hand touches my feverish cheek. My head pounds from the shout of my name.Abel, Abel, Abel.

“Abel, stay awake. Lyle!” Claire screams over her shoulder. She’s a blur of dark hair and suede coat. Gendarmes on horseback gallop in the background. Silverwolves leap out of the way. Red streaks chase blue streaks deeper into the maze of trees. “Lyle, hurry and help me with him!”

“Marshal Bard is bringing the stretcher,” Lyle shouts from somewhere distant. Then he’s beside me in minutes, seconds, I can’t tell when. Since always, I suppose. My best friend.

“Your mother,” I rasp.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asks. “Do you feel pain?” He peels my tunic back and presses a swath of fabric around the bolt lodged in my shoulder, but at this point I don’t feel anything.

Another bolt thuds into the dead dragon’s flank to my right. Claire yelps when a second one rips through her skirt and grazes her thigh. She gasps and presses a palm to it.

“Gods, Claire,” Lyle whispers. “You’re—”

“Help him!” she exclaims.

My eyebrows twitch, the closest thing to a frown I can manage. She and Lyle exchange terse, quiet words. Is she hurt?

I attempt to sit up, then wince at a throb of pain. My heart pounds against my ribs, working overtime to power my lungs, my mind, my life.

“Stay relaxed or the drug will move faster,” she says.

“Lift him on three,” Lyle says. “One, two—”

They haul me to my feet. My knees won’t lock. I’m overheating and shivering at the same time. An assassin runs past, awayfrom a red blur. I squint after the figures, but all colors shift and churn. My eyelids droop. Where am I? What am I doing?