{"product_id":"fire-to-the-stars-isbn-9780593708446","title":"Fire to the Stars","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn a kingdom cursed to turn people into dragons, two teens from opposite worlds, each with nothing left to lose, form an uneasy alliance. Told in dual perspectives, this sweeping debut follows their search for redemption and the slow-burning bond that could save them both.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Every month, the kingdom of Florent braces for the Ignition: a solar event that turns ordinary humans into vicious dragon shifters. And anyone can be a dragon's next victim.\u003cbr\u003e      Claire knows this all too well because the Ignition consumed her and her father, her town, and the life she thought she’d have. Now, she's scraping by on her wits as part of a sisterhood of thieves—lying, stealing, her heart locked tight—until she tracks down a disgraced dragon slayer who may be the one person who can give her back the life she once had. \u003cbr\u003e     Abel has been shunned by the prestigious Slayers Guild for conducting research that’s too...unorthodox to condone. But there’s no one Claire trusts more than a rulebreaker, and that research might be the one thing that could help her. So when Abel reveals he is hunting again, Claire tries to hire him under false pretenses. Abel, however, is reluctant to accept a job from a criminal, no matter how charming she is. And yet...he \u003ci\u003ereally\u003c\/i\u003e needs the money. \u003cbr\u003e     Together, Claire and Abel will race through Florent and uncover dangerous secrets in their quests for forgiveness—and survival. But that knowledge may cost them the very thing they’ve grown desperate to protect: each other.\u003cb\u003eMorgan J. Watchorn\u003c\/b\u003e writes stories that feature unapologetic girls at the heart of cataclysms—either fighting or causing them. A Southern California native, she graduated Magna Cum Laude from the University of California Irvine with a bachelor’s degree in Japanese Language and Literature. Her manga and novel translations can be found in most major bookstores. When she’s not writing, she's usually at the barn with her spoiled horses. \u003ci\u003eFire to the Stars\u003c\/i\u003e is her debut novel.The only right a dragon shall retain is the right to die.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—­Royal decree renewed by His Majesty King Philippe, 1739 AA\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAbel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turn the charred body on its back. Tattered clothes. Flaky skin. In the mud, a small piece of metal reflects the low sunslight. It’s a Slayers Guild badge—­a crescent moon encircling twin suns—­identical to the one on my chest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot a great start to a dragon hunt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe last ray of sunslight dies on the horizon. Nightfall swallows the ten other bodies I found scattered across the decimated vineyard—­just before a set of footsteps comes up beside me. The stark glow of a lantern exposes my visitor: an officer from the local Gendarmerie station. Ash smears the man’s red uniform so thoroughly that the silver trim looks brown. Even his tricorne is crusty with it. The musket slung over his shoulder will need a deep cleaning once he and his fellow gendarmes finish collecting the corpses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I found your resident slayer,” I say, flashing the badge. “I heard he was missing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m surprised you bothered to search for him,” he replies. “Most traveling slayers don’t help with cleanup.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m not most slayers. Where is his helmet?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Unaccounted for.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike the rest of his equipment. “Bourlin is lucky a rainstorm moved in. Half the town survives because of it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA firefly crawls out from the corpse’s mouth and illuminates the black teeth. I nudge it away with the back of my hand. The light in its abdomen flickers as it flies into the night, probably searching for fellow survivors.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe gendarme grimaces. “Good luck tracking the dragon in this mess, Monsieur . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hesitate. “Abel Estellio.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe steps backward. “You.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I know there are rumors—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That you’re trying to cure the dragon curse? That you’re endangering the entire kingdom by keeping a dragon in captivity?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy grip on the badge twitches. “You’re talking about my brother.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The Gods went to war over sinners like him. How are we supposed to trust a slayer who protects someone from his Diu-­given punishment?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI drop my pack in the mud. The dragon-­skull helmet I keep strapped on top of it lolls forward, as if snapping at his feet. The gendarme stumbles away from it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“As you can see, my brother is dead.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe rest of Florent just doesn’t know it yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Now that the suns are down, your dragon will have shifted back to human form,” I explain. “Tell me if any civilians report stolen clothing. That might offer clues to the human identity.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe watches me warily. “How can we be sure you’ll kill it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You can’t. But right now, I’m the only slayer you have.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe scoffs, then places his handkerchief over his nose and walks away—­likely searching for any excuse to maintain distance from the slayer who allowed his esteemed family to fall into ruin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe isn’t the first.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI slide a hand through my hair and sigh up at the infamous owl constellation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo matter the time of year, that damn owl is always there, watching, even as the rest of the sky changes with the seasons. The left wing is outstretched in a taunting wave. The eyes twinkle, as if my scorched reputation amuses Noctu—­the War-­Torn God who rules the night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I learned my lesson, all right?” I grumble. “No need to revel in my misfortune.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo response. Unlike Diu, his brother—­who rules the day—­Noctu is the God who wants humanity to perish. If he had it his way, we’d all be extinct.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy stomach growls. I have one month until the next Ignition Day. If I don’t catch up to this dragon before it transforms again, I won’t eat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI need this bounty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lucy!” I call.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe telltale glimmer of gold fur catches my eye. Lucy zigzags through the vineyard’s remains, sniffing for leftover embers. Tinderfoxes are notorious sneaks. With the smell of smoke everywhere, she’s bound to run off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Come,” I command.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe perks up, ears pointed toward the buzz of voices atop the hill. Then she darts toward a pebbled road that cuts through the vineyard. It leads to two lampposts—­the entrance to Bourlin’s famous Night Market.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI curse my pack’s weight and bolt after her. A passing cart horse spooks. A corpse thuds to the ground, sparking a string of insults from the driver. “These bodies are on their way to the cemetery! Show some respect!” he shouts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wish I could pay my respects to the dead, but Lucy has plans to disturb the living.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCold air scrapes my throat as I dash past charred trees, ash-­ smeared storefronts, and the imploded stained glass of the Church of the War-­Torn Gods. Merchants carry inventory back from their fire cellars and into freshly swept shops. In the crowded market, Lucy’s white-­tipped tail weaves between stalls of wine barrels, cheeses, and stale baguettes. Scraps of what the market typically offers. Still, the space is crowded. Customers shout over spilled wine, more concerned with drinking away their sorrows than rebuilding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA bonfire, piled high with broken water barrels and other dragon-­touched belongings, comes into view in the market’s center. I slow to a walk and drag a hand down my face. There’s no stopping what will happen next.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLucy springs nose-­first into the flames. Firewood collapses under her weight. The impact spews sparks at the patrons enjoying its warmth. Her teeth gnash as she eats the flames, her stolen snack sending red-­hot ripples through her coat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Whose tinderfox is that?” an aproned salesman snaps. A barmaid gestures at me with a handful of dirty wine glasses. I grimace. The badge pinned over my heart is a dead giveaway. Tinderfoxes are obvious familiars for slayers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thanks for showing up, Monsieur Estellio,” a woman sneers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The dragon tax is wasted on you,” says another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“King Philippe should stick your neck in the guillotine.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWord sure spreads fast. I wish I weren’t accustomed to this. At the last town where I tried explaining myself, I ended up drenched by a bucket of spoiled milk. Even Lucy kept her distance for days.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSilence is the smart choice. I’ll search for leads tomorrow once the townspeople’s shock—­and alcohol—­has worn off. Lucy and I can set up camp outside town for the night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn my walk to the shrinking bonfire, a young woman—­a girl, really—­catches my eye through the sparks. The fire, and perhaps one drink too many, flushes her pale skin. Raven hair falls in waves past the brass buckles that line the front of her suede swallowtail coat. Gray rabbit fur lines her hood, and a leather satchel hangs at her hip. Expensive taste.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a word? Stunning. But it isn’t her beauty that holds my attention. Two parallel scars mar the right side of her face and run from her jaw to the curve of her cleavage. Scars from a dragon’s claws.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe’s dragon touched.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA stumbling townsman, easily twice her age, straightens his frock coat and clinks his full glass of white wine with her dwindling red. She spares him a glance, unbothered. Amazing that people don’t avoid her. Testament to her charm, I suppose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Are you dense, slayer?” the aproned salesman hollers. “That mongrel is getting ash everywhere!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAsh already is everywhere, but I keep that to myself. No need to draw extra attention to the damage I failed to prevent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI fling a silver coin his way and mutter apologies in passing. Lucy prances out of the weakened bonfire and perches on the stone perimeter, the glow in her coat replenished. Her eyes narrow sleepily—­full stomach, no doubt. Yet she whines in protest when I scoop her up, as if subjecting these people to the October chill wasn’t enough fun for her. Her coat’s heat, heightened from engorging herself, warms my skin as she squirms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, Lucy,” I warn. Her tail smacks my face. “Luciole!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith a final whine, Lucy curls up in the space between the back of my neck and the dragon-­skull helmet mounted on my travel pack. Her favorite sulking spot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs I’m about to leave, the man next to the dragon-­touched girl takes a lock of her hair and smells it. I hurry to intervene. My reputation as a slayer isn’t great, but I’m not about to keep my head down while a drunkard takes advantage of an unfortunate girl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe moment I reach for his shoulder, a second man stumbles between us and waves a clumsy finger at the girl’s face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thief!” he slurs. “I bought you a drink and you stole my coin purse!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe girl’s eyes widen. “Monsieur, I—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t yell at her,” the first man growls. He shoves the girl’s accuser into a barmaid, who drops her tray.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA small leather coin purse falls to the ground between the men. The girl picks it up and offers it to her defender with a timid smile. “You dropped this, monsieur.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith a bellow, the girl’s accuser tackles her defender onto the glass-­scattered ground. “It was you!” He reels a fist back. Semi-­sober men shout at them to stop. A few struggle to drag them apart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt happens so fast, I almost miss the girl empty the coin purse, tuck the coins down her bosom, and toss the leather into the fray with a smirk worthy of a tinderfox. She sips her wine and calmly watches the fight, as immovable amid the chaos as the owl constellation among the stars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI snort. This girl doesn’t need a hero. If anything, I should watch my pockets around her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur eyes meet. Her smirk vanishes. Then she offers a flirtatious smile and struts my way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Come with me,” she says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore I can respond, she takes my sleeve and leads me through a scrutinizing crowd. I’m glad to leave the judgmental glances behind—­until she pushes me up against the brick exterior of the nearest inn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mademoiselle—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe cuts me off with a finger to my lips, swallowing her last mouthful of wine. “You’re the slayer everyone’s talking about?” she coos. “Abel, Abel, Abel . . . That name rings a bell.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI push her hand away. She must’ve heard my last name by now, but perhaps it didn’t stick. “Abel Estellio. If you don’t mind, I have a bounty to pursue.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe frowns. “You’re here to slay a dragon?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI catch her hand near my back pocket. “Yes. As you can see from my badge, that’s my job.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe blinks slowly, as if she can’t connect my name with my history. Before I tried to cure my brother’s dragon curse, I was great at my job. Now I have a reputation to recover. That shouldn’t be hard to comprehend, even for a drunk.","brand":"Knopf Books for Young Readers","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233170600165,"sku":"NP9780593708446","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593708446.jpg?v=1767726939","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/fire-to-the-stars-isbn-9780593708446","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}