Pyromancist (3 page)

“You’re bleeding,” he said, trailing his
thumb over her lower lip.

Then he did something that shocked her
wildly. He brought his thumb to his lips, slowly, his gray eyes
locked onto hers while he slipped his finger into his mouth and
licked it clean, tasting her blood.

Clelia couldn’t move. She stood still, unable
to speak or blink.

He took a white handkerchief from his coat
pocket and wiped it over her mouth before pressing it into her
hand.

“He won’t bother you again, but you better go
home.”

She only nodded. He was much taller than her,
so that she had to crane her neck to look up at him. He shifted and
then his face was obscured by the shadows with the sun at his back,
blinding her. She remembered wondering if he had forgotten about
Thiphaine, who still stood to one side, silently observing, her,
eyes wide. Clelia looked from Thiphaine to Josselin. When life
finally returned to her legs and she started to hurry down the
path, he said, “What’s your name, girl?”

She stopped. “Cle ... Cle...” Her teeth
chattered.

He frowned. “Take a deep breath. You’re in
shock.”

She did as he instructed, and found her jaw
relax slightly.

“That’s better. Now, tell me again.”

“Clelia.”

His lips twitched. “The witch?”

She flinched. That was what her classmates
called her.

He didn’t show any kind of emotion. Only his
smile became a little bit more pronounced. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen,” she said through parched
lips.

“You’re too young to wander alone in the
woods.”

When he said that, his voice became soft and
dark again, like when he had spoken to Iwig, and without sparing
either of the lovers another glance, Clelia sprinted home and
curled into a ball on her bed with his bloody handkerchief in her
hand.

Josselin left the village that same year in
August, the summer he finished school, just after the fateful
incident in his life. They never spoke another word. He had never
acknowledged her after that day. Not a hint or a sign that they had
shared the episode with Iwig.

For nine years, she slept with his
handkerchief under her pillow. Besides having heard via the
grapevine that he had gone to New York, she hadn’t had news since
he had left and she refused to look at the house in which he had
grown up. Being reminded of him was too painful. Now, she stood
facing it, taking it all in with a mixture of mounting fear and
premonition. It was the biggest house–three stories high with two
turrets framing the pointed roof–for miles around. The once pretty
garden was nothing more than weeds strangling rose bushes and
climbing the fence, obscuring the ground level view. Nine years
ago, there was a swing bench on the porch that overlooked the
grassland that flattened out to the sea. The white shutters had
stood out against the gray of the stonewalls and the silver slate
of the roof, but now they were the color of ash, the wood cracked
and splintered in places, hanging askew in front of the narrow
turret windows.

His bedroom was on the top floor in the west
tower. She knew because he sometimes smoked a cigarette on the
balcony, his gaze trained on the ocean, or maybe on what lay
beyond, what the eye couldn’t see. It was the room in which the
light burned the latest. Often, when Erwan was out fishing at
night, depending on how the tides turned, she had snuck out here on
her bike and stood in the road to see his light finally go out.

After
that
night, the house was barred
and sealed. It belonged to Josselin now. People were wondering if
he was ever going to sell, although it would have to be to
foreigners, they said, from Paris, England, or Europe, because no
one in their right mind, no one from Larmor-Baden or the islands,
would ever want to live there.

Clelia felt a trickle of perspiration running
down her spine. It was an exceptionally warm summer. The July sun
was already high. She pulled off her denim jacket and checked the
time on her mobile phone. She had to hurry, or she’d miss the
bus.

She arrived at Tristan’s stables on the
outskirts of Carnac just before eight. By nine, busses full of
tourists wanting to visit the three thousand mysterious prehistoric
standing stones would arrive. A small number of them would rent
horses and a guide from Tristan to explore the oldest part, which
ran from the border of the stables over four miles toward the sea,
and dated back to 4500 BC.

When she pushed the door of the office open,
Tristan, almost the age of Erwan, lifted his head and grimaced.

“Every morning I pray you won’t show up, but
here you are again,” he said.

“And where else should I go?” Clelia dropped
her backpack by the desk and opened the book in which they noted
the tour reservations.

“To Paris. To university. Anywhere but
here.”

“This is my home, Tristan.”

He flicked through some papers on the desk
that stood opposite the one she occupied. “You’re wasting away,
throwing your talents to the wind here in this dump,” he said
grumpily, fishing around the desk, lifting and slamming books and
telephone directories down.

“And who will take care of Erwan, and my
animals?”

Tristan looked up. She smiled.

“If it wasn’t for that old man, you wouldn’t
be here.”

“He’s all I’ve got,” she said gently.

“No.” He waved a finger at her. “You’re all
he’s
got.” His expression softened. “Kompren a ran,” he said
with a resigned air.
I understand
.

He plucked open a drawer, rummaged through
it, and banged it closed again.

“What are you looking for, Tristan?”

“The damn receipt book. It was here,” he
pushed his finger on the desk, “just yesterday.”

She walked to the stack of plastic trays they
used for organizing their filing and lifted a blue book from the
top.

“Here it is. You left it here last
night.”

He rolled his eyes and grabbed it from her.
“What would I ever do without you?”

“And you really want me to leave?” she said
as she took her seat behind the desk.

“You know I have to say things that are in
your best interest. I never really mean it.”

She smiled affectionately. “I know.”

Nobody from here truly wanted anyone to get
away. It would be proof that there existed a world beyond theirs.
As long as they remained here, with the people they grew up with,
they felt secure. Somehow, Clelia knew that Josselin’s return had
turned her safe world upside down, and that Larmor-Baden was
suddenly the least safe place for her to be.

Chapter
Two

The last group of tourists came back with the
horses shortly before eight in the evening, as the megalithic sites
closed at that hour. Tristan had already counted the money for the
day, taken the petty cash box, and left for his small farm ten
miles from Carnac. The stable hand, Rigual, and the guide, Golven,
took care of the horses. As soon as they were finished, all Clelia
had to do was to lock up the office. Before sunset she would be out
of there, and depending on the bus schedule, she’d be home by ten.
Erwan would have had his dinner by then, and if the tide weren’t
suited for fishing, he’d be sitting on the terrace drinking a
Telenn Du, his favorite beer. She would feed the animals and sit
with him until ten thirty to watch the sun set over the sea. Then,
she would clean the kitchen and stay up to read until midnight.

In winter and out of holiday seasons, her
working hours were less, and on rainy days, which were plenty,
Tristan didn’t open the stables, which was why Clelia didn’t resent
the long laboring days of summer. She enjoyed the late sunsets and
the boat or bicycle ride home when the day was ready to quit and
everything was quiet, when peace dawned on the land and she could
breathe to an easy rhythm, inhale the fragrance of the cut grass
and pine needles.

Today, however, nothing about her rhythm was
easy. She was wondering where Josselin was staying, who his woman
was, and why the strange dream had combusted in her sleep like the
fires that ravaged the town. Everyone was on edge this summer.
Although the fires were always set when the inhabitants were
absent–with the exception of the mayor’s house, which was a new
turn of events–the habitual July Fest Noz had been cancelled. In
the light of the damage done to so many properties, the mayor felt
a festival was inappropriate. Besides, most people were fearful of
leaving their homes at night, worried that they’d come back to
ashes. A dull spirit had spread through the mainland and islands
this holiday, hopping like a flame over water to the next piece of
land.

Up to that morning, Clelia had kept her worry
to herself. She knew Erwan had visited each and every burnt house,
not to show his support for the victims, but because he was
rummaging through the remains looking for clues, eavesdropping on
the firemen who investigated the mysterious cause of the fires,
searching for evidence that it hadn’t been his granddaughter, even
if he would never admit to it. The dream and the sleepwalking had
thrown her off kilter, but the fact that Josselin was here had sent
her into a panic. Clelia couldn’t decide what to do. She had
fretted all day, contemplated leaving, but she knew the
responsibility she felt for Erwan and her animals would only have
her hiding at most, and that was a coward’s way out. She had to
come forward, hand herself over to the authorities, to see, for
once and for all, if her unnatural talent had resurfaced. If it
had, God forbid, she didn’t know what she would do.

She was lost in thought, absent-mindedly
tidying up her desk when the door opened. The tour agent who had
brought in the last group leaned in the frame.

“We’re back,” he said, his gaze slipping down
under the table to where her bare legs were crossed.

“I saw you returning through the window from
a mile. You don’t have to announce it, Ninian.”

“But that would take away my excuse for
seeing you.”

“Please, we went through this last year.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re not interested. I don’t
see you dating anyone.”

She sighed. “No, I’m not seeing anyone. That
doesn’t mean I should automatically be interested in the first man
who comes along and asks me out.”

“What’s the problem? You’re not a lesbian or
something?”

“You’re here for a season and then you’re
gone.”

He lifted his brow. “And?”

“You’re interested in a summer fling, and I’m
not.”

“It’s just a beer at the brasserie and a bit
of singing and dancing.” His eyes lowered to her breasts.

She crossed her arms. “I’d like to lock
up.”

“Need a ride home?”

“No thanks.”

His mouth pulled into a sneer. “Fine. But
you’re going to have to give up your precious virginity sometime or
another.”

Clelia felt her cheeks grow hot. Living in a
small town had plenty of disadvantages. One of them was that
everyone knew everything about everybody. Gossip was a major
pastime. Everyone knew that she had never dated, and had never been
away from the village in order to claim a holiday fling. But Ninian
lived in Paris. He was originally from Normandy. It hurt that her
own kind–well, adopted kind–would disclose such personal
information to a stranger, someone considered an outsider.

She swallowed. “That was rude.”

He laughed. “If you’re waiting for Prince
Charming to ride into town on a white horse, you better think
again. Your best bet is a poor fisherman or an apple farmer.” He
straightened. “I could take you to Paris, away from all this.”

She picked up her backpack and got to her
feet. “Good evening, Ninian.”

He stared at her, his expression one of
disbelief, and then he scowled. “I hope you stay frigid and become
an old spinster. You already have enough damn sickly cats for the
resumé.”

She watched him stalk from the office to the
car park.

Rigual appeared in the door. “If he’s
bothering you, I can give him the wild horse next time. Will serve
him right to be thrown from the saddle. He can do with coming back
down to Earth. And he needs a good knock on the head.”

Clelia smiled at the man who had a daughter
her age. “It’s all right, Rigual.”

“We’re done in the stables.”

She nodded. “I’ll close up.”

“Need a lift home?”

She shook her head. “I want to walk. I need
some air.”

She needed to clear her head and to figure
out how to tell Erwan of her intention to hand herself over to the
police.

She locked the door and left the key under
the flowerpot, which defied the purpose of locking it, as that was
the first place any burglar would look, not that they had had any
burglaries in all the years she had lived there, but that’s the way
Tristan wanted it done. It had been his wife’s habit, and he clung
to it as if she were still alive.

Clelia waved to Rigual and Golven who got
into Rigual’s van. At the exit, the indicator blinked, and then the
vehicle turned right and disappeared in the direction of
Carnac.

She connected the hosepipe to the tap and
watered the flowers as the final part of her daily tasks. When she
was done, she arranged the hosepipe in a neatly rolled coil and
hung it on the wall hook. Looking up, she saw a figure in the
distance stumbling down the dirt road. He had to have come straight
past her while she had her back to the road. She frowned. Did one
of the tourists get left behind? It had happened before. There
wouldn’t be any public transport until the following morning, and
if he was hoping to make it to Carnac before nightfall, he was
going in the wrong direction.

Clelia called out to catch the man’s
attention, but it didn’t pause his swaying progress. When she moved
to the side of the road for a better view, he took two unstable
steps to the left, and as he did so, he lifted his arms to balance
himself. It was then that she noticed the bottle he carried in one
hand, and the gun in the other. For a second, she stood dead still.
The lowering sun caught the golden liquid in the bottle,
momentarily reflecting it back to her like a Morse code, while the
outline of the handgun was solid and black.