Pyromancist (4 page)

Clelia’s chest tightened. A man with a bottle
and weapon equaled trouble of the kind they had only witnessed
recently with the onset of the fires. In a flash, she understood.
The man didn’t mean anyone else harm. He meant himself harm.
Without hesitating, she grabbed her backpack and ran up the road.
The man had ventured off the main track onto the footpath that led
to the stone alignments.

For a moment, he disappeared as he rounded a
cluster of trees. When Clelia got to the path, she was just in time
to see him jump the low gate that gave access to the historical
site. A long coat floated behind him, trailing over the mesh like a
black stream of water. From the closer distance, she could see his
hair tied into a ponytail. It was streaked with white. Clelia’s
step faltered. She knocked her bare toe against a rock and fell to
her knees, stopping her fall with her hands. She stayed like that
for a second, her knees and palms burning. She took big gulps of
air, trying to understand why her body was functioning at all when
her heart had come to a standstill.

His voice pulled her from her frozen state.
He had uttered a cry and was staggering through the stones toward
the backend of the fenced site. It was a sorrowful sound, and it
pulled at her heart. He laughed, loud and cold, waving the revolver
in the air. As fast as her heart had stopped, it started beating
again, pumping so furiously that a rush of blood sang in her ears.
Clelia got to her feet, followed the path and climbed over the
gate. Josselin had halted. He was leaning on a megalith with his
head bowed. She advanced until she was only a few yards away.
Josselin started moving again, making his way to the tallest of the
stones overlooking the flat dolmens, the tombstones.

She treaded carefully in her flip-flops, but
it was impossible not to be stung by the nettles and thorns. As she
rounded the last megalith that separated them, she saw Josselin
sitting down with his back against the menhir. She was in his line
of vision, but he didn’t notice her.

He looked just like he had in her dream. His
hair was long now, reaching his waist, and the white streaks
framing his face were wider. His dove-gray eyes were wild, and his
tanned skin had the glow of someone who had been exercising or
drinking. In the last light of the day, she caught the shine of his
leather pants. The lines around his mouth were deeply etched. He
brought the bottle to his lips, and took a long, hard drink. His
Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. He wiped his mouth with the
back of the hand holding the gun and leaned his head against the
stone. Clelia kept her eyes fixed on the hand that gripped the
weapon as she advanced cautiously. She was near now, close enough
to see the pain in those iron eyes and the tortured look that
distorted his features.

He took another swig from the bottle. He
lifted the revolver, flicked the cylinder open and rolled it before
clicking it back in place and putting it to his temple. Clelia’s
hands went to her mouth as his finger tightened on the trigger.
Before she could move, he completed the action and pulled a blank.
Clelia pinched her eyes shut, cold perspiration making her damp,
and when she opened them again, she saw Josselin grimace, tears
rolling down his cheeks. He gave a haunted laugh and lowered the
gun, his long fingers going to the cylinder again.

She had to do something. She didn’t want to
rush up to him and risk getting shot. It was best to make herself
known first, to warn him gently of her presence. Slowly, she moved
on shaking legs until she stood almost in front of him. He still
hadn’t noticed her. She spoke his name softly. His fingers fiddled
with the cylinder, bringing a new round in line with the
barrel.

“Josselin.”

This time his hand stilled and his head
lifted. There was a frown on his brow.

She took a trembling step forward. “Josselin,
it’s all right.”

He looked at her, his expression one of
confusion, following her movement until she faced him squarely.

“What are you?” he said with a slurring
tongue. He spoke to her in English instead of in his native French,
but his accent was heavy.

It was clear that he had no idea who she was.
Of course not. Why would he remember her? Besides, he was very
drunk. At least he didn’t point the gun at her or look as if he
were going to attack her.

She lowered her backpack to the ground and
knelt next to him. “Josselin, everything is going to be fine.”

He dropped the bottle. Clelia noticed he had
been drinking Calvados. More than three quarters of the bottle. His
free hand went to his coat, patting his pocket. When he heard the
noise he was searching for, he withdrew a brown bottle. Without
relaxing his grip on the gun, he unscrewed the lid, lifted his
head, opened his mouth and tilted the content of the bottle down
his throat.

Clelia uttered a small cry when she realized
what he had done. She lifted her hands to prevent him from more,
but he found the bottle of apple brandy again and swallowed the
pills down. When he looked back at her, he chuckled, a meek replica
of the cold laugh she had heard only seconds ago.

“There,” he said, “it’s done. I’ve done your
job for you, angel of death. No need to dirty your beautiful
hands.” His eyes lowered to her hands. “Yes, such a devil am I.
I’ve already noticed your hands. Forgive me.” He chuckled again.
“Such pure hands shouldn’t be harvesting lives.”

She leaned forward, shaking her head,
alternating between battling to breathe and trying not to
hyperventilate. “I’m not an angel of death.”

She didn’t see it coming, so when his palm
suddenly flattened on her cheek, she recoiled in shock. He
immediately retracted his hand.

“A beautiful, dark-haired angel,” he said.
“If you didn’t come to take me, then why are you here?”

His words moved her deeply. He was in such
agony. She had to help him, fast, or get help.

“Josselin.” His name brushed past her lips
like a caress as she sat down. She lifted her hand carefully,
slowly so as not to alarm him, and wiped the windblown wisps of
hair from his face. “Please, let me help you.”

“Help me?” He laughed. “Then set me free of
this curse called life.”

His shoulders started shaking, and she
couldn’t tell if it was from laughing or crying, or from both.
Holding her breath, she reached for the hand that clutched the
revolver. She folded her fingers over his, gently and silently
commanding the release of the weapon until she felt his grip relax
and his fingers become slack. She pulled the gun free from his
hold, the heavy object now resting in her palm. The metal was cold,
except for where his touch had warmed it. Without looking away from
his face, she laid it aside, as far away from his reach as
possible.

Josselin seemed incoherent and unaware that
she had disarmed him. He lifted the bottle again, but she gently
took it from him, too, and placed it on the grass. His hands empty
now, Josselin’s shoulders slouched. He hung his head, his chin
resting on his chest. She couldn’t stand to see him like that.
Strong, indestructible Josselin, only a boy when he had been forced
to become a man.

He had swallowed a bottle of pills with a
huge amount of strong liquor. If she waited too long, his stomach
would have to be pumped. She’d have to get him to a hospital.

“Josselin,” she said, her tone commanding and
much braver than what she felt, “you have to throw up.”

She reached for his hands and he didn’t
resist as she pulled him forward.

“Come on, Josselin, get up for me.”

She groaned as she put all of her strength
into the effort, but failed to move him other than pulling his
upper body down to the ground.

“Please, work me with me, Josselin.”

He only moaned.

“Can you get up on your knees?” she said.

She was wary of leaving him by himself, but
considered running up the road to where she could use her mobile
phone. She knew down here that there was no signal. No. No, she
couldn’t leave him.

She urged again, “Come, I’ll help you.”

She moved around his back and pushed until he
got her drift and somehow managed to get onto his knees.

“Good.” She huffed and blew her fringe from
her eyes, rounding his body so she could see his face. “Now, I need
you to put your finger down your throat.”

Josselin looked at her and blinked. His eyes
were glazed over and fixed on the horizon.

“Night is here,” he said, his slurring and
his French accent even heavier now. “Kill me quickly, or my ghosts
will come.”

Clelia looked around frantically for
something, anything, and the only thing she saw was a dovetail
feather that lay on the ground. She moved fast. She let go of
Josselin’s hands to pick up the feather, and noticing from the
corner of her eye that he remained in the same position, albeit
swaying dangerously; she took the feather and drenched it with some
of the Calvados, praying it would kill any possible germs. She
positioned herself in front of Josselin once more and took a deep
breath.

“I need you to open your mouth big when I say
so,” she said.

For a moment, she panicked as she thought she
saw the veil of intoxication briefly lift to reveal a dark and
dangerous look that crept over his features.

His slur was gone when he said, “Why?”

She wiped a hand over her forehead. “You once
saved me. I’m trying to help you.”

“Help me,” he said, and then the cloudy haze
came over his eyes again.

She pressed the feather to his lips. “Open.
Please, Josselin.”

To her surprise, he obeyed. When he did, she
reacted with astonishing speed, considering her hand was shaking so
much–pushing the feather to the back of his throat and down as deep
as she could. She barely had time to snatch her hand back before
his teeth clamped down and his body bent double. He retched and
vomited onto the sacred soil. Clelia patted his back, wiping the
stray bits of hair from his face until only dry heaves wrenched his
body.

When he had calmed, he held out his palm
without lifting his head.

“Calvados,” he said, his voice sounding
raw.

“Josselin, no.”

“I need to rinse my mouth.”

Clelia picked up the bottle and lifted it to
the sky. There was less than a quarter left. She placed it in his
hand and watched him take it all into his mouth, gurgle, rinse, and
spit it into the grass. It was a strong enough liquor to dissolve
the plaque on teeth and Clelia flinched on his behalf. He launched
the empty bottle through the air. Still on his knees, and with a
look of pure exhaustion, he fell backward.

Clelia took the hem of her T-shirt and wiped
his mouth. She sat down on the rough grass, ignoring the pricks
that tortured her bare skin, and pulled his head into her lap while
he labored to straighten his legs. When he was stretched out on the
ground, the hair that had escaped the leather string of his
ponytail fell over her naked legs. She rested her hand on his
forehead.

“It’s all right now,” she said, more to
herself than to him.

She could see the moistness in his eyes as
she stared down into them, read the pain and the suffering etched
into his features and it burned a hole right into her soul.

“You’re safe now,” she whispered.

He studied her face with eyes that seemed out
of focus. He looked from her brow to her nose and her mouth and
then his expression changed. The dim smile that appeared on his
lips was sad. His big hand went to the back of her neck. As he
pulled her down gently, he simultaneously lifted his head for their
lips to meet.

Clelia had wondered all of her life how his
kiss would feel, but she wasn’t prepared for the reality. A
fleeting thought of the woman he was supposed to be with crossed
her mind, but it didn’t have time to root in her brain. His touch
distracted her too much to think. When Clelia felt the warmth of
his mouth, she also felt the electric shock that sizzled through
her body. He tasted of apple brandy and dark, male lust. She had
been kissed by boys before, but not like this. Not with a tender,
yet demanding movement that forced her lips open and gave him
access to her soul and her secrets. He took her bottom lip between
his teeth and nipped at it softly. His were the natural, effortless
actions of a man who was self-assured and used to being commanding.
He kissed her with the confidence of someone who knew he wouldn’t
be resisted, yet, who wouldn’t force unwanted affection, with the
ease and sure power of a river that flowed gently but steadfastly
to the sea. How effortlessly he swept her along. As his tongue
explored, she could swear she felt him drink the very existence
from her, as if he was thirsty for life, trying to quench the
hunger that made him want to end his.

He groaned and the vibration sent a shiver
down her spine. He cupped her face with his strong hands, applying
gentle, warm pressure.

“Don’t leave me, dark-eyed angel, as fragile
as a little bird,” he said into the kiss, “now that you’ve found
me.”

Clelia knew it was the point of her
surrender. If he but asked, she would walk through fire for him.
She knew all of this while she answered his renewed kiss, felt her
blood heat and boil through her veins as his hands glided to her
shoulders and over her arms to stroke up her sides, framing the
small mounds of her breasts. Just as she gave herself over, felt
herself falling into the dizzying effect of his touch, he
stopped.

He pulled away abruptly, tilting her chin
with his fingers to look into her face.

“You don’t know me. I’m a devil. I destroy
whatever I touch. I’ll pull you down to hell with me.” He pushed
her away and sat up, turning his head from her. “Go. Fly away. As
fast as you can, little bird. While you still can.”