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.
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 bloo
d 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.”
She got onto her knees and inched toward him. “Josselin–”
“Go!” He looked back at her with harsh eyes. “Go,” he whispered.
Clelia bit her lip. She couldn’t leave him in the state he was in. She should stay with him, or take him home, make sure he was all right. She was still contemplating her options when he shifted, as fast as lighting, his hands pressing on her shoulders, pushing her back against the rough surface of the menhir, his lips going to her neck, sucking at her flesh before trailing his tongue over her skin and sinking his teeth into the tender muscle of her shoulder. Clelia cried out in ecstasy as much as in shock.
“Go,” he said gruffly, pushing away from her once more, “before the effect of the alcohol wears off.”
Clelia scurried away from him. His arms fell loosely to his sides. He didn’t try to stop her when she got to her feet. Instead, he lay back onto the soil and closed his eyes. Clelia looked from him to the discarded gun. She picked it up, opened the cylinder and dislodged the single bullet, silently thanking Erwan for teaching her to handle his rifles and guns. She dropped the bullet in her pocket and the gun in her backpack, just in case he had more bullets on his person. Without looking back, she ran to the gate, only faintly aware of the thorns and sharp twigs digging into her toes and the sides of her feet. She ran all the way to Carnac and caught the last bus to Larmor. When she passed Josselin’s abandoned childhood house, she noticed a cleaning service van from Vannes parked in front of it.
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