He took a deep breath. “I wasn’t always around to protect my younger brother. God knows, I tried. That night ... there was another fight. It was the first time I felt strong enough to lift my fist to my own father. He was dragging my mother by the hair up the stairs, to their bedroom, and I knew what would follow. I grabbed him by his collar. Threw him down the stairs. When he landed at the bottom, I kicked him. Over and over. I hit him, so many times. My mother’s screams finally stopped me. He was watching–my brother. I thought my father was unconscious. I would have beaten him to a pulp from that day on every time he lifted his hand to one of us. It was the turning point. He knew it. The scales had tipped. At last, I was bigger, and stronger.
“That night I left him on the floor. I told my mother to leave him there, that I wasn’t sorry, and that I loved her. I hugged my brother and told him to go to bed, that everything was going to be all right.”
Josselin’s voice broke. He hung his head, seemingly hunting for composure in the sadness of his memory. “I said it would be all right. I had to get away from it all. I hated myself despite believing that I had done the right thing. I knew I’d do it again, and again, that I’d break my father’s fingers every time he lifted his hand after that night. I took off to the beach. Drank a lot. I didn’t think my father would come to his senses in a crazy rage, a rage so enormous that he would go hunting for me in the house, and when he found my room ... this room ... empty, he took his shotgun...”
Clelia laid back on the bed as he spoke. She tried to hold her tears, but they dripped onto her pillow. She prayed for Josselin, and the souls of his mother and brother. She cried for him and his lost youth, and all that could have been and was lost to the cruel nature of a father. More than anything, she longed to give Josselin back his innocence and his faith in humanity, but all she could do was listen to him tell his story.
“He shot him first,” he said, “in his sleep. My mother must have woken from the noise. She came down the hallway, on her way to my brother’s room, when he shot her. Then he put the gun in his mouth and blew his brains to hell. All three of them, on the first floor. That’s where I found them when I came home in a drunken state, wrecked and careless.”
His eyes lifted slowly to hers. “I caused their deaths. Now, tell me again I’m not a murderer deserving of the nightmares that haunt my sleep, and the regret that punishes my waking hours. Do you see the monster who sits in front of you? This is who I am. Damaged. Beyond salvation.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Your father inflicted a terrible suffering on you. The only heritage he left you with is guilt, but the guilt is his. You were just a boy, and I so longed to make it better for you. Didn’t you ever see? I would have gladly given my soul to take your pain away.”
He blinked at her, his eyes pools of confusion, and yet, of hope. Hope. Yes, hope was good.
“Please, Josselin, let me make it better.”
He didn’t have to ask how. He seemed to know her intentions instinctively, as if they were two voices, one a soprano, the other a base, singing in perfect harmony. He shifted until he lay next to her on the narrow bed that was once his, a bed that knew his aches, his hopes, and his dreams.
Clelia wanted to own the knowledge of that bed. She wanted to make his torment, joy, and ecstasy her own. Unspoken words captured her soul, invaded her heart and made promises to her body as he moved to stretch out on top of her, the gray fire of his eyes scorching her with its intensity. Arching into him, she sought out the hardness of his body, reveling in his maleness and power, as she sought out the soft parts of his soul, and found neither lacking. She felt his sorrow, and his need, as her body heated under his. With her movement, his look shifted. His eyes turned wilder, filled with hunger, as they moved over her face and her body. Slowly, he lowered his head and softly kissed each of her eyelids, then the tip of her nose and both cheeks.
When he claimed her lips, it didn’t come as a shock. The touch of his mouth to hers was familiar. He kissed her softly, easily, as he had in the cemetery, but this time there was an undertone of worship in his caress. His hands moved over her hair and her face to the back of her head, lifting and tilting her for him, drinking as if savoring an elixir, but giving everything in return. He was gentle with his kisses, even when Clelia’s body begged him for more. Only his erection gave away the extent of his need. He crushed his body against hers, the rhythm of his hips stirring a need in her that had her groaning into the kiss, panting and speaking his name, knowing that where she wanted him to take her was fate.
“Clelia.” His voice was a breath against her jaw, his lips seeking the dip of her throat and the hollow of her collarbone while his palms flattened on the skin of her inner arms and trailed a path to her ribs. She knew where this was going and suddenly she was scared. She froze.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“I’m...” It would sound utterly foolish now to say that she was frightened.
He stilled, his hands on the curve of her breasts. “Forgive me.” He sat up, releasing her abruptly. “I got carried away. I almost forgot.”
Her cheeks grew hot. “Forgot what?”
“That this would be your first time.” He pulled his hands through his hair.
“Is that bad?”
“By God, what a strange choice of words.”
Clelia bit her lip. The magic was gone. She didn’t feel protected by his warmth any longer. She felt exposed and vulnerable. “Does my lack of experience displease you?”
He jumped from the bed and shook his head. “I’m the man your mother would have warned you about.”
“You don’t want me.”
“I’m the man you should hate, not give your body to.”
He already had her soul, if he would only care to see it.
As if that were exactly what he didn’t want to do, he lifted her arms. He wanted to remain blind to her old feelings and new, awakening need.
Tears stung at the back of her eyes. “No,” she moaned, “please, no.”
He secured the handcuffs around her wrists. “It’s better this way. I’m trying to protect you from a pyromancist, from my team, but most of all, from myself.”
He turned off the light before he settled back in the chair, casting them in the dark, dispelling her love, and inviting the old ghosts in.
“Go to sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you away from here.”
Chapter Nine
Josselin didn’t wake with a start as he usually did. The transition came softly, blowing him like a goose down feather from the underworld of sleep to waking. Amazingly, for a man who had spent hours in a hard, wooden chair, he felt rested. Fresh. The ghosts of his past had been exorcised. They had been absent from his dreams. Reluctant to break the spell or to look away from the sleeping female, he sat dead quiet, at peace, enjoying the sight of her.
During the night Clelia had to have tried to slip under the comforter, because he could see the evidence of her failed struggle, the yellow comforter crumpled under her hips, goose bumps covering her bare arms and legs. Somehow, he got the nagging impression that he had expelled his demons at her expense, that they now invaded her dreams. The chair creaked as he got up, but she didn’t move. Instead of pulling the sheets from under her and risk waking her, he folded the comforter from each side of the bed over her body. He stood watching her sleeping form and felt a deep need eat a hole into his miserable existence.
He could not help it, even less prevent it, but in that moment his restraints fell away, chains that had held him captive in his past, broken by her pureness and beauty of heart. His body burst into invisible flames. He became the fire that was a firestarter’s magic. He didn’t possess one of the seven forbidden arts, but he had a gift for telling by tasting blood. When he took his oath with Cain to join the team, he swore he wouldn’t use it unless it was for the good of humanity, yet, he always knew the dark side that sheltered in his soul was as much a part of him as the good he harbored. Now, he wanted to break
that oath just to taste her blood again, so that he could know her mind and heart, but it would be like stealing her thoughts.
The fragile female he held in his power frightened him. It scared him witless that he wanted her. He needed her. And want and need in his book were synonymous with use. He’d feed on her energy like a vampire, use her up and leave her lifeless if he dared to touch something so pure with the evil he held in the pivot point of his mind. His breath was labored now, heavy with restraint, as he closed his eyes to block the image of her pale limbs from his mind.
Conjuring all his strength, he turned his back on her, walked from the room and closed the door. He stood silently for a moment, trying to regain his composure. He wanted to free and save her, and chain and keep her, all at the same time. Josselin grabbed his head between his hands, his fingers kneading through the silver strands that framed his face. God gave him the strength to walk away. Her suffering filled his mind. He knew she feared. He knew she worried. He knew she dreamt his dreams, had seen his ghosts. It scorched his soul and burned through the hell of his heart. He balled his fists, a silent cry trapped on his tongue.
Josselin stomped away from the room that confined the female, down the hallway and stairs, to the kitchen. He flung open the door of the fridge to make breakfast. For a long time he stared at the meager contents, and then banged his head against the freezer. Goddamn it. If he didn’t get a grip, they were both goners, him and Clelia. He wiped his palm over his forehead. Focusing on the task at hand, he removed bread and cheese for their morning meal.
He went back upstairs with a flask of coffee and grilled cheese sandwiches. He left the tray on the bedside table and went down on his haunches next to the bed. The comforter had fallen open again. Her back was turned to him. She was curled into the fetal position. The bones of her delicate spine formed a semi-circle through the cotton of her T-shirt. A butterfly. A fragile hummingbird. Constrained like this, she seemed like an angel with her wings clipped. Slowly, he reached out, letting his fingers brush over the bare flesh of her arm.
“Clelia.” His voice was a whisper, her name a plea. “Wake up. You have to eat.”
She didn’t react to his touch. She remained still. Her skin was cold. Josselin lowered his head. His chin dropped to his chest. For a moment, he contemplated the defeat, but he didn’t have answers or solutions, so he simply pulled the extra blanket by her feet up to her chin and sat down in the armchair facing the bed. If only he could figure out what the hell was brewing. He couldn’t shake the feeling of danger as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He allowed the sentiment to wash over him for a moment and got to his feet again. What they both needed was strength. Food.
“I’m going for a shower and when I get back, I’m going to remove the handcuffs so you can eat. If you don’t do it yourself, I’ll feed you, bite for bite, but I won’t take no for an answer.”
Although physically he felt better than what he had in years, he couldn’t put his mind at rest. Leaving her handcuffed a little while longer he had a quick shower. He dressed quickly into a clean black T-shirt and pants. He zipped up his boots, tidied up the bathroom, and dumped his dirty clothes in a travel bag.
Relief washed over him when he stepped out of the bathroom to find the tiny Japanese woman lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. At least she had moved. They didn’t speak as he removed the handcuffs and watched her take some of her things from the bag he had packed. A blush crept over her cheeks when she lifted out the underwear. She tried to hide it between the jeans and the black tank top. Out of consideration, he turned his gaze away, busying himself with pouring coffee, until she closed the bathroom door behind her.
He sat on the bed, sipping his coffee, listening intently to the sounds she made. When he heard the water come on, he imagined her under the spray, naked. When it turned off, he saw her wrap the towel around herself in his mind’s eye, but what was missing from the picture was him at her back, his hands on her wet skin, moving the towel down to the dimples above her ass where her hips curved out. The images that flashed in his mind assaulted his self-constraint and rewarded him with a painful hard-on, which wasn’t where he was supposed to be going with this mission at all.
Frustrated, he paced the room. He checked his watch. It was almost time to make contact with the team. Cain had requested daily updates on the situation. So far, there was no sign of Erwan d’Ambois. There were a million places he could hide. Eventually, with the means at their disposal, they would find him, but it would take time. Precious time. The government demanded an end to the fires. They wanted a culprit, someone to brand. The quicker, the better. They had reckoned it would be faster to draw the old man out using his grandchild as bait. Cain was very specific when he asked about the probability of achieving success with such a method. Josselin had said it was their best chance, and now he regretted ever suggesting this strategy. He couldn’t know how the little witch would affect him, or that Cain had more on his agenda than simply solving another crime.
There were things that didn’t add up. The rumors about Clelia’s mother still bothered him. It was too much of a coincidence, but Clelia was clean. He’d tasted her blood twice since yesterday. At that thought, his cock jerked again, his hard-on an agonizing steel rod.
At eight sharp, he connected the communication system and punched in the code that would give him a direct, secure line to Cain.
“A beautiful morning,” Cain said. “I’m having breakfast on the deck. I could get used to this. May try my hand at some fishing later.”
Josselin scoffed. “Any new info?”
“Has Erwan made contact?”
“Not yet. I’ve left a secure number with a message from Clelia with the fishermen and in various brasseries. If any of them had contact with him, he would have called by now.”
“We need to get her out of here.”
“Why?”
“You’ve got eyes trained on you.”
“Someone’s watching us?”
“Picked up a little spying eye in the sky. It was piggybacking on a weather satellite. Clever disguise.”
“Fuck. Lupien?”
“Hard to say. But not every jackass can afford private satellite time.”
“So, you know where I am?”
“Courtesy of your peeping tom. I guess you’re running out of time as we speak.”
“Fuck. Why didn’t you contact me as soon as you got the information?”
Cain chuckled. “I enjoyed spying on you too much.”
“Cain,” Josselin said, his muscles bunching, “this isn’t a fucking game.”
“No, it isn’t. But you seem to be playing it nicely.”
“Say what you have to say. Don’t speak in riddles.”
Cain chuckled. “I see you’re alternating between warming her up and frightening her properly. Part of a special tactic for obtaining information? Is it more effective than torture?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Josselin hissed.
“I’ve never heard you emotional before.”
“Cut through the crap Cain. The fires could be a screen, a set-up, to get you, all of us, here. It could be a trap.”
“Maybe. Most probably. Which is why we have to act even faster than what we thought. Time has run out. Lupien’s power has grown. A firestarter was found dead in Normandy this morning. I don’t have to tell you how many of them there are. Now we’re left with two–Lupien and whoever he’s after. Lupien is now officially the most powerful firestarter in existence. He would take great joy from burning you alive.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Bring the girl in to the safe house. You need to keep her on the water. Lann can use his art here to counteract any possible attacks from Lupien.”
“Then what?”
“Then you better hope that Erwan loves his granddaughter very, very much.”
“I need your guarantee that you’ll honor our agreement even if we have to change location. You still owe me forty-eight hour
s to do it my way.”
“I’m a man of my word, Josselin.”
“Fine. We’ll come in. Can you cover us?”
“I’ll have the team ready. Lupien is lying low after the killing of the Norman firestarter, probably biding his sorry-assed time. It’ll be safe to go, but not for long. Where must they meet you?”
“My house.”
“One hour.”
“We’ll be ready.”
The bathroom door opened just as Josselin cut the link. Clelia stood in the door, dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a strappy black tank top. He found the black straps of her bra that showed with that top alluring, even if he knew it wasn’t the intention of her attire. The fabric was tight, pulling over her breasts and stressing their curves, so Josselin had to look away. He poured another cup of coffee from the flask and held it to her.
“It’s warm. Sugar?”
She shook her head. She took the cup and held it between her palms, but didn’t drink.
“You don’t drink coffee?”
She shook her head. “I prefer tea.”
“I should have asked.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s not like I’m a guest or something.”
He chose to ignore her comment. “The sandwiches got cold, so I suggest we pick breakfast up on the way.”
He was looking forward to hand feeding her, but that now had to wait. He needed to be sure she was safe.
“Where are we going?” she said, her voice marked with panic.
“A safer place.”
She left the coffee on the desk. “When will you let me go home?”
Never. The answer came to him in a flash and took him off guard. But he didn’t want to upset her more. “That question is off-limits from now on.”
“So, I’m not allowed to have questions about my fate?”
He sighed. “I didn’t say that. But it won’t accomplish anything to keep on torturing yourself with answers you already know.”
Pyromancist Page 12
