Pyromancist

by Charmaine Pauls

  Only one trawler had passed in the week Clelia jumped to unequalled danger. Its destination was Cape Town. He begged leave from Cain, and no one in his team was suspicious when he set off for South Africa. They thought he was running to go lick his wounds. Any fool could see how Clelia affected him. If not for the knowledge that she was alive, he would have gone stark raving mad. Maybe it was Cain’s fear of losing Josselin to that madness that made him agree to let Josselin go.

  From Cape Town, Josselin managed to pick up a trail to Johannesburg. The trawler had docked in Hout Bay. A cooler truck had taken the boat’s fish cargo from there to Johannesburg. In fact, Clelia could have gone anywhere after going ashore. It was pure luck that the truck driver was back in Hout Bay to transport another batch of fish at the same time that Josselin arrived in the harbor town. He had to cut the idiot’s finger and suck his blood to learn the truth, because the man stubbornly refused to cooperate, denied that he had ever laid eyes on a tiny, Japanese woman.

  The driver had such a fright at the sight of Josselin’s knife parting his skin that he spilled the beans. He not only confessed to taking Clelia to Johannesburg, but also to robbing her of her money, which turned out to have been the sole reason for letting her hitchhike a ride with him. The petrified driver swore he never laid a finger on her, and if his blood hadn’t confirmed his confession, Josselin would have sliced his throat right there and then.

  Now, Josselin was lying in the bed of his Westcliff suite, so near, and so far, feeling for her in the night, his fire angel, willing her to come back to him.

  Unable to sleep, he stepped out onto his balcony. The November summer breeze ruffled his hair. From the hillside, he had a view over the zoo, now obscured by the night. He could hear the call of a lion followed by the cry of a jackal. He thought back to Celia’s zoo, the animals she had rescued, and reminded himself to call the vet in the morning for a report on their progress.

  The wolf hybrids had posed a challenge, as they wouldn’t heel to anyone. They roamed the woods and came home only to feed on the food left for them, and he feared that, left to their own devices too long, they’d soon start hunting, and that the locals would take their guns to them.

  A hyena’s yelping in the zoo below evoked the barking of a domestic dog in one of the streets, and soon a choir followed. Josselin rested his hands on the balcony rail, feeling cold metal when he longed to feel warm skin. Then it hit him. If he wanted to find Clelia, he had to follow the animals. His body jerked and his heart expanded in excited joy.

  When morning came, Josselin dressed quickly. He had spent the remainder of the night on his ePad, searching for animal rescue groups, and although the search brought up plenty, the only national, registered dog shelter was in the suburb of Randburg.

  He took a quick breakfast of espresso and croissants outside by the pool and had the valet bring the rented car around just before eight. Cursing the peak-hour traffic with which he had not reckoned, he parked the car in front of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals close to nine. When he walked into the office, a curvy, young woman looked him up and down and smiled provocatively.

  “Can I help you?” she said, leaning with her elbows on the desk.

  “I would like more information about your volunteer programs.”

  She lifted a penciled eyebrow. “You want to volunteer?”

  He perched on the edge of the desk and lifted a paperweight with an SPCA logo. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Or maybe you’d like to adopt.” She smiled. “No offense, but you don’t look like the volunteer type.”

  “And what does the volunteer type look like?” he said, throwing the paperweight into the air and catching it.

  She looked from his leather pants to his ponytail and said, “Definitely not like you.”

  “What?” He smiled. “Used to having only wrinkly grannies and geeky nerds?”

  Or beautiful, fragile Japanese girls with big, frightened eyes and a mouth that begged for kissing.

  “Mostly vets and students, or pet food company volunteers, but we have a few fanatics.”

  The girl was clever. She called his bluff.

  “Who are you looking for?” she said, crossing her arms.

  “A girl.” He replaced the paperweight on her desk. “My girl.”

  “And if she’s your girl, why would you be looking for her?”

  “For one more chance to tell her I love her. To not be a jerk.”

  The girl’s expression softened. “You’re one of those, huh?”

  “Professional asshole,” he said, grinning.

  “I know your type.” The girl lifted a pencil and chewed on the end.

  “Then you’ll know she deserves better than me, but that nobody could ever love her more than I do, and that I’ll do my damndest to make it up to her. At the very least, she deserves to hear that I’m sorry. And that I can’t live without her.”

  The girl narrowed her eyes. “You won’t screw up again?”

  “Like hell. If she gives me half another chance, I’ll spend the rest of my life on my knees.”

  “All right. I could work with a man on his knees. Tell me who you’re looking for.”

  “Japanese girl. Speaks English with a French accent. Tiny. Delicate. Beautiful. An angel.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Clelia.”

  “We have a girl that fits your description, but her name isn’t Clelia.”

  His soul leaped, but he kept a calm exterior. “What’s her name?”

  “Cléane de Villiers.”

  “Cléane is her second name,” he said without blinking an eye.

  It was her, his Clelia. He couldn’t explain how he knew. He just knew.

  “She only comes in on weekends. She’s here every Saturday and Sunday.”

  It was only Tuesday. He couldn’t wait that long.

  “Do you know where I could get hold of her?”

  The girl looked uncertain again. “Look, I don’t mind telling you that she helps out here, but asking me for an address is another thing altogether, not that I have it anyway.”

  “I came all the way from France,” he said. “I’ve waited long enough. I can’t wait another day.”

  He meant it, and he knew it showed.

  “You’ve got it bad, huh?” she said.

  He grimaced. “You have no idea.”

  She sighed, looking him over again. “You seem sincere. And intense. She’s a lucky girl. Well, I only know that she works in some bar in Rosebank. It’s called ‘Blue’ or something like that.”

  “Thanks,” he said, jumping to his feet. He fished a large roll of bills from his back pocket and left it on her desk. “That’s a donation for your organization.”

  Her eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

  “Put it to good use.” He made for the door.

  “Aren’t you going to wait for your receipt?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “I’ll give your receipt to Cléane on Saturday,” she called after him.

  He paused at the door. “She won’t be here. I’m taking her home.”

  * * * *

  There were two bars with the word ‘blue’ in the name: Dark Blue and Monday Blues. Monday Blues turned out to be a fancy cigar bar on the top floor of a business block and the doorman assured Josselin that there were no female waiters. It was strictly a business club with male servers to ‘avoid problems’ as he had put it. That left Dark Blue.

  Josselin didn’t like the look of the place, even from the outside. It was on the ground floor of a less well-maintained building of flats. The windows were painted black and there was no sign to indicate the name. He had to ask in several nearby shops before someone pointed him in the right direction.

  Josselin pushed on the door. It gave way under his palm. A smell of stale smoke assaulted his nostrils. The inside was dimly lit. A man mopping the floor glanced up and another one drying glasses behind the bar said, �
�We’re closed.”

  Josselin let the door swing shut and took in the surroundings as he approached the bar. The tables were pushed against the wall and the chairs were stacked, presumably for the cleaning. His eyes went over the cheap bottles of hard liquor lining the shelves above the bar.

  “I said we’re not open for business,” the man said, discarding the glass and the dishcloth, pressing with his palms on the bar.

  Josselin ignored him and walked up to the counter. He resented that Clelia had to work in a place like this, serving drinks to drunken men who would ogle her and whose hands would wander. He balled his fists and flexed his fingers.

  “I’m looking for someone,” Josselin said, deciding to cut through the crap and get right to the crux of his visit.

  A closed look came over the beefy bartender’s face. “I can’t help you.”

  “I didn’t ask if you could help.” Josselin leaned forward. “I’m telling you to.”

  “If you knew who owned this place, you’d go look somewhere else.”

  “Does it look like I care about who owns this dump?” Josselin said, lifting his revolver from the waistband of his pants.

  He could have knocked the barman around and would have enjoyed doing so, but he was in a hurry and he had decided that his gun would evoke a faster response.

  The man took a step back and lifted his hands. “Whoa. Easy man. I just work here.”

  Josselin kept his attention on both the barman and the cleaner, noticing the latter trying to make for the door. “Stay where you are.”

  “I just work here too,” the cleaner said, “I ain’t looking for no trouble.”

  “Who else works here?” Josselin said, directing the question at the bartender.

  “Me, him,” he nodded at the cleaner, “another barman, a few waitresses.”

  “I’m looking for a woman called Cléane de Villiers.”

  “Man, I’m not supposed to give up that kind of information. Who are you, anyway?”

  “You could say I’m kind of a cop,” Josselin said, “the kind who’s not ruled by the law. A bullet in your knee would hurt rather badly.” Josselin hopped over the counter and pushed the pistol against the man’s leg. “I would like to shoot you here,” he pushed the barrel into the man’s flesh, “so that every time you have to use your arms to turn your wheelchair, you’ll think of me.”

  The man swallowed noisily.

  “Want a souvenir to remember me by?” Josselin said, his mouth close to the man’s ear, his revolver caressing the man’s leg through his jeans. “Or would you rather spit out the answer?”

  “There’s a Chinese girl,” the man said.

  “What does she look like?”

  “I just said she’s Chinese.”

  Josselin released the safety. “Describe her, asshole.”

  “Short. Black hair. Dark eyes. Hot.”

  Josselin pulled back his fist and let the full power of the force collide with the barman’s jaw.

  The bartender staggered into the shelves and steadied himself just before he tripped. The bottles rattled.

  He touched his jaw and moved it from side to side. “Hey, what the fuck was that for?”

  “For calling my woman hot,” Josselin said.

  The second punch hit the man on his nose, the sound of cracking cartilage a clear indication of the damage.

  The man grabbed his nose, cursing. Blood streamed through his fingers. “I told you what you wanted to know. What the hell was that for?”

  “For saying that she’s Chinese. She’s Japanese, you ignorant bastard. Where can I find her?”

  “She lives in the block next door. Rooftop.”

  Josselin grabbed a bottle opener from the counter, and before the barman knew what was happening, Josselin had pricked his finger. He brought the wound to his lips, and to the astonishment of the bartender, licked away the blood. The man was telling the truth.

  Josselin kept his weapon trained on the man as he rounded the bar and headed for the door. “Accept this as her resignation.”

  He heard the mumbled insult, but Josselin was in too much of a rush to get to Clelia to care.

  By the time Josselin got to the building next door, he was worried that the men in the bar had called to alarm the doorman or the guard, but this building didn’t have a concierge. From the reception desk where he was required to sign in, he gathered that it was a business block. He glanced at the plaque on the wall and chose the floor number of a recruitment company to sign next to his fictional name, not that the male receptionist was paying much attention. He was watching a rugby match on a portable television.

  Josselin took the fire escape to the rooftop. When he exited into the sunshine, he looked around for a penthouse level, but all he saw was a loose-standing unit that very much resembled an engine room, the type that housed geysers and wiring and provided storage space. It couldn’t be this. Josselin crossed the concrete floor. From the side where he exited, the room had no window, but rounding it, he saw that it had one facing away from the street. The curtain was drawn. The door was closed. In front of the door stood a camping chair and a pot with flowers, clear signs of habitation. Josselin’s gut jerked.

  He approached quietly, his heart beating so furiously that the blood sang in his ears. Trying the knob, he discovered the door was locked. If this was hers, the place where she lived, if she was inside, would she let him in? Probably not. After his performance in France, she was sure to have trust issues, which he had all intentions of fixing. Knowing that he now knew what she was, she’d believe he was here to hunt her. He wasn’t going to take any chances.

  It took him three seconds to pick the cheap lock. He cursed for how easy it was, his heart squeezing at the knowledge of how easy it could have been for anyone else. He turned the knob and opened the door slowly. It needed oil. The loud squeaking had the woman who slept on the bed facing the door shoot up in alarm, the sleep immediately vanished from her face, like someone who never slept too deep, someone who knew danger, someone on the run.

  Josselin’s breath caught. She was dressed in a black miniskirt and white silk blouse, her hair braided and tied in rings with ribbons at the side of her face, now ruffled from her sleep. She looked impossibly young, totally vulnerable. In a flash, he took in everything–the dingy interior of the room, the peeling paint, the heat, the two-plate stove on a table against the wall, a bathroom cubicle in the corner, the fear in her eyes and the shock on her face.

  He closed the door softly behind him. She squirmed up the mattress, pressing her back against the wall.

  “Clelia, I told you before, I won’t hurt you,” he said, his voice dark from the pain, the fear, the agony, and the longing.

  “Josselin...”

  He closed his eyes briefly at the sound of her voice.

  “How did you find me?” she whispered.

  He moved to the bed. “Does it matter? I also told you to never run from me, to never make me come after you.”

  She looked at him with those huge eyes. It almost made him fall to his knees.

  He wanted to strip her and fuck her and love her just to know that she was real, but he controlled himself with much effort.

  When he reached out to touch her face, her breath hitched. She flattened herself against the wall. He flinched at her reaction, wanting even more to crush her body to his, to prove his feelings to her, but he only withdrew his hand.

  “Clelia, I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “What then?” Her voice shook. “To question me? To lock me up?”

  He shook his head. “To save you.”

  Her eyes widened. “From what?”

  “It’s not from what. It’s from whom.”

  She stared at him with her pretty, big eyes. “Why?”

  “Because of this.” He bent down slowly so as not to frighten her, watching her expression. This time she didn’t flinch. He pressed his lips against hers lightly, forcing himself to pull away. He had to close his eyes to proce
ss the enormity of his relief at feeling her, very real, very sweet.

  “It was you all along,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me about the graveyard?”

  She lifted her chin. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Is that what you still believe? All I can think about is touching your skin to mine, of tasting every inch of you, of being inside you–just to prove to myself that you’re real. It hurts me that you can even think that.”

  “Is that why you’re here, then? To fuck me?”

  “No. I’ll first make love to you, as you deserve for your first time, and then I’ll fuck you senseless for the rest of your life. I’m here for you, Clelia.” He looked around, angry to find her in such a state of poverty. “Why are you here?”

  “You know why I ran.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I’m referring to this hellhole. Is this where you live?”

  “I had no money when I came here. Work in this country is scarce. This is what I can afford.”

  “And the bar?”

  “What about the bar?”

  “Did the men touch you?”

  She looked away, her cheeks flushed. “I didn’t allow them to.”

  “But they wanted to?” he said, feeling his anger escalate.

  “Some. Yes.”

  He would fucking kill each one of them.

  “Did they look at you?”

  “I was too busy working to notice,” she bit out, glaring back at him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the graveyard?”

  “I thought it might be painful for you, that you wouldn’t want me to know. I didn’t want to hurt you. I just wanted you to have the bullet so you’d remember how valuable your life was every time you looked at it.”

  “What was painful was for me to find out that my vision was real, and that you let me believe what I had found in that cemetery was only a dream.”

  “Josselin,” she said, “it was only a dream.”

  “No. I want it to be real. I want you, Clelia. I’ve come over a continent in search of you.”

  “You don’t know what I am.”

  She covered her face with her hands.

  He sat down on the bed and gently pulled her hands away. “I know what you are. You are an angel. You are a pyromancist. And you are mine.”