Shadow Girl (11 page)

‘You know what to do,' says Yaouen to Jenny. ‘And whatever happens, stay put and wait for me. I shouldn't be longer than a day or two.'

He climbs back on Morvarc'h.

‘If I have news, we'll talk by hawk.'

Sandra is looking around her in quiet awe. They burst out of the air not five minutes ago, right above the old city wall, and landed at the top of an old tower. No one saw them arrive, she guesses — for no one is up and about at this time of the morning.

The place has a quiet beauty about it. The careful symmetry of the Jardins des Remparts unfolds below her, girt by a sluggish river. Behind her, the old city unpacks its jumble of roofs, glazed by the rays of a timid sun. The contrast with the bustle of downtown Sydney could not be more striking.

‘The tower is protected by a charm, so Sandra will be safe here. As long as she does not leave the place. Make sure you keep an eye on her.'

He takes something from his pocket. ‘And this' — he throws over a silver necklace to Jenny — ‘should give you time to warn me if you come against anything unexpected. Wear it at all times. There is a small opal set in the pendant. Press it twice and I'll be here before you know it.'

Morvarc'h gives an impatient little neigh.

‘One last thing. Wait for my return before opening your big mouth.'

‘I suppose so,' agrees Jenny reluctantly. She puts on the necklace. ‘You can be so controlling sometimes, d'you know that?'

Sandra pulls herself away from the city view to look at Yaouen. She gets a shock.

‘Your skin . . .' she begins. ‘Your skin has goon all pastel-cream.'

‘Yes. Easier to blend in in this part of the world.' He smiles at her. ‘This is also how I was born.'

‘How you were porn? So wot about your Creolish poppaman?'

He remains silent.

‘You're not from Morish-us, are you?'

‘Strictly speaking, no. I was being poetically licentious.'

She knew it. The guy is a talented freak and a compulsive liar.

‘If you prefer, I'll slip the olive mask back on when I return. Easy as home-made pie.'

‘That's . . . That's all right-ho I guess. I can get accustomated to your new stylish.'

‘I can also grow a beard.'

‘That won't be necessarous,' she replies hastily, already visualising the scratch marks on her inner thighs.

‘Don't worry. I'll be back. I always honour my contracts.'

He gives Morvarc'h a pat on the neck. The horse stretches his wings and dives over the parapet. A moment later, both are far beyond the river on a rising curve.

‘Yes, your cuntracts,' she echoes. Her voice is tinged with sadness. He left without a touch. Without the semblance of a kiss. Without even looking back.

The guy is a compulsive liar. And a jerk. And she is hooked on him.

Just her luck.

‘Now wot?'

‘Now we make ourselves comfortable,' says Jenny.

‘I couldn't yes-yes more. A hootel pillow-bed would be great at this pinpoint. I'm exhausticated.'

‘We're not going to a hotel.'

‘Whereto then?'

‘Yaouen was quite specific. We're staying here.'

Sandra looks around her suspiciously.

‘You mean on topple of this tower?'

‘Of course not, silly,' laughs Jenny. ‘Not on top.
Inside
. Come with me.'

They follow the parapet walk that skirts the main pinnacle turret. There is a narrow door at the end, leading in.

‘Welcome to the Connétable Tower establishment,' she says, gesturing at the door.

‘Wet is this? Some sort of fancy Pet & Prickfast?'

Jenny holds back a laugh.

‘More like Yaouen's private digs when he is in town.'

‘Wholesale of this is Yaouen's?' Sandra makes a vague gesture at the tower.

‘Not quite. The municipality owns most of this fifteenth-century baby. But Yaouen was keen to get a pied-à-terre here and negotiated a deal with the mayor. You can guess how he wangled that.'

Jenny puts her hand on the ornate door handle.

‘A pied-à-terre,' she repeats with a smile. ‘Don't you think that's a lovely expression? A place to dismount, to put your foot on the ground, as country folks used to say in the days of horse travel. Which is precisely what we did today, by the way. We dismounted.'

Sandra is staring doubtfully at the door. Some of the paint has flaked off its wooden panels.

‘The phrase tends to refer to a delightful cottage by the sea these days. Or a mansion, depending on the size of your pay packet.'

‘Or a mid-devil tower.'

‘Medieval. Yes, I guess so.'

Jenny pushes open the door.

‘It's not locked by the way. Not too many rock-climbing thieves around here.'

They step inside a small vestibule. Jenny weaves a path through a clutter of boots, coats, horse equipment and boxes of all shapes.

‘It's a bachelor's pad,' she explains. ‘So don't expect too much.'

She draws aside a curtain.

Going by the state of the vestibule, Sandra was expecting the worst. Jackets spilling out of cupboards, unwashed underwear hanging from broomsticks, capsized mugs on coffee-stained rugs, books with abstruse-sounding titles poised at perilous angles on rickety chairs. The sort of shambles one might even find laced with cat and pigeon poop.

But the large hexagonal room before her is nothing like that.

On one side of the central fireplace, a couch and some chairs hug a low table. On the other, an ample bed lies framed between honeycomb shelves the colour of hazelnut. Thick beams of dark timber etched with swirling grainlines run along the ceiling on either side of the mantelpiece. On the walls, interspersed with lamps shaped like flaming torches, are dotted a few paintings. Coastal landscapes, spectacular mountain vistas. A few portraits too, of nameless kings and queens in refined clothing. And a picture of a robed lady blessing a knight with a sword. In the lounge area, three oval windows filter the morning sun, bathing the room in a mellow glow.

Sandra blows an appreciative little raspberry. Although erring on the quaint side, the place has taste and charm. It feels cosy even, with no sign of medieval dampness. She turns to Jenny.

‘I have no problemo dismounting here and putting not jist one footsie on the ground, but two, as well as the remnant of my total-pooped bod. Preferably in a horizontalese position.'

‘Exactly what I was going to suggest. Have a snooze to get over jetlag while I pop out to get some groceries. There is a shower upstairs if you want one.' She points at a narrow spiral staircase tucked behind the fireplace. ‘Fresh towels are in the cupboard by the bed. When I come back, we feast.'

‘Wot aboot you? Don't you need to nap-crash?'

‘Nah. I'm an old hand at this. I weather warp-travel better than most.' She pauses. ‘If you rummage in the cabinet near the shelves, you'll find something more comfy to sleep in.'

Jenny seems very familiar with the place. Too familiar. The nagging question at the back of Sandra's mind finds its way to her lips.

‘Have you nooky-snoozed with Youyouen? At any time in the gone-by? Are you smooch-lovers?'

Jenny stares at her noncommittally.

‘Can I use my joker card on this one?'

‘Please Jenny.'

‘You heard the man. I'm not supposed to open my big mouth.'

‘So you did smoothy-smooch then.'

‘It's more complicated than that.'

‘And I suppose you're not going to explanate exactickly how complicational.'

‘Perhaps he can tell you himself, when he comes back.'

‘You're scaredy-cat of him? Of wot he will say?'

‘Yaouen is not someone you want to antagonise.'

Sandra does not know what to think. She moves to the couch and sits down, wearily.

‘You're worrying too much, you know. Put your feet up. Relax.'

Jenny moves across the room and draws another curtain to reveal a panelled door in the wall. Then presses a small lever. With a near-silent swish, the door slides up into the ceiling.

‘A lift,' she explains. ‘The official way in and out of here. Takes you right down to the bottom of the rampart, on the town side. Very convenient.'

She steps inside the cubicle.

‘Be back soon.'

The lift door swishes shut.

Once outside, Jenny pauses. Then takes a deep breath, perhaps to inhale the scents of spring. She looks up to the sky.

Above her, the azure is barely streaked by cirrus clouds and there is a nip in the air. She zips up the light jacket she is wearing then makes her way leisurely up the street. The covered market to her side is quiet and deserted, as it is every Sunday.

She saunters past a string of half-timbered facades, stopping now and again before a shop window to admire a display. Behind her tower the spires of the Cathédrale Saint-Pierre.

As she turns a corner, she almost bumps into a frail old lady wrapped in a shawl.

‘
Vous savez où je peux trouver une épicerie ouverte?
' she enquires. Finding a food shop open at this hour on a Sunday might be a challenge.

The old woman gives her a toothless smile and points her in the right direction. Jenny thanks her and ambles on. She does not look back and therefore does not see her informant step into a doorway. Does not see her do a quick scan of the surroundings, morph into a lizard and vanish down a crack. But she does spot the narrow cobbled lane she was directed to — one which, as it happens, she has walked down before.

The house fronts on either side of her rise up so high they almost block out the sky. There is no one around, save for a solitary dog sniffing at a stain on a doorjamb. Halfway down the alley, she stops by a small window brimming with food items.

She seems surprised. Seems not to recognise the place. Hesitates. Looks up and down the shopfront. Glances over her shoulder — and then walks in.

Her face lights up as she goes through the door, for the small store is a shrine of delicacies and a crucible of gorgeous, if rather heady, scents. It is pure bliss for the eyes. The meats, salamis, patés, condiments, spices and cheeses of all colours and sizes are cocooned in leaves of fresh lettuce or sheltered in delicately woven baskets, and laid out against a backdrop of exotic fruits.

‘
Est-ce que je peux vous aider?
' says a voice, startling her.

The woman behind the counter is plain-looking — shoulder-length brown hair, jaw erring on the wide side, pug nose and nonexistent chest — but her eyes glow with a strange intensity.

Jenny stands there with a frown. Maybe because the shopkeeper looks remarkably like the lady who gave her directions — except she is a lot younger.

‘
Euh
. . .
J'ai besoin de
. . .'

She is faltering. She stares at the smorgasbord of gourmet foods, looking lost. Then rests a hand on the counter, perhaps in an attempt to anchor herself to something solid. Her expression goes off focus. The smells must be proving a little overpowering.

‘
Essayez ce fromage, vous m'en direz des nouvelles.
'

She picks up the piece of herb-flavoured cheese offered to her on a spatula. She wavers a moment, then brings the food to her lips with unsteady fingers. Her dreamy expression deepens as she swallows the sample.

Her eyes float up to the painted beachscape on the wall, behind the counter. The frame shows a group of curvaceous girls dancing in the nude in knee-deep water. Laughing, the maidens are enticing a man into the sea, to his doom.

‘
Elles sont superbes ces filles, n'est-ce pas?
'

Jenny nods weakly. She does seem quite taken with those voluptuous girls, because her eyes are not moving from the picture.

‘
Vous voudriez être aussi belle?
'

She does not answer.

The woman steps around the counter and stands right behind her. Then places her palms on her shoulders.

‘I know you,' she whispers in Jenny's ear, switching to English. ‘I can read your soul. You're dying to become beautiful again, like those fairies on the wall.' The woman pauses. ‘Beautiful and irresistible.'

She unzips Jenny's jacket then slowly removes it.

‘Please, don't,' begs Jenny, who is frozen to the spot. Her eyes flick down to her chest, in search perhaps of the opal pendant on her neck. But her hand is unable to reach for it.

The woman's lips curve into a predatory smile. She drops the jacket onto the floor, then in the same unhurried manner proceeds to peel off her captive's top. And then unclip her bra. Jenny has closed her eyes.

The shop's shutters have inexplicably rolled down, plunging the room in what low light is leaking from a wall lamp.

‘What's this?' The woman smirks as she removes Jenny's necklace. ‘A charmed gemstone. How delightfully pathetic. Did he really think this would be enough to stop me?'

Mumbling something, she drops the necklace to the floor and it vanishes in a hiss of smoke.

‘I knew you people had arrived the moment you set foot on that tower. My ladybug scouts are a model of efficiency.'

She slips a hand under Jenny's arms and begins to play with a nipple. Coaxing it. Making it hard.

‘Do you remember what gorgeous breasts you had?' she whispers, before nibbling Jenny's earlobe. ‘Luscious and perfectly shaped,' she adds between tongue flicks. ‘The sort that turned men's heads a half circle wherever you went. And you attracted quite a long string of those. Men, I mean.'

Delicately, she brushes Jenny's ponytail to one side, then leaves a trail of kisses on her neck. Jenny's lips are parted, held hostage by their gasps.

‘And do you remember what a curvy waistline you had?' she continues, her right hand leaving Jenny's breast to explore other pastures. ‘The sort of hourglass figure that could make deep-dyed monks renounce their vows. What happened to those charming assets, I wonder. Not enough sex, perhaps. Or not enough of the
right
kind.'

The woman's fingers have strayed below Jenny's belly button. They unzip her capri pants, lift the lacy rim of her panties and slip inside.

‘Would you like to have all that back? To have every man at your feet again? Every woman admiring you? Secretly desiring you? Would you like to be worshipped as you once were? As you deserve?'

The unseen fingers must be doing something ineffably wonderful, for Jenny's lips have bloomed into a pout and her whole body has started to quiver.

‘Please . . . Please,' she moans. ‘I cannot go back to that life. I must not.'

‘You cannot? You must not?' mocks the woman, pursuing her distractions. ‘How cute. You have learned your lesson well. But I told you. I can read you like an open book. So can my fingers. You're dripping hard. You're desperate for the old ways.'

Jenny is seized by a strong shudder and drops her head between her shoulders. Between moans, she starts sucking in her breaths in fits.

‘I can help you,' says the woman. ‘I can restore your glory to you. I have that power.'

She makes a point of emphasising how much influence she has, for Jenny collapses over the counter.

‘And by the way, I don't usually look like a plain Jane. Look into the mirror before you.'

Opening her eyes seems to require a great effort from Jenny. But she does so and stares at her reflection, beyond the counter. Above her, she can see a woman's face brightened by a naughty smile. A face quite unlike the shopkeeper's.

Jenny's eyes widen in wonder. ‘Viv . . . Viviane. What on earth . . .' Her mouth strives to finish the sentence but fails. She moans again — a long, uneven whimper. The fingers in her panties have turned her world upside down.

Then, slipping off the counter, she subsides to the floor.

‘Don't worry about a thing,' husks her seducer, still working her with affection. ‘This is for your own good. You will be eternally grateful to me by the time I'm through with you.'