Scrivener's Tale (11 page)

Cassien could see the soft drift of smoke coming from the hut's rudimentary chimney. ‘What does the enemy want?' He still didn't understand what this was all about.

‘Oh, the usual. Destruction, damnation.'

‘Why?'

‘I suspect because magic was unleashed into Morgravia a long time ago — a very powerful magic that disrupted the natural order of life decades previously.'

‘Wyl's magic?' he wondered aloud in a blind thrust.

‘Wyl didn't possess magic and he didn't wield it. That was the tragedy of his life. He was a good man, who never sought power or wealth or status; all seemed to find him. But it was brought about originally by a curse being set upon him as a young man by a witch called Myrren. From thereon he was a puppet, dancing to the tune of her sinister magic. It controlled him. He moved through several lives, not by choice and each death he brought — including his sister's — was heartbreaking in its own way. He tried to avoid it, but lives were given so Myrren could take her revenge on Morgravians.

‘The curse's dark path was finally cut short when he entered the body of King Cailech and became sovereign.' Fynch gave a sad smile. ‘I know I say that casually and I know it requires a lot more explanation but we don't have time now. Wyl died of old age as Cailech.'

‘So it's over? The curse I mean.'

Fynch frowned. ‘Myrren's curse has ended but that dark style of magic may not be. I don't know where the threat is coming from and I don't really know why I feel it, but I do feel it … even as removed as I am in the Wild. All the signs are there.' Fynch looked up from the leaf he'd been studying and fixed Cassien with a firm, disconcerting gaze. ‘The magic is alive.'

Wednesday night closed in early and Parisians knew winter had surely arrived as the icy cold wrapped its claws around the city. A ripe yellow moon was intermittently shuttered by heavy clouds drifting across its face and threatening rain. Gabe couldn't wait to close the shop. He'd promised himself an indulgent risotto and on the way home had resisted the urge to take the shortcut; instead, wrapping his scarf tight around his mouth to keep out the chill, he ran to the nearest Monoprix to grab his fresh ingredients.

The clouds burst while he was paying for his groceries and he'd forgotten his umbrella; he pictured it on his desk at the shop and remembered that Cat had distracted him as he was packing up to leave. Cursing his luck, he had to walk home in the rain, but rather than allow himself to slip into misery at being cold and wet, he pictured himself turning on the fire, sipping a glass of wine as he chopped leeks and garlic, the intoxicating aroma spreading as both began to warm in the olive oil and release their fragrances and flavours. His mouth watered. Gabe delved into his coat pocket for his house keys and hit the stairs outside his building, taking them two at a time, and nearly tripped over her at the top. He only just managed to stop himself from sending the bag of food sprawling across the landing.

‘Angelina?'

She pushed herself to standing on the stair. ‘Sorry,' she murmured but didn't seem embarrassed; more amused if anything.

‘What are you doing here?' Gabe asked, quickly adjusting his voice from surprise to a neutral tone. ‘Are you all right?' he asked gently, suddenly worried for her.

She shrugged.

He looked around. ‘Where's René?'

‘Not here,' she answered and he heard defiance.

Gabe's lips twisted slightly in thought. ‘You'd better come in,' he said, making up his mind. He opened the front door of his building and looked over his shoulder. ‘Come on, unless you want to sit here all night. It's too cold to sit in the hallway.'

‘Not for René, though?'

‘Cruel guardians don't count,' Gabe answered with a wink.

‘He's not my guardian,' she said quickly.

‘All right. How would you describe him?' he said. ‘I prefer the stairs to the lift,' he warned.

She shrugged as if it mattered not to her and followed him.

‘Go on, how do you describe his relationship to you,' he encouraged as they made their ascent to his apartment.

‘Keeper is too gentle a word. Jailer is probably too harsh.'

‘Supervisor?' he offered helpfully but equally wry in his tone. ‘Minder?' he added, flicking through his bunch of keys for the right one to open his door.

Angelina shook her head as she arrived alongside. ‘Guard.'

‘Guard?' he repeated as the door opened. ‘Odd word. What is he guarding against, I wonder?' She shrugged again as he tapped in the alarm code and deactivated the security. ‘Get that wet coat off,' he suggested, letting the topic go for now. He dumped his groceries on the kitchen counter and flicked on the gas fire. ‘I'm just going to dry off.'

He strode to his bathroom and closed the door, reaching for a towel to dry his hair. As he dragged it across his face he caught sight of himself in the mirror and paused, only his eyes visible over the top of the towel.

‘What are you doing?' he murmured to his reflection. ‘This flies against everything you know to be correct protocol.' He took a deep breath, knowing he had to make a decision. He finished drying off his hair, neatened it with his fingers by pushing it behind his ears and nodded at himself. ‘It's your funeral,' he said, echoing a favourite threat he and his wife used to throw at each other when one was in disagreement with the other's decision.

He emerged. ‘Okay?'

She smiled back. ‘Fine.'

Gabe watched her from the corner of his eye as he unpacked his groceries. Angelina had taken off her coat and stood with her back to the fire looking around his room as though seeing it for the first time. She didn't appear in the least uncomfortable or embarrassed to be here with him alone.

‘So are you going to tell me?'

‘What?' she said, turning to gaze at him with her smoky, dark eyes so full of promise that Gabe found himself clearing his throat. Today she was wearing a pair of narrow, tight jeans that clung to her petite, beautiful shape with vigour. Her mauve cashmere knit top was short and tight, revealing a few centimetres of bare midriff and accentuating her full breasts. He tried not to stare but this garb was entirely different to her almost childlike clothes of the previous day. For so long, women he met had not excited him in this way … now, suddenly, there was Angelina.

She found a lighter on the mantelpiece. ‘May I?'

He shrugged. ‘Of course.'

Angelina began to light the candles he'd put around the room months previously simply because they looked good. She switched off overhead lights as she continued around the room touching her flame to the wicks, making sure he had plenty of opportunity and time to watch the graceful movements of her lithe body. Six were burning by the time she returned to the fireplace and the space had already begun to fill with the rich perfume of earthy, fresh sandalwood and sweet, heady frankincense.

Control seemed impossible now. He wanted to hold her, feel the contact of her skin against his, his lips on hers, his hands on her —

She broke into his guilty thoughts. ‘Do you have a lover?' Angelina asked, eyes glittering in the low light.

The question was so brazen the corkscrew he'd just placed on the wine cork slipped and stabbed into his left thumb, slicing it open.

‘
Merde
!' he growled.

He heard her gurgle with laughter behind him, guessing at what was happening.

‘Idiot!' he added.

‘Let me help,' she said, gliding over.

He didn't want her to touch him, but she was already close enough for him to smell her perfume — violets, he thought. The whole situation of candlelight and blood, pain, comfort: it was all dangerous and wrong.

Angelina had reached for a tea towel and was pressing it onto the cut.

‘It's not deep,' she assured him, still amused.

‘I'll look after it now,' he began, awkwardly reaching to take over.

‘No-one's watching, Gabe. Relax. Let's just stop the flow of blood,' she said, preventing him from pulling his hand away.

‘You're very different when René is not around.'

‘You haven't answered me.'

He remembered her question. ‘Why would you use the word “lover” when most people would say “girlfriend”?'

She looked up at him now and he felt his throat tighten. ‘It's clear to me you don't have a girlfriend,' she replied with the utmost confidence. ‘Lover strikes me as more accurate.'

‘How do you know I don't have a girlfriend?'

‘There'd be signs of her around here. And don't look at the scented candles — they don't fool me,' she giggled.

Angelina was being witty. Perhaps the slashed thumb was worth it.

‘What's wrong with the word “lover”, anyway?' she challenged.

‘Nothing … it's just intimate.'

‘And that disturbs you?'

‘It doesn't disturb me,' he defended, hearing the lie in his hollow tone. ‘It's a confronting word for want of a better description.'

‘Confronting?'

‘Too direct. It became an impolite question because of it,' he cautioned.

She laughed at him. ‘You're intimidated by a word.'

‘I'm not intimidated,' he replied.

Angelina smiled. ‘Aren't you?' she said. ‘I'm usually good at reading people. My mistake. So answer my question then.'

He took a breath, feeling vaguely ridiculous as she held his hand. ‘No, I am not romantically involved with anyone at present.'

She cast a glance over his ingredients. ‘And yet this is such a romantic dinner you're making for yourself.'

‘It's a risotto.' He could hear the defensiveness in his tone.

‘But risotto is a meal to share, to savour with another. There's nothing lonely or selfish about a risotto. Risotto is a meal made with love because it takes time; a meal that speaks of love to the person you share it with because you have taken that time over it.'

Gabe swallowed. Surely it wasn't that complex?

‘Such a tactile dish,' Angelina continued. ‘Lots of attention,' she said, mimicking stirring the pot. She rubbed her belly but there was something suggestive in it. ‘And so warming.' She unwrapped the tea towel from around his hand as she spoke. They both watched as the blood sprang again to the surface and oozed through the cut. It was hardly flowing but it was bright and glossy. ‘Glutinous … sticky … wet,' she murmured and then shocked him by raising his hand to close her lips around his thumb.

He could feel her tongue licking at the blood and instantly he felt an erotic rush of blood elsewhere. The risotto was forgotten — as was the bleeding thumb and the still unopened bottle of wine.

Like a helpless schoolboy his face guided itself to her mouth. He vaguely registered the smell of violets on her breath before drowning in the desire to pull her as close as humanly possible. She was so petite he had to bend to hold her properly. Before he knew it, she had clambered up onto him as a child might, her supple legs wrapped around his hips, her arms around his neck. She was light and tiny, but her body was all woman.

The kissing was mind-blanking. He was robbed of all thought, all awareness of anything beyond desire. His traitorous fingers began exploring her body. Somewhere deep horror resonated that he was taking advantage of a vulnerable patient, but the patient was now rhythmically moving against him and moaning softly.

He was supposed to be a man entirely in control and yet here he was … like putty, suddenly incapable of resisting when she made her body so available — soft, compliant, eager. He blamed his new mood to change his life, he blamed the return of the cathedral — his mind palace — back in his thoughts. He wanted to blame the raven that had unnerved him — in fact anything except being a vulnerable man in the presence of an erotic young woman.

Suddenly they were on his bed and he was pulling off his clothes and hers. Gabe knew he should but he didn't want to exercise control. He wanted Angelina. He needed this. His inner voice assured him as he pulled at her buttons.
She's adult, she's consenting … she's —

…
your patient!
reinforced another — René's — but he ignored that caution.

Angelina never let go of him. There was always some part of her connected to him — mouth, hand, breast. It was as though she knew that to break the connection was to break the spell.

And then their bodies joined as one and Gabe was lost to it, riding a wave of unbelievable joy that he had found something he'd not thought possible to ever find since Lauren and Henry had died. It wasn't love — he knew that. It wasn't even affection because they'd barely paused to consider any fondness which might exist between them. He couldn't call it emotional … there hadn't been time to build this relationship.

It was purely the physical closeness to another that he'd denied himself for so long. She was unlocking years of pent-up need. There was nothing else but Angelina in his hollow, sterile life. Only her — beneath and above him. She was suddenly his sun, his sky, his earth, his sea. And he travelled with her now, drowning in her depths and soaring to her heights.

Did it last for eternity or was it just a brief interlude? Gabe lay confused and ashamed. The candles still blinked and guttered softly from a draft somewhere; the bloodstained tea towel still lay on the floor where it had dropped. His thumb had stopped bleeding now but he could see smudges of blood on the sheets. He glanced at the clock next to the bed. It was only just coming up to nine. He'd arrived at his building at around seven-forty he guessed. So he'd lost not even an hour and a half of his life and yet it felt as though he'd been absent for days.

He turned to gaze at Angelina, sleeping as still as a corpse next to him with her lips parted. There was blood smeared on her cheek where he'd held her face to kiss her, and seeing the blood reminded him of René's warning.
She will bring you harm
. He leaned close until he could feel her breath against his lips, smell that curious hint of sweet violets on it. Her skin looked lilac-blue in the low light, except that her cheeks had a small pinch of colour, as though they alone held the memory of their passion. He swung his legs to the floor and held his face.