Shadow Girl (8 page)

‘Where are we going walkies to?'

It is the third time she has asked the question, but neither Yaouen nor Jenny is in a hurry to clarify, though they are both in a hurry to get somewhere.

‘Just round the corner,' says Yaouen at last, powering along like a beach buggy. ‘A place I know. I have some urgent business there.'

Urgent business? She snorts dismissively. What can be more urgent than going to get
her
some proper clothing? Right now, she is feeling horribly self-conscious and she lays the blame for this squarely at his feet. Didn't he drag her out of the hotel before she had something sensible to wear?

Inexplicably, the clothes she had worn to her tryst had vanished somewhere in that Bermuda triangle between the bed, the couch and the bathroom — Yaouen swore he had nothing to do with this — and the last-minute replacement turned out to be appallingly minimal: a white clingy crop top that was so clingy and so cropped it must have been designed for a twelve-year-old, and a pair of denim shorts that had evidently been gnawed, shredded and frazzled into near oblivion by a family of starving rodents.

Jenny had flipped both items out of her bag with a triumphant smile and a flourish —
tada!
— and a comment that she'd got these at the market yesterday. Turned out she also had some flimsy thong panties packed in that bag, which was just a little too convenient when you thought about it.

Oh my, this so-called Best Friend would have some mega serious explaining to do as soon as they got a moment together.

And then she took one look at those shorts and said forget it, she wasn't wearing those even if you paid her. Jenny had said shorts hadn't she, not a flipping G-string. Jenny did not seem to understand her so she repeated it three times, flipping G-string, flipping G-string, flipping G-string, just to make sure, though unfortunately she still had no idea what she sounded like.

But she could only guess it wasn't spot on from the way those two Judases were biting their lips and scrunching up their faces trying not to laugh but failing mostly.

Finally Jenny clicked about the G-string but said how much fabric could you expect for a 70 per cent discount, or was it 80 she couldn't remember, and beggars can't be choosers or something idiotic like that, and Sandra should be thankful she had at least something to cover the bare essentials rather than have to walk around in that silly T-shirt with her buns showing at the back for everyone to gawk at.

Naturally, such utter tosh from Jenny did not amuse her in the slightest and in a last effort at modesty, she growled that she wasn't a bloody beach bimbo. She was a career woman, she said, at least she was in that past life which was receding at the speed of light, but she still had a bit of her pride left even if it wasn't much and she just couldn't be seen like that in public. That was
non-negotiable
. She emphasised that last term, pretending for a moment she was back at a business table having it out with a tough client.

By then, however, Jenny was on the floor in stitches, which had no doubt something to do with how the words had just come out of her mouth. She was quite miffed by this and started a tirade about friendship etiquette except this time Yaouen stopped her in her tracks with one of his dark and brooding looks. And he said there was nothing to be ashamed of and yes she could — be seen like that in public that is — and he would appreciate it if she stopped behaving like a baby, for there were portentous things brewing that weighed far more in the overall scheme of things than the size of her garments.

Now that really infuriated her, because hadn't he just waltzed into her perfectly good life — correction, her
perfect
life — and made a complete mess of it in less time than it takes to say ‘drop that business skirt'? And so she was screwed in more senses than one because there was no way she could just pick up the threads and breeze back into Mark's arms or her office in Globalscope. Not speaking the way she did she couldn't. And certainly not feeling the way she did.

She had a totally unhealthy crush on Yaouen, she could see. The sort of crush that turns your heart to jelly and your brain to goo. Perhaps addiction was a better word. Christ, was it what she was — addicted to him? Maybe. Probably. Almost certainly.

Which left her where? Even if she could fix her comic-book English and zip over to France, how the hell could she see through any kind of deal in Toulouse? She could not even begin to imagine
not
spending her entire business meets fantasising about his smooth tongue and great hip moves. Damn it. Her concentration was shot. And with that gone, so would her credibility and dreams of professional glory.

Anyway, what was the point of even thinking about France? The suave bastard probably wouldn't let her go there in the first place. No, she just wasn't getting the right vibes no matter what he said about her being free as a bird when they were through with the language lessons. He had her over a barrel, he knew it and she knew it — and he might literally strap her over one at their next session. Bastard. She hated him for what he was doing to her. He had no right.

But the worst thing about all this — the absolute worst — was that her anger was more theoretical than actual because one touch from him and one look from his intense sexy eyes and she was freaking putty in his hands again, and that submissive thing between her thighs wanted to please him so much it was pathetic but there was not a damn thing she could do about it.

So of course, in the end, she squeezed her body into that tiny kit and even wiggled and paraded her tits and butt for him like that bloody beach bimbo she did not want to be. Sickening really how she was cooing and fussing and enjoying every moment of it, and all the while growing wetter and hornier.

Now she is trailing him and Jenny on the footpath, skipping like a little girl every few steps to keep up with them. As they cross a street, she catches her reflection in a large glass panel opposite, and gets a shocking confirmation of her hotel suspicions: she looks almost naked.

She pivots a quarter turn to recheck the effect, out of a perverse curiosity to assess how thoroughly she has been stripped of her better judgment. Seen from the side, the shorts reveal so much of her curvy bum cheek you might be excused for thinking they do not exist — were it not for the frayed edges fringing her hip.

And her breasts are bursting out of her top like two vanilla scoops about to fall off their waffle cone. Her hair, which still bears the marks of her latest rough-and-tumble, is spilling down her neck and shoulders in wild waves.

Everything about her yells out not just blatant sexiness, but rampant take-me-nowness. She must be a walking magnet for every drooling caveman within a two-mile radius. And the awful truth is, she does not know whether to cringe in shame and run for the nearest cover, or throw modesty to the wind and take credit for what she has to admit is a damn hot look.

In the end, her scanty shorts help her decide. The denim crotch is pressing against her like a lover's finger, and rubbing insidiously with every step she takes. Yes, she might as well take the credit for her look. Or rather let the credit take her, for she knows she has a say in the matter approaching zero when that lascivious thing starts fawning — which it is doing at this point to great effect.

Her eyes stray to Yaouen's appetizing bum, wrapped taut in his stylish trousers. She could so sink her fingers into that tight arse. The anger and frustration she felt a moment ago have completely evaporated.

So has her focus. She is gliding along in a haze of gratification and would no doubt be lurching into passers-by if it weren't for her guide leading the way. She tries hard to stay in his charmed wake.

She hardly hears the wolf-whistle when it comes. It is followed by a one-liner that has about as much wit as you can find hair on a Shaolin monk's head.

‘Hey sexy, I'd love to stick it up ta ya!'

The tradie grinning on the scaffolding across the street is determined to catch her eye and cat-calls again. ‘Come on princess, give us a smile and bend over like a good girl, will ya?'

Sandra finally registers what is being hurled at her from above. The sort of crap she gets occasionally, despite her efforts not to show too much skin in public.

She looks up uncertainly at her admirer. Last time she bore the brunt of such poetic attention, she was quick to sling back one or two barbed comments. Immediate return to sender, she calls it.

This time though, nothing whatever pops into her mind and so nothing makes it past her lips, bar a surprised gasp. In fact, she hates to admit it but she is oddly gratified by the jibe as if, in some twisted way, it validated something in her. Christ, there is something seriously wrong with her.

Awash with mixed emotions, she does not notice Yaouen casting the tradie a rather scathing look. Neither does she spot his forefinger tracing discreet figures in the air.

What she does see, however, is her caller being swooped by a flock of angry crows that seems to have materialised out of thin air. Caught off guard, the man breaks into an awkward jig and starts punching the air like a marionette joggled by an epileptic handler.

Within seconds, he is reeling on one unsteady foot at the edge of the scaffolding. Reeling, and cursing, and flailing his arms around in a bid both to fight off his attackers and restore his balance.

‘Give us a smile, honeypot!' shouts Jenny, her mouth bracketed by her palms. ‘Rip off that shirt and show us your manboobs, will ya?'

The strained look on the man's face indicates he is in no mood or position to oblige. Soon, he loses the contest against birds and gravity, and swearing one last time with a quaint but curiously appropriate choice of words — ‘stone the bloody crows!' — he topples hard hat over heels into the street below.

His landing would no doubt have rearranged his face and other parts of his physique, had not his fall been arrested inches before impact.

For a moment, the man appears to be floating above the footpath like a human hovercraft, belly up and looking bewildered. A subtle wave of Yaouen's finger, and he is repositioned over a vat of freshly poured concrete, then allowed to complete his dive with no further hindrance. He crashes into the goo with a heavy plop but considerable less speed than would have been the case given the verticality of his drop.

Yaouen allows himself a smirk and a nod.

‘All ye who blaspheme shall come to a sticky end.'

As for Sandra, her hand is still cupped over her mouth in disbelief.

‘Dead . . . Dead you see that?'

‘See what?' asks Jenny.

‘The guy . . . That guy shod have died. He shod have . . .'

‘I think his harness saved his life.'

‘He didn't have a whoreness, I swear.'

‘Course he had. Look, there's the rope still hanging from the scaffolding. Must have slowed down his fall and slipped off him just before he crashed.'

Sandra is shaking her head.

‘But I swear . . .'

‘Must be the afternoon heat,' cuts in Yaouen. ‘All that hot, shimmering air. Plays tricks on the eyes.' He takes Sandra's hand. ‘Ah well, best to move on.'

They resume their brisk walk.

They have been striding along a backstreet for about two minutes when Yaouen pulls her into a cramped lane and halts in front of what appears to be a café. The words ‘Le Triskel', and under that, ‘Salon de Thé', are stretched across the smoky glass of the window in elegant, expansive golden letters.

Funny, she had never heard of Le Triskel before. Nor does she remember ever walking into this lane.

She stares at the shop's name, hoping this might jog her memory. The font is old-fashioned, with some letters ending in long flowing spirals. No, she has never been here.

‘They sell the best sablés in Sydney,' informs Jenny in a conspiratorial whisper.

Sandra gives her a blank look then turns her attention back to the café. She has trouble locating the door — a mere outline upon the glass — and she can see no handle. She squints at the dark panel, hoping to make out some movement on the other side.

Yaouen has been standing quietly by her side.

‘Fancy a cup of Chocolat Suprême with a side serving of tuiles aux amandes?' he asks. ‘It's to die for.'

To die for?

She looks at him warily. Her life has taken such a perplexing turn since she met him that instinct tells her anything new should be approached with caution. Still, the risk factor should be fairly low with words like chocolate or almonds.

She musters a timid smile.

‘It sounds yummy-tummy-tempting.'

‘Perfect.'

Yaouen places both palms on the door and says something under his breath. Summoned from beyond the glass, a motif glitters into view between his hands.

‘A triskele,' he comments. ‘Three spirals flowing from a common centre. An ancient Celtic symbol steeped in legend and mystery.'

He is watching her intently, perhaps waiting for her to question him on the pattern. Or ask him why on earth they are standing in front of a coffee shop with no obvious door looking at a design with no obvious purpose.

But she does not say anything, for she is thinking of that cup of cocoa with cookies he mentioned. She had not realised how hungry she was before he spoke. She could do with a sugar boost.

‘Come on, Yaouen, quit acting all mysterious,' teases Jenny. ‘Can't you see the poor girl is starving?'

Yaouen returns his gaze to the triskele, places a finger on its heart and presses. The door slides open with a chime.

‘After you,' he offers, stepping aside to reveal a gaping hole. There is not much light inside. She hesitates.

‘We haven't got all day,' he suggests.

She peers into the gloom and takes a tentative step. She is being silly. If he had wanted her to come to harm, he could have arranged for that to happen a thousand times before. He clearly has the power. All those inexplicable things. Her instant command of French, her hyperbolic sex drive, the curious projection in the hotel room, the guy back there on the building falling but not dying. She has to trust him, at least for the moment.

She takes a long breath and walks in.

She is in the middle of the room. At least she thinks so, for it is so dark in there she can't even see the walls properly. Only a scattering of light points around her. Candles maybe, she is not sure, for they flicker and move a little. Is this really a café?

‘Look what the cat dragged in!'

The voice has snapped out of the shadows and she almost jumps out of her skin.

A short pause, then all hell breaks loose.

‘Dishyyyyy!'

‘Peachyyyyy!'

‘Hot bod!'

‘Oh come to me, baby!'

‘Can I kiss those titties?'

‘Can I jog those perkies?'

‘They're so squishable!'

‘And so kneadable!'

‘Look at that derriere!'

‘Shaped like the perfect pear!'

‘Can I squish that too, honey-poo?'

‘We'll be your personal trainers!'

‘And your booty counsellors!'

‘Take our advice and arch your back!'

‘And roll your hips!'

‘And pout those lips!'

‘Wrap your legs around my neck!'

‘Juicy Lucy you're so racy!'

‘And so boobalicious!'

‘And so hooter-scrumptious!'

‘And so damn butt-munchous!'

‘Simply lick-all-overous!'

The whole room has erupted in a saucy cacophony and Sandra is rooted to the spot. What is this place? A madhouse? The halfway saloon to hell?

Palms clap behind her, three times.

‘Enough, good people!'

Yaouen's voice has soared over the rumpus, which soon dwindles to a trickle of whispered comments — though those are still audible.

‘Jesus, what a bloody party pooper.'

‘Yeah, who does he think he is? Spoilsport!'

‘Shhh. Remember what happened to Loenan?'

‘Come to think of it, I haven't seen Loenan for a wee while.'

‘Does he still have his donkey's ears?'

‘And his monkey's tail?'

‘And his spider's whiskers?'

‘Poor fella.'

Yaouen ignores the murmurs.

‘My friends, such brouhaha ill befits you. I would appreciate it if you gave the lady here a more courteous welcome. She has been through rather a lot lately.'

He snaps his fingers. Small coloured-glass lamps hidden in recesses along the walls come alive, pulling the room out of its gloom. The whole place is now bathed in muted golden light.

‘A much cosier ambiance,' he approves.

He turns to Sandra, who stands thunderstruck next to him.

She is still coming to terms with the scene around her. The lights she saw when she came in are not candles. They are eyes. The eyes of gnomes with big heads, long ears and cartoon-like noses. With body types ranging from short and scrawny to short and portly.

Some of those strange dwarfs are bald, some are bearded. Some are both bald and bearded. Others are wearing floppy hats or quirky headgear made of woven tree leaves.

There must be a score of them, all sitting at gnarled, heavy wooden tables. All holding grotesque mugs engraved with faces that mirror the drinkers' moods. And at present those mugs, like their owners, are displaying strong gourmand interest in her. Eyeing her like she was the last strawberry in a dessert bowl. A strawberry with a zero chance of making it whole to the next meal.

‘Didn't I just say to give our guest a polite welcome?' growls Yaouen. ‘If you can't, then at least give her a break.'

There is something in his tone that will bear no contradiction. The golden glow of the lamps turns cold for a second — a warning perhaps — and the gnomes return hastily to their drinks and conversations.

Yaouen turns to Sandra.

‘You must excuse my Korrigan friends. They lack subtlety sometimes but their hearts are mostly in the right place. You'll get no more grief from them, I assure you.'

Sandra is still in shock. Korri what? This can't be right. She must be dreaming. This is Sydney for God's sake. She is going to wake up and find herself tucked up in her plush bed across the harbour.

She closes her eyes tight, fighting off the urge to pinch her arm. Then she lifts a chary eyelid. There is no sign of her bed. The gnomes are still here, with their ridiculous ears and inflated noses, chatting over the rim of their animated mugs. She has walked straight into a fantasy book.

She shakes her head in an effort to refute the irrefutable, then tries to calm her breathing.
Easy, Sandra. Keep your wits about you.
Maybe she is missing the cameras. Maybe someone will step out of the shadows any moment now and cry ‘cut' and everyone will relax, take off their latex masks and start talking about the last beach barbie they went to.

She waits. And waits some more, still hyperventilating.

No one steps out of the shadows.

So this is the real deal then. It has to be, because if it is not, her senses have thrown her the mother of all curve balls. What she sees has crazy bloody magic plastered all over it. Wizardry. Weird-as parallel-world kind of stuff.

‘Wet is all this?' she asks, trying her best to keep the shake out of her voice. She looks at Yaouen with awe. ‘And woo are you, really? And please don't cowshit me, cause you sure aren't jist some sort of language whizz-kiddo.'

Yaouen lays a finger on her lips.

‘What would life be without its mysteries?' he says, his eyes sparkling. ‘A fruit without pith, a kebab without spice, a buckwheat crepe without black trumpets. Dry and bland and repetitious.'

She does not fully grasp the last reference, but it does not matter for his touch has again turned her will to rubber. Thankfully, this time, it has also calmed her considerably — a definite improvement on her previous state of mind. She sighs, savouring this respite from the roller-coaster emotions, and leans towards him in search of a comforting hug. Her eye catches Jenny simpering in the background.

But Yaouen is in no cuddling mood, it appears.

‘Tempting as it is to move beyond the bounds of our contract,' he whispers in her ear, ‘I cannot cross that line. Sorry, darling.'

His hands move to her shoulders and he holds her there, at arm's length, not unkindly but with polite firmness. She looks into his face. Searches for a promise of something else, though she can sense this will yield little. The shifting colours in his eyes give away nothing, like the surface of a pond glazed by the evening sun. Dazzlingly attractive but impenetrable.

She would like him to kiss her. Properly kiss her. In three days of rampant sex he has not kissed her at all. Not on the lips. Is it too much to ask for a little tenderness at this point? She feels a twinge of disappointment.

He releases her with a wink.

‘Now, about that fancy hot chocolate.'

He takes her hand and, navigating smoothly between the tables, leads her over to the back of the café. There, another Korrigan with an unkempt black beard is waiting behind a bar. His ears are as large and ruffled as cabbage leaves and his nose could be mistaken for a giant potato. He is drying wet mugs with a towel. The mugs don't seem to like it much and are scrunching up their tiny faces like babies cringing away from the bath flannel.

‘Three Choc Supremes, the tuiles special and a pinch of telepeek carob powder.'

The Korrigan grins, baring two rows of sharp, gleaming teeth.

‘The Supremes and the tuiles are on the house, but the powder is a rare item, so it'll cost you a kiss. Not from you. From the naked lady here.'

Sandra winces. She feels she has been bopped on the head with a mallet. Her piece of mind did not last long.

‘Fist of all, I'm not neighkid,' she protests.

‘A proper kiss,' informs the barman. ‘With the tongue and all. I am in need of some TLC.'

‘No way,' counters Yaouen. ‘It's cash or nothing.'

‘Nothing then, but you're not getting the powder.'

Yaouen casts the Korrigan a threatening look.

‘Do not test my patience, Karadeg.'

‘I'm not kussing him,' hisses Sandra, looking at Yaouen. ‘Not him. And not eeny meeny miny of the other moes here.'

She looks at Jenny behind her, hoping for some moral support.

‘Don't look at me,' says Best Friend of the Year. ‘I had to plant him a big fat one once, to get I forget what. He is the keeper of powders and potions and we need his services from time to time. It wasn't too bad actually, the kiss I mean. Tasted of root beer and basilisk, with a tinge of ginger.'

‘Can we compromise?' says Yaouen to Karadeg. ‘We are all reasonable people here. How about you kiss Jenny twice instead?'

‘Hey, thanks for checking with me first,' says Jenny. ‘If you really want to know, that kiss sucked. I just wanted to make Sandra feel better.'

But the barman is sticking to his guns and his half-dried mugs.

‘One kiss from the bimbo. Take it or leave it.'

‘I'm
not
a bim—'

‘Shush!' says Yaouen. He addresses Karadeg again. ‘One kiss and I get the powder? You swear?'

‘You know me, I may be small but my word is larger than a dragon's butt.'

The Korrigan swivels on the high chair he was perched on, opens a drawer and rummages in it. He spins back to face his guests, holding up a small vial.

‘One kiss for this.'

He climbs on the bar and, leaning towards Sandra, proffers a pair of bulging lips. There is something swollen and slimy sandwiched between them. His tongue, it appears on closer inspection.

Sandra looks at the offering, horrified.

Yaouen gives a shrug.

‘Fine, Karadeg. As you wish.' He claps his palm on the bar and the barman explodes into a thousand specks of light.

Everyone in the room goes dead quiet.

When the dust settles, there is a toad with fat blistery lips where the Korrigan sat. Yaouen reaches over, picks up the creature and holds it up to Sandra.

‘Now kiss him.'

‘Are you real-serious? You think this' — she has trouble hiding her disgust — ‘is an improvishment?'

‘At least you won't have to get acquainted with his tongue. He does not know any better now. A simple peck will do.'

‘Come on,' says Jenny. ‘We all have to make sacrifices sometimes. Think of the Chocolat Suprême. That'll wash off the taste.'

Sandra shoots her a resentful look. She will definitely have to hold this good friend to account one day. For she is running up quite a tab.

She looks at the toad again and shudders. Then, screwing up her face, she brings her lips closer to the creature with more caution than if she were negotiating a minefield. She is trying very hard to think of Yaouen's sexy bits.

Twenty pairs of eyes are glued to her and you can almost hear the collective holding of breath in the room.

Peck.

There is another flash of light, then a
voomp
and a
wham
and a
fizzlewhatsit
, and the toad reverts to being a Korrigan.