Pyromancist (25 page)

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.