Shadow Girl (27 page)

She gets up and they saunter to the waterline, hips touching. Then wade in all the way to their waists. The sun is pasted on a backdrop of deep-hued streaks just above the horizon, coating the sea in the last brilliance of the day.

He points just beyond the shadows of the closest corals. Out there, not a hundred feet from them, a few fins have broken surface.

‘Don't worry. Those are not sharks.'

The backlit triangles close in on them, then begin to circle them. One or two rostrums rise above the water, split by toothy grins.

‘Meet the Celtic Dolphin Squad.'

Viviane puts out a tentative hand to the closest fin. It's been a while since she met the creatures in the flesh. Not too many of them in the lake at Komper. And she never got the chance in Sydney. Too busy.

‘The one you're touching is someone you know. Can you hear her?'

She closes her eyes. A voice is calling. So faintly at first she can hardly hear her name. Then the sound amplifies and she recognises Jenny's sparkling tones.

‘
I'm glad you're whole, Viviane! Truly whole, and freed from yourself.
'

Viviane withdraws her hand in surprise. Then responds telepathically.

‘
What . . . What are you doing here? I thought you had drowned.
'

‘
I was only in underwater stasis. Yaouen had other plans. I got my third chance after all. Quite decent of him, considering.
'

Viviane looks deep into her dolphin eye.

‘
And how did you get here so fast? You swam all the way from Brittany?
'

Jenny flaps the water with her beak and her grin seems to stretch past her eyes.

‘
If we had, we'd only be halfway down the Portuguese coast by now. Luckily, there are gateways underwater too. You should know that. There's one on the southern side of Belle-Ile which opens out near Exmouth.
'

She goes for a quick duck, then rolls over on her back.

‘
How do you like my flukes? And my flippers? Don't they look cute when I curl them up like this? My blowhole will take some getting used to, though. I've choked a few times already.
'

‘
So this is it? This is the sleek new you?
'

‘
It wouldn't be so bad if it was. No fish smell at least. Much better than being a Mari Morgan. Dragging men to their deaths can be such a tiresome affair. I've had my fill.
'

She rises halfway out of the water and begins to swim backwards, standing on her tail and clicking happily. Her human voice has faded out.

Then she speaks again.

‘
It's just been a day, and I'm much more content. Something to do with my metabolic change, I think, and dolphins' social behaviour. It opens out radically new perspectives. I'm starting to think beyond myself. Even thinking of getting a calf one day, or even two. If I meet the right Mr Bottlenose.
'

Yaouen's voice bounces in.

‘
Jenny will stay like this for twelve moons. Long enough to develop a new outlook on life. More organic. For starters, she'll have to look after the rest of the girls.
'

‘
The girls?
'

‘
The Karnag showgirls. You can say hi, guys.
'

The pod breaks into loud greetings. A mixture of clicks, jaw-popping sounds and fin-flapping. Translating in Viviane's head as a chorus of cheers and laughter.

‘But the happiest of the bunch is probably this little fella,' he adds out loud. ‘The only male in this outfit.'

Yaouen is pointing at a smaller dolphin circling them with the rest of the pod.

‘Karadeg begged me for an extended tropical holiday. One without his Korrigan nose or boar's trotters. Pity. He came in very handy as an odorous squire. But I could hardly refuse him that.'

He directs his brainwaves to the small dolphin.
‘
Any regrets? You're a long way from your menhirs.
'

Karadeg's merry tones echo back.

‘
Regrets? You must be kidding.
' The dolphin points his snout at the two lustrous ladies next to him. ‘
I have scored twice in twenty-four hours! And I've got a couple more smooth moves planned out for tonight. How could I possibly have any regrets?
'

Yaouen looks at Viviane and clears his throat.

‘Well, err . . . An organic lifestyle does not mean you can't have fun.'

He turns to Jenny.

‘
Time for you to hit the waves. You know how to get in touch.
'

The dolphins circle them one more time, clicking boisterously and waving their flippers, then begin to fall away. Jenny's voice fades to a whisper.

‘
Catch ya later, honey. I'll make you proud of the new me.
'

Viviane watches the creatures swim away lazily. She turns to Yaouen.

‘Knowing you, the whole dolphin thing is not just about personal rehabilitation, is it?'

‘Well, I thought of killing two birds with one pod. Jenny and her girls will be my echolocators.'

She throws him a puzzled look.

‘My ears, if you like. I'm sending them on a tropical mission. Starting with the Great Barrier Reef. They'll keep an eye on coral blanching, rises in water temperature, illegal fishing, dredging and dumping of sediments in sensitive areas. I've given them small powers to police the small stuff themselves. Anything big they'll report to us.'

‘Us?'

‘Yes. I thought you might like to go dual on this. I need a close advisor. Someone with a deep affinity for the world around us. The people in charge have been yapping for far too long about global warming and all the rest, and doing far too little. The world needs a push in the right direction. And we can make a difference, even if our methods are a tad unorthodox. Or precisely because they are.'

‘That's what I believed a short while ago. That I could make a difference. But I told you — I've lost the link to whatever dark magic I possessed. I'll be no good at this. I can't manage a single brainwashing spell. I'm the keeper of the sword, Yaouen, not a secret agent.'

‘Precisely why I need you. Black magic can lead you astray. It can blind you. I can strike the right balance most of the time but I was counting on you to set me right if I lose my way. If the going gets tough. And it will, I'm sure of that. I'll need you to be my conscience. My inner voice.'

‘
Your
inner voice?'

There is a smile on her lips.

‘And perhaps,' he adds, amusement flicking in his eyes, ‘we should ease off on the intimate front. To make our job easier. To avoid any ambiguity that might have crept into our relationship recently. We shouldn't blur the lines. We should keep things between us — how shall I put it . . .'

‘Strictly business?'

‘
C'est ça, oui, strictement professionnel.
It would help with our focus.'

‘It goes without saying,' she replies, leaning deeper into him.

‘We'll have a beautiful working rapport. I will consult you regularly. Probe your mind. We'll have in-depth discussions.'

‘Yes, in-depth,' she agrees, standing on tiptoe to bring her lips closer to his. ‘Very much in-depth.'

‘We'll make sure that . . .'

She shuts him up with a kiss, and for a while, only the fading clicks of the dolphins can be heard in the distance.

‘Take me,' she says when she comes up for air. ‘Take me right now.'

He smiles. ‘I see.' ‘Being bossy again. I wonder if the triskele really worked.'

‘I need you inside me,' she husks in his ear. ‘And I won't take no for an answer.'

‘Yes, a magical top-up might be in order.'

‘Of course, of course. Anything you say,' she coos, letting him lift her, then ease her down onto something deliciously firm.

‘I've never done this in the sea.'

‘Then that's a first for both of us,' she breathes.

‘We might drown.'

‘We might not.'

‘We'll have to do something about the Eiffel Tower, you know.'

‘Yes, yes.'

‘And you can keep calling me Yaouen, if you'd rather. I don't mind either way.'

‘By the Dragon's Breath you talk too much,' she says, trapping his lips in a new kiss.

Some books are like monsoon plants. They lie dormant for months in the subsoil of the mind, then bloom overnight when the first rain hits.
This
book, however, was in no such haste to flourish. It started as a humble shoot in a dusky gully – somewhere in a corner of my hard drive – and for a few seasons eked out a muted existence in floral limbo. Then, one day, for reasons which only a water diviner might fathom, it started growing a timid stalk, which got taller, and taller still. Slowly, the stem thickened, unrolled sap-filled branches, sprouted buds and flowers and large verdant leaves, and then juicy red fruit. This was no quick, sudden florescence. Growth was measured and accretive.

But enough with the fancy metaphors. What I meant to say is, this novel started as a short story. The sort which could have found a niche in a collection of glossy blue tales. This would have been fine. Satisfying enough. But you know how it is. Or if you don't, I'll tell you. There was something in that story I couldn't let go. Something about Sandra. About Yaouen. Oh, the chemistry between those two! The deep, subatomic, multi-nuclei attraction! I just had to give those guys more scope. Draw out their titillating secrets for all to see. Allow their hidden sides to cast their long, pregnant shadows. I had to give them a potent past, and a raunchy future. Give them motivations. Motives too, for behaving in ways which some might see as less than exemplary.

So I put fingertips to keyboard again and let the plot unfold, and veer this way or that as events or my characters' whims dictated. Minor figures were thrown into the fray, some of whom – to my surprise – made it to the big league. The big, morally ambiguous league. Yes Jenny, I am looking at you, so stop staring at the ceiling with those wide ingenuous eyes. Anyway, my story grew into a novelette. Matured into a novella. Blossomed into full-fledged fiction. Perhaps not the easiest path to tread in the garden of saucy literature, where short and pithy is often best and you thrive or die depending on how fast you can bring your readers to the edge of desire. Be that as it may, I enjoyed mingling all those ingredients together. Plot, people, myth, pheromones. A strong, heady brew, made from plant magic and spiced with a good deal of Celtic enchantment. I hope you enjoy the flavour of this blend.

My gratitude goes to the whole Impulse team for their help in making this a better book – in making this a book at all, in fact. Without their dedication,
Shadow Girl
would have languished in that dusky gully. Special mention to Mary Rennie, my guiding light at Harper Collins, and to Julia Knapman, for her shrewd editorial work (spotting inconsistencies and smoothing out my little quirks is an art form in which she excels). My thanks to my family too for putting up with my introspective moods at various stages of the creative journey. And for humouring me when my laptop and I were sprawled over the kitchen table. Or the couch. Or the lounge floor. Sprawled over any space in the house but my desk, as it turned out. Lastly, I would – if I had one – acknowledge my cat for being there and giving me comfort and inspiration while I was searching for yet another elusive phrase. But there is no tabby in the D'Armor home. No dog either. A serious breach of writerly etiquette, for which I apologize. I have other pets though, but you don't want to know what they are. Believe me, you don't. You
really
don't.

Born in Celtic Brittany, in Western France,
MAEL D'ARMOR
majored in British and Commonwealth studies. He lectured far and wide over the years – in Europe, Australia, New Zealand and the US. His scholarly pursuits did not weaken his love of the cheerily unexpected, so he moonlighted as a cartoonist and young children's author.

While foraging in the Tasmanian bush in search of the elusive marsupial tiger, he felt a sudden and inexplicable urge to start writing fiction. His first, award-winning short story came out in 2012. He has four children and a strong penchant for dark chocolate. He also owns a pair of skis that has zipped down more steep gullies than there are flakes in a Christmas snowdome.

The Awakening Trilogy

Velvet Trap

Sweet Dreams

Dangerous Liaisons

Impulse

An imprint of HarperCollins
Publishers

First published in 2016

by HarperCollins
Publishers
Australia Pty Limited

ABN 36 009 913 517

harpercollins.com.au

Copyright © Mael D'Armor 2016

The right of Mael D'Armor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
.

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the
Copyright Act 1968
, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

HarperCollins
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ISBN 978 1 4607 0407 3

Cover design by Michelle Payne

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