Pyromancist Read Free

stopped to verbally ponder the mystery of the
pyromania that was sweeping through their quiet village. The bakery
opened at seven, and by then a small crowd of elderly people,
talking in hushed Breton had gathered at the tables on the pavement
with espresso and croissants to watch the firemen go through the
debris.
    Clelia followed the tar road away from the
smell of destruction and walked toward the bus stop in front of the
library that would take her to the stables in Carnac where she
worked. She more helped out in the tourist office that offered
horseback rides than what could be called a job, but it was all
that was available in a village with nine hundred inhabitants.
    It was on the bend of the long stretch of
road between the square and the library that she paused to lift her
eyes to the abandoned house. She hadn’t looked at it in nine years.
For three-thousand-two-hundred-and-eighty-seven days she had walked
this road, first to school and then to work, never turning her head
as much as an inch. Not because of the horrific nightmare that had
played out behind the shuttered, sad windows, but because of him . Because of Josselin.
    For as long as she could remember, she had
been in love with Josselin de Arradon. Secretly. All through
school, she had watched him, so strong and defenseless at the same
time. Josselin was four years her senior and the most beautiful
being she had ever seen. He had bronze skin with black hair, and
eyes so gray they glowed in his head. Those eyes had captured her
with their pain and intensity. While she admired him from a
distance, he wasn’t aware of her existence.
    Josselin had only spoken to her once. It was
on a summer day after school. She had wandered to the dense forest
at the back of the schoolyard because she knew that was where she
would find him. She stood behind a tree and watched him–studied
him–the movement of his hand as he smoked a forbidden cigarette,
the manner in which he pulled his fingers through his dark hair,
and the way he laughed loudly into his gang of friends, even if his
eyes cried, or blazed.
    That day, however, he wasn’t with his
friends. He was with a girl. Her name was Thiphaine and she was the
most popular girl in school. She was blonde, slim, and beautiful
with blue eyes and red painted fingernails. Clelia watched from her
hiding place as Josselin slowly backed Thiphaine up until her body
pressed against the trunk of the witch tree. It was a thuja
occidentalis but the townsfolk had baptized it so because of its
twisted and crippled branches. The setting was eerie for a romantic
adventure, and yet, it suited Josselin. He seemed right at home,
while Thiphaine looked around nervously. His hand went to her
cheek, his palm huge, dark, and rough against the porcelain
paleness of Thiphaine’s face, while his other hand slipped under
her blouse. His gray eyes looked like melted steel when he lowered
his head.
    His shoulder-length black hair fell forward
when he pressed his lips to Thiphaine’s and he moved his hand from
her cheek to brush it back behind his ear. Clelia remembered the
deliberate movement of his jaw, the way the muscles dimpled in his
cheek, the hand under Thiphaine’s blouse, all the while maintaining
his composure while Thiphaine came undone under his caress. The
beautiful girl made low moaning sounds. Her knees buckled, but
Josselin, without breaking the kiss, grabbed her waist, pulling her
so tightly into him that her back arched, keeping her up with his
arm while he made her weak with his touch and his tongue.
    Watching them ignited both yearning and pain
inside of Clelia. The hurt she felt speared her heart. The aching
in her soul was suddenly greater than the heat in her pores and on
her cheeks, but she couldn’t tear her stare away from the forbidden
sight. It was Iwig, a boy from her class, who broke the painful
spell when he discovered her behind the tree.
    “What have we here?” he said.
    His eyes darted to the distance