Shadow Girl (16 page)

‘Please form two large circles around the stone.
Deux cercles!
Girls on the outside, boys on the inside, a few steps away.
Les filles à l'extérieur, les garçons à l'intérieur!
This way you can best enjoy our magic show!'

The young red-headed woman who called out is standing by the megalith. She is flanked by three others that, except for the colour of their hair, look almost exactly like her. Cute popsies with long flowing locks, see-through tunics and lavish body jewellery.

He is finding this rather puzzling. He has been spying from behind his bush since nightfall and is still not quite sure what is going on, though he knows the four cuties near the stone are faes. Wood fairies to be precise. Foreign to the coast and, in view of their bracelets and arm rings, foreign to this land. Probably from Cornwall across the sea — which would explain their English. And why they speak French with a sexy Anglo lilt.

Their presence here is most curious. What are these fair maidens doing so far from home, he wonders, masquerading as illusionists? Something tells him they are not here just to get extra practice ahead of the Pan-Celtic Magic Convention.

He watches on. No point in showing himself. Better find out what they have got up their silky sleeves. Which is crucial, given the total news blackout from his usual sources.

That too is worrying. He spent the best part of the afternoon patrolling the stone alignments from the skies, in near-invisible stealth mode to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Touching down at times to search on foot for some clue — for anything that might suggest a link to the Parisian nude. And hoping to meet and question some of the locals.

Surprisingly, no one popped out of any hole or sprang from any rock crevice. Not a single Korrigan. He could not even sense their presence. He went to most of the master stones, actioned a number of runes to summon the little people. Nothing. Definitely irregular, since they were the proud guardians of the megaliths.

Of course, they mostly came out at night, as all magic folk around here were wont to do, but he knew they would make an exception for him. They would have to. For no fae creature — or any mortal for that matter — could afford to antagonise the great Merlin.

Not that he was vain or anything. He had left the sticky ponds of ordinary human pride far behind, in a now hazy past. At least he hoped he had. But he knew the power of his magic, nurtured and honed over the trickle of centuries. Magic too bold, too dark, too deeply rooted in the soul of the earth for most men to comprehend. The dwarves, however, had taken its full measure. No, they couldn't risk getting on his bad side. So then, the reason lay elsewhere. Something had happened to them — of the most fishy, most suspicious variety.

So naturally, when a distant commotion attracted his attention, he came to investigate. He alighted in a clearing, left Morvarc'h there, then pushed his way through the thickets all the way to the Géant — as the tall menhir was known in these parts.

‘Please, my friends, settle down, make two big circles,' repeats the woman in the flimsy apparel. ‘
Deux cercles!
' she says again, drawing a ring shape in the air. ‘Could the gentleman micturating against the small rock over there please hurry? I'm sure you're all eager to see our show!
Le magnifique spectacle de magie!
'

She raises one arm in histrionic emphasis.

‘The great Karnag mystery show! The greatest on earth!
Le plus beau du monde!
We promised you dazzling displays, we promised you dreams, we promised you unmatched fantasies. And this is indeed what you will get!
Des rêêêves fantastiiiiques!
'

Yaouen shakes his head. She sounds like a bloody commercial. But at least things are moving along. And not too soon either. He has been crouching here for the past couple of hours, watching the young crowd cavorting in the clearing to the lusty sounds of binious and bombards. And laughing. And shouting. And drinking liberal amounts of honey-scented chouchen.

Entertaining enough, he admits, like most
festoù-noz
in this part of the world, but he is growing a trifle impatient, especially since he has had to fight off — twice — the attention of an inquisitive little boar that confused the seat of his pants with a sack of truffles.

But the partying has dragged on, with him stuck behind his bush champing at the bit. Now he can detect more than a hint of excitement in the voices of the revellers as they fall into place around the menhir. They are flustered from the dancing and the wine and he can see the light of the campfires dancing in their eyes.

Without another word, the fairies spread out around the stone and stand at an equal distance from each other. They seem to be guarding the four points of a sacred compass. A graceful wave of their arms, and wings snap out of their backs like blades from flick knives. Then, dainty as hummingbirds, they rise in the air to fly level with the top of the stone.

A collective gasp of admiration heaves through their audience. Before it has died out, light has flared out like fireworks from the menhir and begun to twist and pulse in brilliant patterns of stars and spirals. Soon, the more polished shapes of animals have burst into life. Stags, doves and rabbits, butterflies with huge wings and gracile bodies.

Within seconds, they have acquired texture, sound and even smell. The young couples watch entranced as the displays spin on in the sky to the beat of strange, syncopated music. They watch as the doves start swooping through hoops that have appeared from nowhere. And keep gazing as the stags prance about, heads held high, flaunting the proud symbols of maleness.

Impressed by those harts, the rabbits have formed a ring around them. They are thumping their hind legs on the ground and twitching their fluffy white tails.

Behind his bush, Yaouen is less than thrilled. He is being pestered again by the small boar, whose interest in his backside seems undiminished.

‘Shoo, shoo!' he growls. ‘Or I'll turn you into a toad.' Then he adds, to no one in particular, ‘Really, what are these woods coming to? There was a time when animals showed more respect.' He turns back to the menhir.

But the boar insists on poking his bottom. Yaouen swears under his breath and swivels back on his heels. ‘Now that's it! Two weeks of enforced toadhood for you!'

His fingers are about to snap when a gleam in the creature's eyes makes him think twice. He bends over to take a closer look. ‘
Luxus
,' he whispers. His thumb lights up like a candle, drawing the boar's snout out of the gloom.

‘Well I never . . . Karadeg! What are you doing here?'

The boar gives a plaintive snort.

‘You followed me here?'

Another snort, equally morose.

‘You were getting homesick? An old-timer like you? Hard to believe. You've been living it up in Sydney for years. The good Aussie wine, the surf, the sun, the girls, remember? Isn't that what you were always bragging on about?'

Two snorts this time.

‘What's that? The Sydney girls are too prickly?' Yaouen looks puzzled.

The boar looks up to the sky dismissively, then snorts again, drawing out the sound.

‘Ah. Picky,' corrects Yaouen. ‘I see. Your charms have not worked on them as you hoped.'

He glances over his shoulder. The rabbits in the sky are now thumping in unison around the stags.

‘I wonder why. Such a dashing figure you cut normally. Maybe you'd have more success as a boar.'

Another quick check behind him.

‘If you'll excuse me, I have some spying to do.'

A strangled sound, like a punctured balloon caught in a car door.

‘Well, you can change back without my help surely. You've still got the elixir, haven't you?'

The boar suddenly looks very sheepish — in itself quite a feat for such an animal.

‘I get it. You can't open the vial with your hooves. Great forward thinking.'

The sarcasm seems lost on the creature.

Yaouen waves his hand and the boar's snout goes through various contortions — none of which would score well in a beauty contest — before solidifying into Karadeg's head. The potato nose, the cabbage ears, the spiky hair and the unkempt beard are all firmly back in place. The rest of the Korrigan, though, is still very much hog-shaped.

‘You don't need all your body this instant, do you?'

Karadeg's head tilts down and he stares appalled at his front trotters.

‘Come on, Yaouen, you can't leave me like this.'

‘I can, and I will, to let you ruminate on the virtues of proper planning.' Yaouen turns back to the magic show, ignoring Karadeg's low moan.

‘Why did you want to shapeshift anyway?' he asks.

The half-Karadeg chucks him a doleful look.

‘When I came out of the rock-warp . . .'

‘The rock-warp?' says Yaouen. ‘Very foolish; you could have got stuck inside forever.'

‘Err . . . Well, I didn't. I popped out from under the big leaning stone, you know the one.'

‘Yes, I know the one. The one that looks like a phallic hazard with squashed testicles. It was always your favourite hang-out before you moved to Oz.'

‘It was? Anyway, there I was looking around for my folks when . . .'

‘When?'

‘When I almost ran flat into some fairies. Normally I wouldn't mind of course.'

‘Of course. I remember you being held up for fairy harassment once or twice.'

‘But these had wings. They were not from around here. Incidentally, it's them up there, running this show. I recognise the redhead.' He is pointing his cloven hoof in the general direction of the menhir. ‘So . . . there they were leaning suspiciously over a pond, talking to someone I couldn't see. Someone in the pond or perhaps a reflection in the water. Some sort of long-distance communication, I think. I couldn't see the face but I heard a female voice, crystalline and beautiful. It sounded familiar too but I couldn't make out the words.'

‘Familiar?'

‘Yeah, a bit like . . .' Karadeg pauses, looking warily at Yaouen. ‘Sandra's,' he concludes.

The colour in Yaouen's eyes has gone cold. He looks at Karadeg long and hard.

‘Impossible,' he mutters. ‘You know that.'

‘Maybe she's got a sister.'

Yaouen's eyes remain inscrutable.

‘The fairies by the pond. What were they saying?'

‘Well, one of them was telling whoever was in the water that she'd just got hold of this new silk robe that goes mini or maxi depending on your mood and she was positively raving about it. Another had picked up a spicy frog's legs recipe in Brocéliande and she—'

‘Anything meaningful?' says Yaouen, glowering.

‘The brunette asked whether they were needed tomorrow night.'

‘Needed for?'

‘Err . . . I sneezed before I could hear anything else. A big one, half my brain came out I think.'

‘Half? You're being too modest.'

‘You don't realise how debilitating this can be — the sneezing I mean. I developed this major case of hay fever down under. So when my nose did a backflip by the pond, the fairies stopped talking and looked my way. I flattened myself against the tree I was hiding behind. I was shaking in my brogues, and that's no hyperball.'

‘Hyperbole?'

‘That's what I said. I was just hoping my nose or my butt was not sticking out. It was not a big tree, all scrawny like. And then I heard a flick and a buzz and the sound of a fairy getting close.'

‘I suppose that's when you transformed?'

‘Ah, that's the funny part,' says Karadeg. ‘I was convinced the potion I had in my pocket was for invisibility.' He holds up his trotters forlornly. ‘But at least I didn't get caught. Fairies have never had much time for Korrigans. Especially those that sneeze. By the time that redhead got to my tree I was oinking like a merry saddleback at a mud fest. She did not suspect a thing.'

‘I hope the sneezing's gone.' Yaouen takes a look at the fairies still hovering by the stone. ‘Wouldn't want you to blow our cover.'

‘Ah, that's the other funny part . . .'

Yaouen closes his eyes, keeping his exasperation under check.

‘When I shape-shifted, something in me was rewired.'

A frown appears on Yaouen's brow and his nose puckers up in disgust, as though it had been sprayed at close range by a mob of skunks.

‘I don't sneeze anymore. I fart. Real stinkers too, noiseless, with a base of rotten eggs and a soupçon of putrid mushrooms. I've just released one. They clear after a while though — how quickly depends on the breeze. Oops, sorry, here comes another one.'

‘You're doing this deliberately,' gasps Yaouen, snapping his fingers to restore the rest of Karadeg's body, and snapping again to get rid of his hay fever, just to be on the safe side. ‘You're lucky I'm in one of my more benign moods. But one more trick like this and you're grounded. Which, in this case, I'll take literally. I'll ram you into the ground down to your neck. Then you can pass wind all you want.'

‘It wasn't a trick! I swear on my great uncle's . . .'

A loud noise in the sky drowns out his voice and Yaouen pivots back to the show.

The hoops which the birds were flying through moments ago have caught fire and started spinning, creating small vortexes through which, one by one, the doves and butterflies get sucked in and vanish. Then the blazing hoops descend upon the rabbits and begin to pull them in too.

This time, the creatures do not evaporate. They light up with a strange incandescence as they pass through the rings. And then twist and elongate, their silhouettes redrawn by arcane forces.

The stags have gone quiet, their eyes trained upon the rings. Upon those creatures growing the legs, the arms, the full breasts of women. Growing female faces too, dark and sexy, striped by war-paint the colour of blood.

Their work done, the hoops go out in a puff of smoke. There is now not a single rabbit tail to be seen. Just naked Amazons with glistening chests and toned-up legs — their heads capped by wolf headdresses, their shoulders clothed in capes of fur.

Sensing danger perhaps, the stags huddle closer together, though you can tell, by the way they break rank to take a sniff at those girls, that they feel a weird attraction to them.

But the wolf-clad creatures take no notice of their restlessness. Maintaining their outer circle, they turn to each other and, in unspoken consent, start making out. Grooming, fondling, petting each other. Kissing more hotly with each moment. Hands fly to breasts, to thighs and buttocks, eager to knead and provoke and excite. Shamelessly, in groups of two or three or four, the women spur each other on. Their motions are at once smooth and raw, fluid and intense, like those of an ancient ritual.

Below them, on the ground, the men are making appreciative noises. A few comments burst through the night in picturesque Frenglish.

‘
Mon dieu
, what an ârrse!
Vas-y
, wiggle
le sexy derriere
!'

‘Come down here
les petites
cock teasers! We can help you,
pas de problème
!'

‘Don't be so selfeesh! Leave some for us,
s'il vous plaît
!'

Next to Yaouen, Karadeg is also finding it hard to keep his cool. The effects of his boar elixir have not quite worn off for he is making little snorting sounds.

As for the women on the ground, they too, like their men, are watching the wolf girls. But they do not speak and appear spellbound.

‘Sisters, it is time!
Le moment est venu!
' calls out the red-headed fairy above the music. ‘Time to drink from the chalice of womanhood. Time to feel the power.
Oui, votre nouveau pouvoir!
'

She waves her hand and releases a shower of golden dust. The veil spreads out fast and settles upon the women — curiously missing their partners.

The ladies shiver in unison, jolted by an unseen force. Then, their eyes burning with strange desire, they pull away from the sight above them. There is something cat-like, animalistic, in the way they appraise their surroundings and move their lissom bodies.

A top is dropped to the ground. Followed by a skirt.

Then all along the female circle, shoes are kicked off, bras vanish, panties get discarded. The girls undress with easy nonchalance, smiling darkly, shedding their clothes like old skin. Once done, they move swiftly on each other with the confidence of long-time lovers. No questions asked. No leave beseeched. They have left all decorum, all diffidence behind. Some begin to grope and tongue-kiss wetly. Others apply themselves with hot devotion to the curves before them.

Soon, they are down on their knees, or on their backs, or on all fours, busy licking and sucking, waving and rolling their hips into their lovers' faces. The music is still playing, but faster, punctuated by the sounds of pleasure.

The boys are watching. They are turned on by the sight of their girlfriends screwing, yet also awed by them. Their faces a hotchpotch of mixed emotions, they have gone quiet and stand transfixed, a few feet at most from their partners. Gawping, gaping, gulping hard in disbelief and fascination. A few fumble for the bulges in their pants.

But the girls do not care the slightest bit and keep tonguing and sucking. Keep rocking to their sleek tempo. As the music rises to a crescendo, their moans soar through the night. Soar, and swell, urgent, intense, savage almost. The sounds mingle in a giant chorus with the groans and grunts of their wolf sisters in the sky.

Then everything goes off pitch. Offbeat. Off chart. In the air and on the ground, throats erupt in ecstasy; chests shudder; backs bend in wild orgasms. The groundswell of feelings unfurls above the dim shape of the giant stone — hot, loud, confused, jumbled.

And then the music stops.

The gleaming, breathless bodies slump back into the shadows. For a while, only a few moans waft up through the dark like aftershock tremors. Then, up in the night sky, a wolf woman rises to her full height. She seems taller than before. Infused with occult power. She turns her attention to the herd before her. Her sisters rise one by one, equally self-assured, their gazes set on the animals within reach.

Below them, the menhir has started glowing — a faint, red halo which pulses like a heart.

The wolf women close in as one, eyes hungry, fingers clapped on daggers that have surfaced from some abyss. The stags are panicking now and cower away from their predators. You can smell their fear and read their doom in their bulging eyes. They have no way out and sense it all too well.

With a warlike cry, the women go in for the kill. One, two, three graceful leaps and they pounce on their prey, skilfully avoiding the swipe of antlers. The stags are going wild. Bucking and tossing their heads in a bid to cheat death.

It is all for nothing. They cannot escape the blades that slash across their throats and sink into their chests. With roars that spiral to the stars, they collapse one by one under the knives of the wolf women and shatter into light fragments.

The fairy's crystal voice echoes again.

‘Rise, sisters! Rise to rule as queens! As undisputed sovereigns!
Vous êtes les nouvelles reines!
'

Responding to the call, the young women on the ground get to their feet, steaming with the heat of passion. Inky patterns have appeared on their hips and shoulders — the subtle interlace of ancient Celtic runes, the knots and spirals of eternal pathways. And on their backs, just below the neckline, are etched the silhouettes of two black wolves.

They turn to the men before them. Their partners seem frozen, uneasiness and excitement written on their faces. A few lithe steps and the girls are upon them — and then all over them. With fluid movements, cocks are freed from pants and, if not already taut with desire, quickly nursed to bold attention.

‘
Mais Marie-Anne, tu
. . .
tu as toujours été timide au lit
,' gasps a strapping lad, eyes half closed, clearly astounded that his shy young wife could have morphed into the wench swallowing him without shame.

Around him, most of his companions are being shagged standing. Vamped by energetic girlfriends with avid smiles and legs firmly clamped around their waists. A couple of nimble gals have opted for an acrobatic sixty-nine and, hanging upside down with their partners' heads between their legs, are delivering lusty blowjobs. On and on they pump, drawing helpless grunts from their easy prey. Smothering them with intense pussy grind.

A few fellows of less athletic build have collapsed on the grass, where ravenous lips are pursuing their relentless suck-and-sap. Everywhere around the menhir, the girls are clasped tight around their men or have gone down on them like starving beasts. Shirts are torn off shoulders by impatient fingers. Jeans pushed clear out of the way to give sharp nails access to the firmness of buttocks. Lips, necks, shoulders are bitten hard. The women are getting high on their lust, whipping themselves into a frenzy.

A bizarre chorus echoes through the night as, here and there, shots of hot come are wrested from the groaning males. The she-lovers smile onbut do not relent. They will not stop. Remorseless, they claw on, grooving new crimson lines across backs and shoulders. Thrusting hard against cocks that have grown stiff again. Eyes smouldering on as they force one more grunt, one more climax of pain and joy.

Their throats are honeyed traps, their legs sweet vices. More tortured groans explode in the night. Some of the men have erupted a few times and their voices rise into the night, shaky, pleading. ‘
Arrête
. . .
Par pitié, arrête.
' Enough, please enough, they moan.

But the girls seem possessed. They keep sucking and rocking and rolling and pumping. Keep tracing dark lines with their unsparing nails. Drawing more blood, forcing more hot come from the men they beguiled. Dishing out their own brand of excess delight.

Between gasps and groans, some of the captives look in wonder at these sex-starved creatures, and in wonder too at their restless shafts; at how quickly these rise like stubborn phoenixes each time they come. They have never before been roused in this way, never before been turned into absurd prize studs.

But their eyes are losing more focus each time they fire, and though their bodies respond from deep-rooted instinct, their souls, it seems, are being drawn from them. Aware of their impending fate, a few try to break free. To push away these heartless paramours. But the girls are surprisingly strong and their own limbs have turned to rubber. Helpless, they squirm like wounded animals under a barrage of sucks and thrusts.

The she-wolves are having a feast.

The stars above have shifted in the sky. The pleas have gone quiet, though the odd groan can be heard and a few couples are still locked in steamy embraces. Most girls have conquered and risen from the grass, to gloat over the prostrate, drained forms of their victims.

Incredibly, a couple of muscular fellows are still standing by the menhir. They look dazed and exhausted. Like the rest, they have been worked relentlessly by their feral girlfriends but are kept upright — barely — by prime muscle tone and the remnants of male pride.

Wiping the spill from their faces, a handful of girls lope over to the giant stone and jump on the survivors' backs. Then they too start clawing and love-biting. Soon, they have brought the last men down and buried them under the weight of their demands. They keep going for as long as it takes, mixing tasks to finish off their marks. Finally, even the last of the bucks are overcome. They lie inert by the haloed stone, eyes vacant, cocks bled of life and minds sucked of will.