Shadow Girl (23 page)

‘My feet are going to sleep,' mutters Karadeg, huddling with Yaouen between a shed and a low hedge. ‘How long before we see some action?'

The last of the day's sun bathes the roof of the Manec tavern, not forty feet from their hiding place. They have been watching for the past hour — Yaouen with his usual poise, Karadeg with less than perfect equanimity.

‘Can't you see the place is crawling with guards? And our Cornish friends from last night are here too. You recognise them, don't you?' He points at the winged fairies buzzing around a large, open trapdoor. ‘Working overtime. They clearly want to impress the boss.'

‘Surely you can despatch all of them with a spell or two?' insists Karadeg.

‘Didn't they teach you anything in Korrigan Strategy 101? Magic is not something to be used lightly. And we have to get in incognito. That's the whole point of this exercise. I have to locate the other Viviane. And get her and Sandra together.'

‘Well, we're hardly going to do that if we stay stuck behind this bush all night.'

Karadeg takes another look at the huge sign on the house's roof.

‘And what sort of a dumb name is Le Poulain Rouge anyway? I have never seen anything around here that looks remotely like a red foal.'

‘You're missing the point.'

‘I'm missing my hot cocoa drinks and my bar in Sydney, that's what I'm missing. I shouldn't have come back.'

‘Think of all the pretty girls you'll get to see here tonight. Naked.'

On cue, three yellow vans pull up to their left, in the small car park behind the building. Three vans, each showing — painted across its sides — three nude dancers in feathers and frills.

The back doors swing open to release two dozen or so shapely young women. Beauties with pert breasts and token dresses, wolf tattoos on their backs, just below the neckline, and weaves of Celtic knots on their shoulders. Flashing their scarlet lips, they move lithely to the trapdoor, supervised by the flying fairies.

‘That's my ticket in,' murmurs Yaouen. He turns to Karadeg. ‘I need you to create a diversion.'

He bends over to whisper something in his ear, then stands up and snaps his fingers a few times. A child's bicycle materialises next to them. Along with a sketchbook, straw hat and waistcoat. Karadeg's cabbage ears shrink to human size and his beard dwindles to a short crop.

‘Now hurry, will you?'

The red-haired fairy is the first to spot an approaching gnome puffing away on his gnome-sized vehicle. She signals to her friends and they zero in on the intruder.

‘Just a minute!
Ne bougez pas!
' she calls. ‘
Vous
. . .' She seems to be looking for a word.

‘I understand English,' says Karadeg.

‘Then tell me what you're doing here. Patron access is through the front of the establishment.'

‘I'm not a patron. I was hired as the event artist. Poster art, you understand.' He waves his sketchbook in their faces. ‘I've come for the preliminary
esquisses
.'

‘The preliminary kisses?' asks the red-haired fairy, perplexed. She looks at him suspiciously.

‘No,
es-quisses
. The rough outlines for my paintings.'

‘I see. But I don't know anything about that. What's your name?'

‘Toulouse-Lautrec. François de Toulouse-Lautrec. Henri was my great-great-great uncle. Art runs strong in my family, in spite of the fact that we're all vertically challenged. Or perhaps to make up for that. Anyway, I've come to sketch the girls.'

‘Never heard of you. Or him.'

‘I have,' says the blonde fairy. ‘I moonlighted in Paris as an impressionist curator on my last posting there. I adore
fin-de-siècle
pieces.'

‘So we let him through?'

‘If he's half as good as his great-great-great uncle, we can even profit by this. Buy his sketches for a wing-flutter and resell them with a fat margin.' She freezes, then glances at her waistline with some concern. ‘Fat? Did I just say that? Ew, I hate that word. Look, I've put on two pounds just saying it.'

The redhead's eyes roll up to the clouds. ‘Rosanah, let it rest, will you?'

Rosanah looks at her sulkily. ‘I say we let the dwarf through.'

‘Fine,' says her partner. ‘But I still have not heard of him and he is not on my list. It's your perfectly slim arse on the line.'

The red-haired fairy addresses Karadeg again, flicking her thumb towards the trapdoor.

‘You can follow the girls.'

Karadeg gets off his bike then wheels it up to the building. He leans it against the wall. As he makes his way to the dancers, no one seems to notice the fetching brunette hurrying back to the group. Just as no one noticed her drifting away moments ago, and vanishing through a hole in a hedge with a dazed look on her face.

Now, if anyone present had wondered why on earth Helena was having a sudden urge to slip away, and if, acting on this intriguing observation, they had taken a peek over the hedge, they might have discovered two exact replicas of their dance partner. One lying unconscious on a grassy patch, the other making quick adjustments to her dress.

But no one had reason to indulge such curiosity, for everyone's eyes were on Karadeg and the fairies.

Stumbling clumsily on her high heels, the new Helena follows everyone through the trapdoor down the steps leading to the dancers' lodge.

‘
La classe!
Awesome! Better than in Paris!'

‘
Bouge les fesses, cocotte!
Move your pritty bûm!'

‘
Vas-y! Montre-nous ton minou!
Show us zat cute littel poossy!'

He has been rolling and wriggling his curvy butt under the stage lights for the best part of an hour and there is still no sign of Jenny or Viviane. This is not altogether surprising, since the room before him is almost dark and he would be hard put to recognise anyone.

Nonetheless, he feels annoyed. He was not planning to spend the whole night mincing and pirouetting for a bunch of guys in various stages of inebriation. Especially since the comments have rained like prurient cats and dogs, hard and fast, in colourful language — about the size of his tits, the length of his legs and how they would like to become personally acquainted with his shaved pubes after the show. Hardly the best audience etiquette, he would think, but he has little experience in the matter and, to be fair, his co-dancers have been equal recipients of this appreciation.

‘
Suce tes miches!
Suck on your tits!'

‘Perk up your butt!'

He leans over to touch the floor, his shapely backside to the audience, and thinks fondly of the toadstool soup he fed a bunch of orcs once, to poison them. No, he cannot see much future for himself in nude showbiz. He has been fuming quietly under the pouts and sultry sidelong looks but there is nothing he can do for now. He cannot afford to use his powers to get even.

He has consoled himself with the thought that his cover is safe. That his magic is proving invaluable on the artistic front. When he tapped Helena for body shape and behaviour, her dance skills and routines came as part of the package. The music did the rest. Come the first jazzy notes, he knew exactly how and which way to roll his hips. And he went on to arch his back, flick his legs up and toss his blonde wig like the hottest cabaret queen west of the Crazy Horse.

He has to admit this is all a bit weird, even for an old hand like himself. First time ever he has cross-shifted to the opposite sex. He has done all sorts of outlandish morphs before —bats, boars, bishops, birds, butterflies and black bears, bilbies and badgers, buzzards and bandicoots — and that's just the animates in B. But never a woman, that most curious of all creatures. And certainly never one that could qualify as a paradigm of slinky temptation.

At last the music spirals down to a halt. There is applause and wolf-whistling and more joyfully inadequate comments bowled from the packed venue, and then soft light is restored in the room.

The girls on stage are poised on their cabaret chairs, chests heaving. Yaouen's eyes flick around the room, scanning for familiar faces, while the red-haired fairy announces an intermission in gracious tones. He notices Karadeg huddling in a corner, paper in hand and chewing on his charcoal. A few topless girls are cruising among the tables, renewing drinks.

Then he spots her. Sipping a cocktail at a small bar at the back.

Jenny, looking radiant.

But alone.

He looks around again. There is no sign of Sandra. What on earth is Jenny playing at? Can't she keep her irksome initiatives for later? He has got to talk to her.

The curtain falls and there is more rapturous applause, and then calls for an encore. He tosses his chair out of the way in a rather unwomanly fashion, skips up to the curtain and parts it just enough to spy on the audience.

‘Look,' laughs one of the showgirls behind him, ‘Helena wants to get a head start. Already sussing out the spunky marks.'

‘Don't you worry,' titters another, ‘you'll get your fill in a minute.'

‘Be with you in a tick,' he says. He waits till they have gone, then moves to the side of the stage. There is a small gap between the curtain and the wall and he positions himself there, to target a waitress. He mumbles something under his breath and the closest one drifts over, wearing the same dazed expression as the real Helena did outside the tavern a short while ago.

‘Why don't you sit for a bit, honey?' He smiles. ‘I'll take it from here.'

Half a minute later, he is wearing her pink thong and shoes. Then, holding the girl's tray, he steps beyond the curtain.

A couple of leering fellows try to catch his attention, pointing at their empty glasses, but he smiles benignly and glides between the tables, heading for the bar. None of the winged fairies have noticed the switch, or if they have, they do not care.

As he veers around a table, a punter reaches over and slaps him on his butt with a jovial remark. Yaouen's fingers snap before he has time to think and the man's palm inexplicably completes its swing and comes crashing on his own cheek, leaving a bright red mark. The man looks rather nonplussed and stares ahead, blinking furiously for a few seconds.

One of the fairies turns her head towards the table.

Yaouen bends over, feigning a sudden irrepressible interest in the colour of his shoe. Damn, he has got to be more careful and sit on his pride a stretch longer.

The fairy looks away. Her attention has been drawn to a tipsy young stud that has climbed up on his table to show off his tattooed biceps. She moves over to assist the gentleman back into his chair with charm and tact and, presumably, a little mind-control of her own.

Yaouen springs back upright. One hand resting delicately on his swaying hips, he sashays towards the bar.

Jenny is relaxing on her bar stool. Her long legs flow out of her booty shorts; her lush bosom brims over the sailor's collar of her striped crop top. If pin-up girls had not been invented, she could easily start a trend. Her deep-toned cherry lips flirt with her glass before going for a sip.

Yaouen wonders briefly at the bloom in her cheeks, her lips, her breasts. Did she always come in such a killer package or is this a quirk of the ambient light? But he has no time to sit back and watch and decides that, like him, she has opted to blend in.

He swings around the bar and dumps his tray on the bench. Fortunately, there is no one else within immediate range. The bar seems to have a purely decorative purpose and the waitresses waltz in and out with their drinks through swing doors in the side wall. He leans over.

‘Where is Sandra?' he whispers.

Jenny turns to face him. She does not seem overly surprised.

‘I thought you might try something like this.' She smiles. ‘Welcome to the sisterhood.'

‘Where is she?' he urges again, bypassing her comment.

‘Don't worry, she is perfectly safe. She is resting.'

‘Resting? Resting where?'

‘The poor thing is finding it hard to get over jetlag. It's not yet been forty-eight hours since we left Sydney.'

‘I'm well aware of that but time is of the essence here,' he hisses. ‘I need her here to trap her other half.'

‘You're right, my lord. Or should I say my lady. But we're still on plan. It's only the intermission. I think you should have a drink yourself. Chill out. Enjoy your new look. You're absolutely gorgeous by the way.'

She takes his manicured hand in hers and eyeballs him.

‘Never mind the way I look,' he says gruffly.

‘No, honestly. The female shape suits you to a tee. Those perky breasts have a terrific eros-dynamic design. And any bourgeoise over thirty-five would be more than willing to trade her lapdog for that butt.'

She giggles. ‘I've brought a small gift with me. Allow me.'

Before he can react, she has slipped a ring on his finger and turned the small ruby which adorns it. There is a small click and the stone starts glowing.

‘Look how beautifully this gem complements your skin tone.'

Yaouen is about to tell her in no uncertain terms what he thinks of his skin tone dialectics, when suddenly the deep red of the ruby seems to make perfect aesthetic sense.

‘Yes,' he agrees, ‘it does set out my skin colour most favourably.'

‘That's usually the case when a ring has been designed for someone specific.'

He nods vigorously. He is indeed quite sure that rings should always be crafted for their wearers.

‘And this one was made specially for you.'

‘I'm so glad to hear that.'

‘It's been infused with a potent love spell.'

‘Oh, I so
love
love spells!'

‘One that you cannot resist, for it was distilled from the memories of your passionate nights in your old prison. And as long as that ruby pulses, you will long to know the power of
l'amour
. Of that incandescent feeling.'

‘Yes, I'm quite fired up already.'

‘And the good news is you don't have to waste your ardour on that heartless Viviane anymore.'

‘I don't?'

‘At last you can realise you were always in love with me.'

‘Of course I was.' He beams, holding her hands in his. ‘How could I not see that? Silly, silly me.'

‘Oh, I'm so happy, Yaouen!'

‘I'm so happy too, Jenny.'

‘But there is one thing I'd like you to do for me. Because you love me, right?'

‘Anything, my dove. I'll do anything for you.'

‘I want you to teach that little bitch Viv . . . err . . . that heartless schemer a lesson.'

‘What heartless schemer?'

‘Viviane, you silly man!'

‘Of course. Yes, I can do that, honeysuckle. Absolutely.'

‘Naturally you should prepare yourself for your encounter with her. You remember the seven Ps?'

‘I do, my sugar cube. Proper planning and preparation prevents piss-poor performance. I've always lived by that rule.'

‘Excellent. So it's time for a warm-up. Time to get you in the mood.'

‘I agree. It's so crucial to be in the mood.'

‘And because I love you I will help you do that.'

‘You would, would you? You're the best!'

‘We'll start right here. Would you like to know what it's like for a woman to come? For you are, after all, brand new to this. How about a little self-pleasuring?'

‘This would be a great opportunity to explore my femininity, I'm sure.'

‘Spoken like a true girl,' coos Jenny.

‘But . . .'

‘But?'

‘What about the guys in the room? Aren't they gonna come take a peek?'

‘Don't you fret about that. They're far too busy ogling the waitresses. Now close your eyes, and listen to the music. Only the music, nothing but the music. The notes must be your guide. Tune out the voices, phase out the noise. Can you feel that? Can you feel the chatter fading? The song playing?'

‘Yes, yes,' he replies dreamily.

‘Listen to that slow, sexy groove. Listen to it dripping into you, trickling to the hub, claiming your heart. The beat is a call and you must answer. You have no choice but to let it in — to let it deep inside, to the place of no thoughts. Of instinct. Of desire.'

She keeps warbling like this for a while, embellishing the tune that floats from the speakers. He loves the sound of her voice even more than the song. That husky, hypnotic voice. Oh God, he loves her voice. Loves her cute nose too and loves her eyes, though he can't see them except in his mind. Loves everything about her.

‘Good, your hips are gliding. You are responding to the prompt. Minueting gracefully. Please pout your lips and part your legs. That's it. And lick your finger lovingly, for it is the sweetest, most dulcet treat in the world. Lick it and suck it in concert with the notes. That finger is a melody. Harmony itself. Curl your tongue around it, draw in its rhythm, inhale its motion. Feel how desirable it is? How wet and fragrant?'

‘Mm . . . Mm . . .' hums Yaouen, who has turned his back to the bar.

‘Keep your lips on that finger. That luscious, melodic finger. We have all the time in the world. All the time. Coat it with desire, make it lushier still. Gloss it and glaze it like your dewiest dreams. Make it croon like the vocals inside you.'

He purrs in approval. Oh yes, that finger vibrates so lyrically; it has such harmonious tones; moves with such mellifluous ease. And something warm and damp between his legs thinks so too, for he is getting warmer, damper with each moment. He hums on, abandoning himself to the song-finger, to the radiance in his core.

Jenny weaves on her lullaby.

‘And now your golden finger hungers for bolder ballads. It wants to dance. It needs to dance. It has to fondle your dewy little clit. Coax it, nurse it, help it bloom and blossom. Twirl it to that sultry beat. Yes, beautiful. Excellent. You're a natural. A born lady-selfer if you'll permit the phrase. Who would have thought this was a first for you? You naughty thing. You're gasping so prettily. Offering your throat so enticingly. You look so keen already, so thirsty for more. I can see you growing restless. I can see the pink dawning in your cheeks. Hear the first chimes in your voice. You're a fast learner. Not all girls can get in the mood when they self-pleasure. Not all can tango or swing so fetchingly.

‘Try slipping in a finger. Try slipping in two. How sumptuous does that feel? How heavenly, do you think? Slide in deeper, probe that lushness, feel the song spreading. Keep rubbing, keep spinning. Keep fanning that fire. Yes, keep that adorable pout moaning. See how strongly you're pulsing? See what lusty bop you're breaking into? You are drunk with tempo, and your fingers are tattooing to your runaway tune. And your eyes are tight slits and your lips are trembling and the blood is rushing to your face. Oh dear, there's such song in you all of a sudden! Such eager notes in your throat! Doesn't it feel fabulous? It does, doesn't it? So stunningly delectable you are in shock. In electric paradise.

‘And the strength is draining from your legs. And you must go down, down on all fours. Down like a helpless, fallen angel. And the rhythm is hotting up and the drumming is speeding up. Hotter, faster. Like a hardcore metal score. And that beat is claiming you. Swamping you. Branding you. And you tip forward — yes, just like that — and press your cheek to the floor. Your burning face. And you're moaning hard, gasping hard on your knees. The floor too is hard, unyielding, but you do not care about the floor, do you, for your lips are twanging and your arse is rolling and your hand is glued to that music box. Nothing could take your hand away, nothing, and you keep jiggling that juicy clit, tugging around and over it, and it is hard as a nut. Can you feel it? Can you hear it aching? Pounding and vibing? Oh poor thing, you're dying to end this, to bust all those ecstatic chords, but you can't get there, can you? You can't! And you burrow into that hardcore puss, two fingers three fingers four. And you spill more harsh sounds and your mind is spinning and your nails are pinned to the floor.