Pyromancist Read Online Free PDF Page A

close enough
to see the pain in those iron eyes and the tortured look that
distorted his features.
    He took another swig from the bottle. He
lifted the revolver, flicked the cylinder open and rolled it before
clicking it back in place and putting it to his temple. Clelia’s
hands went to her mouth as his finger tightened on the trigger.
Before she could move, he completed the action and pulled a blank.
Clelia pinched her eyes shut, cold perspiration making her damp,
and when she opened them again, she saw Josselin grimace, tears
rolling down his cheeks. He gave a haunted laugh and lowered the
gun, his long fingers going to the cylinder again.
    She had to do something. She didn’t want to
rush up to him and risk getting shot. It was best to make herself
known first, to warn him gently of her presence. Slowly, she moved
on shaking legs until she stood almost in front of him. He still
hadn’t noticed her. She spoke his name softly. His fingers fiddled
with the cylinder, bringing a new round in line with the
barrel.
    “Josselin.”
    This time his hand stilled and his head
lifted. There was a frown on his brow.
    She took a trembling step forward. “Josselin,
it’s all right.”
    He looked at her, his expression one of
confusion, following her movement until she faced him squarely.
    “What are you?” he said with a slurring
tongue. He spoke to her in English instead of in his native French,
but his accent was heavy.
    It was clear that he had no idea who she was.
Of course not. Why would he remember her? Besides, he was very
drunk. At least he didn’t point the gun at her or look as if he
were going to attack her.
    She lowered her backpack to the ground and
knelt next to him. “Josselin, everything is going to be fine.”
    He dropped the bottle. Clelia noticed he had
been drinking Calvados. More than three quarters of the bottle. His
free hand went to his coat, patting his pocket. When he heard the
noise he was searching for, he withdrew a brown bottle. Without
relaxing his grip on the gun, he unscrewed the lid, lifted his
head, opened his mouth and tilted the content of the bottle down
his throat.
    Clelia uttered a small cry when she realized
what he had done. She lifted her hands to prevent him from more,
but he found the bottle of apple brandy again and swallowed the
pills down. When he looked back at her, he chuckled, a meek replica
of the cold laugh she had heard only seconds ago.
    “There,” he said, “it’s done. I’ve done your
job for you, angel of death. No need to dirty your beautiful
hands.” His eyes lowered to her hands. “Yes, such a devil am I.
I’ve already noticed your hands. Forgive me.” He chuckled again.
“Such pure hands shouldn’t be harvesting lives.”
    She leaned forward, shaking her head,
alternating between battling to breathe and trying not to
hyperventilate. “I’m not an angel of death.”
    She didn’t see it coming, so when his palm
suddenly flattened on her cheek, she recoiled in shock. He
immediately retracted his hand.
    “A beautiful, dark-haired angel,” he said.
“If you didn’t come to take me, then why are you here?”
    His words moved her deeply. He was in such
agony. She had to help him, fast, or get help.
    “Josselin.” His name brushed past her lips
like a caress as she sat down. She lifted her hand carefully,
slowly so as not to alarm him, and wiped the windblown wisps of
hair from his face. “Please, let me help you.”
    “Help me?” He laughed. “Then set me free of
this curse called life.”
    His shoulders started shaking, and she
couldn’t tell if it was from laughing or crying, or from both.
Holding her breath, she reached for the hand that clutched the
revolver. She folded her fingers over his, gently and silently
commanding the release of the weapon until she felt his grip relax
and his fingers become slack. She pulled the gun free from his
hold, the heavy object now resting in her palm. The metal was cold,
except for where his touch had warmed it.