Chapter Two
Despite the heat pooling among the crooked apple trees, a frosty finger traced my spine, drawing more goosebumps in response. My heartbeat quickened. Could my paranormal failure be a coincidence? When I suffered from a stinking cold, I couldn’t taste food or auras. Today I didn’t suffer from the slightest sniffle. Worse, while the aroma of Batz’s aura was missing in action, his warm, musky scent lingered.
The heat congealed into an oppressive presence, and I couldn’t stand still any longer. No aura, no aura hammering in my brain, my mouth parched like the sun-caked soil, I staggered toward the dubious safety offered by the Villa Glorieuse and banged the front door shut.
In the kitchen, I wrenched the crusted tap open and let the water cool my wrists until my heartbeat slowed from a mad dash to a mere gallop. I cradled the fluid in my hands and lapped it up, doggie-style. Tepid and smacking of chlorine, the water put a flavor into my mouth, something Batz had failed to do.
I swung around, and my hip hit the edge of the kitchen counter. The blasted thing was too low for me; everything in this place had been designed with shorter people in mind. To take the weight off my wobbly legs, I heaved myself onto the countertop—and bumped the back of my head against a cupboard.
“Ow.” I rubbed my throbbing scalp.
The jolt must have loosened the panicky blockage in my brain, and the thoughts gushed.
Yvon Batz might be unusual, but so was I, the recipient of some rather extraordinary genes. Until I asked my mum and dad how I tasted to them, I had never noticed I was different. They were caring people.
They explained the skill of aura tasting had been sneaked into the Rosen ancestry by a Romani, manifested roughly every three generations, and wasn’t a big deal. Which was sort of correct; though if I concentrated hard enough, tasting someone’s aura also gave me a vague notion of the other person’s state of mind, a trick that came in handy but also caused a lot of heartache.
Useful or not, aura tasting wasn’t something to be shared with a world that frowned upon paranormal phenomena—unless there was money to be made. Yet the skill formed an integral part of who I was, formed part of the package. True love can’t ever be built on secrets.
Aye, there was the rub.
Rub it in, Shakespeare, will you ?
The ancient refrigerator shook itself and rattled into action. I shifted on the hard countertop.
Until today, my paranormal taste buds never failed me. Could I have been so preoccupied with our sparring, I misread Batz?
Nope. Face the facts, girl—something’s wrong with the man’s life energy.
Despite my sadly substantial behind, the countertop dug into my ischia, so I lowered myself to the floor.
Who or what was he? A ghost?
Ghosts weren’t supposed to run around while the sun was shining. To the best of my knowledge, the same applied to vampires and other undead critters, assuming they existed. The jury was still out on that one.
Hadn’t there been an article in the paper recently, mentioning a laboratory where they ran studies on ectoplasm and stuff? I fished for my smartphone and scanned the news. No paranormal labs, but the article was out there somewhere. No big deal. Research was a key skill for a journalist. I would find the text.
Too edgy to remain still, I paced the cracked floor tiles. Maybe there was a perfectly harmless explanation for Batz’s lack of aura. Perhaps some humans remained bland?
Rubbish. Surely, I would have noticed before.
Another thought surfaced. What if Yvon Batz was like me? I had always assumed I would have an aura like everybody else. Owing to a lack of fellow aura-tasters, I might have misread the blasted man.
Yvon Batz as my supernatural soul mate? Whoa, that was the last thing I needed. And tomorrow, I would be alone with him in his restaurant.
Sweat steamed from my pores. The soupy warmth in the kitchen pressed on my chest like an iron band. Air, I needed fresh air.
My beach dress hung over the chair in the corridor where I dumped it after this morning’s stroll. I ripped off the disreputable T-shirt and slipped into the colorful garment. Hey presto, decent again.
With the villa locked, I creaked my way through the garden gate. Down a trail spongy with pine needles I strode, headed for the vastness of the seascape hidden beyond the sandy ridge.
At its crest, I stopped.
Miles of beach, dunes, and pine forests stretched from the Pyrenees, only faintly visible in the South, to an indigo haze in the North. The tide was out; the wind had dropped, and the ferocious rollers of the Atlantic dwindled into frothy white lines far away at sea, waiting for their chance to pounce.
In the translucent skies above my head, a family of seagulls skimmed the breeze, dipping and rising like the salty scavengers they were. Their raucous cries mingled with the distant song of the waves. A fresh tang of seaweed, ozone, and trapped fish tickled my nose. Some of the pressure melted away.
Nothing like the ocean to ease freaky moods. There would be a rational explanation for everything. I only had to find it, just like I would find a solution to my other problems.
I took off my flip-flops and followed the path snaking between massive slabs of concrete, half-buried in the sand. The World War Two bunkers they once supported had slipped off their foundations decades ago and now hunkered at crazy angles among the runnels of water rushing toward the sea.
Pools and treacherous ridges riddled the sand, sculpted by the ever-changing surf that left watermarks on the chunky ruins. Green with algae and covered in graffiti, those remains of terrible bloodshed threw lengthening shadows over the beach. The surfers with their gaudy boards looked out of place, out of time and...
Inspiration went no further.
Back in the UK, after the meltdown of the one relationship I had hoped would be forever-proof, my imagination had easily linked the broken pillboxes to the strands of my novel’s plot, giving me a purpose, a new goal in life. Unfortunately, once I settled in France to live the vision, my muse took flight.
Strolling on, I grabbed a handful of sand and let it run through my fingers. Nameless people, their dreams, hopes, and fears real like mine were now, had walked this beach before me. As a journalist, I could write. Why should it prove so damn difficult to give a voice to the past?
My foot kicked against a stone, and a sharp pain stabbed my toe.
“Ouch.” I bent to rub my foot. Once more, Batz’s image rose in my mind, an unquiet spirit clanking about tomorrow’s appointment.
Oh, rot it all.
A pungent whiff of smoke assaulted my nostrils. I swung around. From the open doorway to the nearest bunker emerged a man. He hopped onto the beach, removed a cigarette from his generous mouth, and smiled.
He was almost as tall as my mysterious neighbor was, but wider in the chest and even more studded with muscle. Did the inhabitants of this country live in gyms? Even the dark, glossy hair curling under the chap’s beret reminded me of my neighbor, as did the white teeth flashing in his tanned face. The two men might have been cousins, had it not been for the color of the newcomer’s eyes, a mellow, rich brown reminding me of Batz’s prize pooches—hunting dogs.
“Bonsoir, Madame. I hope you haven’t hurt yourself?”
“Kind of you to ask, but I’m fine.” At least he talked to me, which was more than other locals did after the brouhaha with the review.
The friendly beachcomber waved his cigarette around, a Gauloise to judge by the strong reek. The man should be awarded five stars for ticking every French stereotype in the book. He even wore a striped T-shirt à la Breton and navy slacks. Only the baguette was missing.
“I’m Raoul Dubois. We’re neighbors in a way. Call me Raoul, please. Delighted to meet you at last.” Like Batz, he executed a perfect bow.
I nodded. Yup, they must be related. “I’m Mel Rosen. I thought apart from Monsieur Batz’s place, the seafront villas are booked solid by the tourists. Which one is yours, then? Or are you staying with him?” I glanced over my shoulder, but the dunes, painted golden by the setting sun, hid the houses behind.
Raoul blew a cloud of noxious smoke. “No, I’m not staying with Yvon. My humble abode lies farther on.”
He flapped his hand at the sandy crest behind us, the lit end of his Gauloise dancing like a firefly. With a frown, he pulled a metal box from his pockets, used it to stab out his cigarette, and screwed the lid back on.
Kudos to the man. He didn’t flip the butt onto the sand like many others would have done. “I hear you and Yvon suffered from a disagreement?”
“Uh, yes. I had the audacity not to enjoy his signature dish. Twice. And the even greater audacity to share my experience in my blog. However, I guess my greatest failure is being a British food critic who dared to criticize a French chef. Horror of horrors, eh?”
Raoul burst out laughing. It sounded cheerful and free of care. The last remaining stricture around my chest broke, and I couldn’t suppress a smile.
“Few people dare to cross him. Hats off to you for making a stand.”
I toed the stone. “To be honest, our spat certainly seems to have turned quite a few of the locals against me. Thanks for not tarring me with the same brush.”
“Not my style. But you don’t know me. Listen, don’t let it get to you, the gale will blow over. It’s also not why I wanted to have a chat.”
“So, why did you?”
“Your novel.”
Was the whole blasted village in on my secret? “You aren’t acquainted with Paulette by any chance, are you?”
A guarded look crept into his brown eyes. “Uh, no, I’m not. I got the intel from Yvon, and he talked to the Douchevin chap, I think. You’re friendly with her, no?”
‘The Douchevin chap’ would have some ?splaining to do. My fault, I shouldn’t have blabbed. “Well, she’s helping me with my research. Even after my frontal assault on the local hero.”
She had done more than that, like pouring oil on troubled waters. I owed her.
Raoul did the Gallic shrug better than Batz. “She’ll have her reasons.”
“Oh?”
“Let’s say I’m not a fan of her methods and let’s ask no more.”
“Are you another librarian?”
Once more, his ready laugh bubbled up. “No way. See, I’m not good at anything remotely resembling office work. I enjoy exploring the local history, yes, but more out of curiosity.”
I raised my chin at the dripping bunker. “Local history as in like this?”
“Exactly like this. Are you writing about the German occupation, or would you have a broader interest? Old Gascony has a lot more to offer than the Nazi invasion. Imagine the musketeers. All those frilly shirts revealing manly chests. Not to forget the tight trousers. En garde .” He lifted an arm and thrust an invisible rapier at an equally unseen foe.
Another smile tugged at my lips and blossomed into a full-blown grin. The guy might be a trifle eccentric, but he sizzled with life. He also reminded me strongly of Gerald, my gay friend from primary school, the only man who ever stuck with me even after I made a clean breast of my supernatural gift.
“Hmm, I read Dumas once, and I wasn’t impressed with his masterpiece. Though I guess I shouldn’t denigrate him. He’s written his book. I’ve yet to start on mine.”
Raoul stopped skewering the air. “Ah, so you’re indeed writing a novel on the musketeers?”
“No, it’ll be set during the German occupation in the Second World War. I came here for some research. And to get a bit of distance.”
Ah, crap. Once again, I was talking too much.
He didn’t seem to mind. “Ah, it appears we are interested in the same era. We could help each other, Mel. May I use your first name? I don’t want to be pushy.”
He was, but he also was amusing, even if I suspected an ulterior motive behind his smile. Since I had no idea what he was after, caution was called for.
Otherwise, I liked the bloke. “Mel is fine. Tell me one thing. What exactly is your connection to Monsieur Batz? As you might imagine, I’m not exactly on a best-buddy basis with him.”
After tomorrow’s appointment, things were bound to get worse. Something frosty slithered down my back. Writer’s block, romantic cliffhangers, and shit-storms hitting my food blog were only the beginning of my troubles.
Raoul sniggered. “Let’s say, he’s an old friend of mine. Not sure he would agree. Never mind. Yvon can be prickly, especially when you question his culinary skills. He’s got a lot of pride invested in what he calls art. Apart from this, he’s not a bad fellow once you get to know him better. A tick stubborn though. Disillusioned. He’s seen too much.”
His eyes widened, and his mouth snapped shut.
Seen too much of what?
“How about I share my research with you?” he said with more cheer than necessary. “Not the facts, those you can get from elsewhere. It’s all about local lore. The people behind the history for example.”
His look reminded me of a puppy, eager to please its master. But why not? With my muse on extended leave, any inspiration was welcome. If things turned pear-shaped, I could always walk away.
And this might be a great opportunity to snap up more intel on Yvon...Monsieur Batz. “What a lovely offer, thank you.”
The skin around Raoul’s eyes crinkled. “Wonderful. How about tomorrow, same place but a bit later? Would nine work for you? The forecast looks great and the tide will be out again. We should be fine. It’s very atmospheric here, no?”
I regarded the bunkers, dark silhouettes set against pearly skies, streaked with pink rashers. “It is indeed. Okay, let’s. Where can I find you?”
He waved at the nearest ruin. “Oh, I’ll be around, no worries. Did you know this was once the command center back when it sat up in the dunes? Believe me, you wouldn’t want to be caught in one of these structures when the water comes in.” He patted the dripping concrete.
I shuddered at the notion. Quaint in the sunshine, the beach became something else entirely during stormy weather. Only last month, a careless tourist had been trapped and drowned.
No novel was worth dying for. “Fine with me.”
“Tomorrow, at eight-thirty then. It will be a pleasure. Oh, before I forget. Give Yvon a second chance if you can, will you? He isn’t a bad person. Bonne soirée .”
It would be the man’s third chance.
Raoul executed another of his precise bows, then walked away, headed for the sandy ridge at the land-facing side of the beach.
Only when he had disappeared behind the nearest concrete monster, did realization whack me over the head so hard, a gasp rushed past my lips.
Raoul too had given me no taste. This time, there hadn’t even been ash. Instead, there was—nothing.
Crap.
To make matters worse, where my inner alarm clamored away for my neighbor, it failed with Raoul.
Double crap.
Incoherent thoughts chasing each other through my head, I stood in the bunker’s lee, until the scream of a hungry seagull pierced my trance.
“Hey, Raoul, wait.” I shot around the rugged edge of a ruined staircase—and collided with a soft obstacle. “Oof.”
“Ouch.”
I freed myself from the muddle composed of myself and two ladies in their fifties. They were clad in identical shorts and spaghetti tops of the type that doesn’t forgive an extra ounce, let alone a few kilos. The ladies smiled at me, probably tourists, not locals.
The next moment, the all-familiar aroma of aura washed over my tongue, savory, creamy, reassuringly human, and joyfully alive. If I needed any proof something was fishy about Messieurs Batz and Dubois, there was it. The two women gave me exactly the vibes I was missing in the men.
With imaginary ants swarming my veins, I forced myself to stand motionless. “Oh, sorry, I hope I didn’t hurt you?”
The woman closer to me patted my arm. “No harm done, don’t you worry.” She spoke English with a Scandinavian accent, which meant she was a tourist.
“I was following someone. I forgot to ask him something important. Actually—”
“You mean the gorgeous Frenchman? Lucky you. He went up there.” The second woman pointed at the dunes. Sure enough, a dwindling male figure was mounting the heaps of sand.
“Oh, great, thanks. Gotta dash. Enjoy your stay at Capbreton.” With an apologetic smile, I raced past them, the sound of my bare feet slap-slapping on the wet ground and changing to hollow thuds as I hit drier terrain.
I wasn’t fast enough. By the time I arrived at the foot of the dunes, Raoul was gone.
To heck with him. I needed to get to the bottom of this mystery, pronto. Two men in one day who lived in the same small village, both suffering from a lack of auras couldn’t be a coincidence.
I swung around and faced the ocean. The sun was schmoozing with the horizon, ready to melt into the sea. Where water and sky touched, a shimmering line blurred the boundaries between reality and whatever might lie beyond.
Oddly enough, if I wanted to explore the paranormal, facts were essential, but facts were my staple diet. Tomorrow, during lunch, I would sample Yvon...Monsieur Batz once more, to be sure I had overlooked nothing. Unlikely, but I needed to be certain. I would do the same with Raoul.
So much for the straightforward part. Asking some pertinent questions about auras would come next. As yet, I lacked inspiration on how to phrase them, since my one attempt to talk to a Romani woman had ended with a cringing embarrassment.
The all-too-familiar conversation replayed in my mind. “Uh, Madame Astra, you were recommended to me. I understand you have some extraordinary skills?”
An exasperated sigh. A bony finger tapped at a glass ball resting on a velvet cushion. “How else would I do what I do?” the woman opposite me said in a throaty voice.
“Yes, well. See, it isn’t my fortune I would like to have told. Something’s a bit weird, and I need your help; something to do with me.”
A dark brow rose under a fringed scarf. Hooped earrings jangled.
So cliché, so trite, but she was a top-shelf professional soothsayer who had to meet customer expectations. “Uh, it’s like this—I can taste auras.”
A smirk tugged at painted lips. “You do what?”
“Please don’t laugh. The life energy of every living human being leaves a flavor on my tongue. Yours does too.”
She quirked a brow. I licked my lips, suddenly drier than parchment. “It took me ages to find you. People told me you too could do some special things.”
Madame Astra crossed her arms in front of her bony chest. “Carry on.”
“If I concentrate on the phenomenon, I can sort of read the person. It’s a bit like the gut feeling people get when they meet someone new, the impression they form in the first seconds, only more precise.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The trouble is, I only notice the good side of people. The whole shebang is mega annoying and causes me oodles of grief, especially with men. I’m a genius when it comes to picking Mr. Wrong. Does that ring any bells?”
Black locks flew while laughter shook the woman. “No, it doesn’t. My gift differs from yours. Divination is a precise art. Seriously, tasting people... Sorry, I can’t see the purpose in this. No, you must be imagining things. I suggest you consult a good therapist.” The bony finger pointed to the exit of the caravan filled with the swirling smoke of incense.
Only a few steps separated me from the door, but a trek through a desert couldn’t have been longer. At least, I managed to present a straight back to the woman.
A group of surfers stampeded past me, and I shrugged off the flashback.
No way. There had to be a way of exploring my odd skill that didn’t require exposing myself.
For a start, I wouldn’t mention auras to either Yvon or Raoul. Instead, I would sample their auras with them present and take it from there. Come hell or high tide, I would unveil the mystery of the two spooky Frenchmen. Should I fail, I could always use them as inspiration for my novel.
No, wrong. Failure wasn’t on the cards. Not anymore.
When I glanced up, the sun was gone, leaving only a golden smear on the horizon. The surf hissed and nibbled at the edge of the beach, deserted now the light was fading. A tangy breeze found my skin, and I shivered.
Time to go.