Shadow Girl by Mael d'Armor

outrageously lewd, and terribly otherworldly about the figure. As though she had not sprung from the chisel of man but grown like a plant from the earth. From some deep, shadowy pit where grace and power conspire in ruthless sympathy.
    Even thousands of miles away, Sandra feels the pull of the mystery nude. She is drawn to its primal inevitability, to its potent allure, displayed in counterpoint to the zillion houses and composites of modernity. Her eye follows the sleek waves from neck to breast, from hip to thigh, from thigh to calf — then is halted by the splayed hand.
    With some alarm, she senses her demon stirring again.
    She tightens her grip on her shirtfront.
    â€˜Fascinating, most fascinating,’ mumbles Yaouen, still in earnest contemplation.
    Another snap of his fingers. The vista widens, bringing the city back into view. He continues his silent survey. Jenny too is keeping quiet.
    Sandra forces her gaze away from the figure and looks at the buildings. A European city, most likely. There is something familiar about it. She has seen that spread of roofs before, at least in photographs. Rome perhaps, or Barcelona. But no, it cannot be. There is no sign of the Colosseum or Gaudi’s immense Sagrada Familia.
    Then she notices a hill in the distance, far beyond the carved figure. A small knob of earth lost in the urban sprawl and also covered with buildings. On cue, it seems, a framed window opens where the hill is standing, to afford a blow-up of the area. Yaouen too has turned his attention there.
    She examines the vignette. The mount is crowned by a lofty basilica. A mix of Western and Eastern style, would be her best guess. Massive white dome, quartet of cupolas. Sloping lawn at the front. Two long ribbons of steps on either side. A tall thin tower at the back. She has definitely seen this before but can’t quite place the monument. A picture glimpsed in a book? In the window of a travel agency? Then she gets it. The poster on Dr Leclaire’s office door. She can still see its caption spread out in large white capitals: le Sacré-Coeur.
    She is looking at Montmartre.
    She stares at the vignette a little longer, then redirects her attention to the cityscape.
    â€˜So then, this is . . .’
    â€˜Paris,’ says Yaouen, his eyes boring through the picture.
    â€˜Porous,’ she echoes. She should have known.
    But mixed with the recognition is the instant awareness that there is something wrong with the scene. That sculpture. The giant woman shouldn’t be there. And where on earth is the . . . ?
    And then she has another jaw-dropping moment.
    This time, it is Jenny who fills in the blank.
    â€˜The French have just woken up to this. The Eiffel Tower’s gone. Vanished, vaporised. And this is what they’ve found instead. They are terribly upset.’
    She pauses, then adds mischievously, ‘At least some of them are.’

12
    â€˜Where are we going walkies to?’
    It is the third time she has asked the question, but neither Yaouen nor Jenny is in a hurry to clarify, though they are both in a hurry to get somewhere.
    â€˜Just round the corner,’ says Yaouen at last, powering along like a beach buggy. ‘A place I know. I have some urgent business there.’
    Urgent business? She snorts dismissively. What can be more urgent than going to get her some proper clothing? Right now, she is feeling horribly self-conscious and she lays the blame for this squarely at his feet. Didn’t he drag her out of the hotel before she had something sensible to wear?
    Inexplicably, the clothes she had worn to her tryst had vanished somewhere in that Bermuda triangle between the bed, the couch and the bathroom — Yaouen swore he had nothing to do with this — and the last-minute replacement turned out to be appallingly minimal: a white clingy crop top that was so clingy and so cropped it must have been designed for a twelve-year-old, and a pair of denim shorts that