Heart Change

by Robin D. Owens

  Pink Flair, which meant that some of the pastel yellow florets would bond with it and work the best. Perhaps.

  Signet gathered her Flair and connected with the animal through telepathy, sending her mind to caress the housefluff’s. Then Signet loosed the restraints on her Flair. Some of her dandelion flowers separated and flowed toward Flora’s negative emotional memories. Signet’s catalyst energies clumped together and hovered near, then the outer portion was absorbed. For a while Signet observed, but nothing else happened. Change didn’t often happen overnight.

  Unless Vinni T’Vine entered your life.

  So Signet let her mind drift toward him, sprawled on the bedsponge in the guest suite. Even asleep, huge and potent energies pulsed in the thirteen-year-old. His Flair was well integrated, under control. He rolled, and his energies overlapped his Fam’s. Flora was on a pillow near his head. Both drew together, and Signet thought that a portion of the boy’s Flair was drawn to Signet’s, reinforcing her “change” in Flora.

  Pleased, Signet turned her attention to the other person in the suite, Hanes. His Flair aura was of medium intensity, well ordered, as straightforward as the man. He slept lightly and seemed to sense that Signet observed him, so she withdrew her consciousness from the suite.

  Did she dare check on Avellana? Perhaps it would be better to “see” Avellana with her newly found Flair. Even as her mind drifted toward Avellana’s suite, she experienced flashing strobes of colorful energy. Avellana’s usual lifeforce? Or her innate Flair coalescing into Passage?

  Signet hesitated, then reached for the bond she already had with the little girl. The moment she brushed Avellana’s mind, the girl woke aware and energetic.

  Signet began to rise to the top of her trance, and Du pricked her with his claws. Others will care for Avellana. This is Our meditation time. His purr was louder than it had been before. You have appreciated Me, helped Me. I chose well.

  She smiled and petted him and let all worries go, settled into herself to experience her own Flair again. She had helped Du, the being she was most connected to. She’d eased Flora’s tangle of memories until the Fam accepted the old horrors as only a part of herself, and not something to be dwelt upon or allowed to influence the future with fear.

  Signet’s energy flowers had changed when she withdrew to herself to see them. It appeared like one or even two were multicolored! Florets of yellow and blue and pink on one flower. Was that progress in handling her own Flair?

  Then she smiled as she distantly heard Avellana’s piping voice. Here and now she was filled with hope that she’d be able to help the child.

  “But I want to see Signet,” Avellana insisted. “Meditating this long means napping or having sex. You’re with me, Cratag, so Signet’s just fallen asleep in her meditation room. She would feel better sleeping on her own bedsponge,” Avellana said virtuously. “So we should check on her.”

  Signet saw a bright irregular smear of surprise and orange embarrassment . . . Cratag’s feelings.

  “That may be true in D’Hazel’s household—” Cratag started.

  “I felt her earlier, when I was in bed. Serene. She doesn’t feel like this now.”

  “Perhaps she wants some alone time.”

  “Why?” But Avellana didn’t wait for an answer; she flung open the tower door.

  Signet reluctantly opened her eyes and only saw a dark background and throbbing swatches of color. The smaller red-and-green-and-blue-paisley one with dark streaks gasped and shrank close to the very big bright shades-of-purple one with a brilliant lightning-white aura.

  “She’s glowing,” a small voice said.

  Signet felt her legs under her, shifted. Du hopped off her. She rose and turned her head; the smears of color became encased in harsher colors of skin and clothing.

  “Her eyes are glowing. Even Muin’s eyes don’t glow.”

  Blinking, Signet saw Avellana’s fingers twine with Cratag’s.

  “Avellana,” Signet said, her voice tasting low and rusty. If she narrowed her eyes, she could distinguish Avellana’s dandelion seed balls of Flair. Most were nearly too bright to see, but many were mis-shapened, with dark areas. “Your Flair is very strong.” Signet glanced at Cratag, and the streak of color was gone, replaced by tiny purple-colored sparkling puffs of Flair marching in regulated order within him. “Cratag, you don’t have much Flair.”

  “I know.”

  Signet wobbled to them, reached for him, missed his shoulder. Her hands slid down his thick biceps to his wrist, her fingers found his bare, free hand, and she clamped hers around it. Skin to skin was best. It always worked skin to skin, she realized, finally recognizing a portion of this feeling from the past. “But what Flair you have I can . . . enhance . . . until it is the strongest possible.”

  He grunted but said a polite “Thank you.”

  The little girl had dropped his hand and was hopping up and down. “My Flair, tell me about my Flair.”

  Du sniffed. That sounded in her mind more than in her ears. Rude child.

  “Oh, oh, I’m sorry. But tell me, Signet. You see Flair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fun!” Avellana threw herself in Signet’s arms, and their skin touched, and Signet jolted as if lightning had struck her, gasped, coughed, and spun away. Avellana cried out.

  “Got you,” said Cratag’s steady, calm voice.

  Since Signet was still spinning, her mind whirling faster than her body, he couldn’t mean her. Then she felt his large hand on her back, propelling her to one side, his grip around her upper arm, pulling, then releasing, and she sprawled onto the soft, silk embroidered twoseat. All the extra Flair in her, around her, zipped into the silk, down the wooden curved legs of the sofa and to the silk rug, the narrow planked and polished floor, and into the Residence itself.

  Everything came into focus.

  Signet giggled. She heard light, racing footsteps, and Vinni rocketed through the door, didn’t stop in time, and hit Cratag, who had Avellana tucked under his arm as if he held a pig.

  Cratag didn’t budge. He fended Vinni off until he spun, too, into a winged chair.

  Avellana was gasping with laughter. “Whee. Spin me around, too, Cratag!”

  With movements too fast for Signet to see, he flipped her until his hands were at her waist, then over until she dangled head down, then up again.

  Du jumped out of the way and onto Signet’s sofa arm. Lifted a paw to clean it. Child will puke.

  In between giggles, Avellana said, “No, I won’t. My stomach is fine.”

  I am hungry, Du said. I need a nighttime snack.

  Signet straightened into a more dignified sitting position and scratched his ears. He would eat more, now. His hurt hadn’t been physical, or Danith D’Ash would have Healed him.

  I was not long enough at D’Ash’s to settle. And that Residence is too busy with other animals. I needed My own space and My own FamWoman. I needed you, he said to her privately. My other FamWoman was old and died and was found, and I watched but did not come out, then I got lost in the city when they tore down the building she was living in.

  From his projections, she thought the woman had not been emotionally balanced, either, and had been one of the last shadows living in the old Downwind slums. She called me “Tinky.” I do not like “Tinky.” I like Du.

  “I love you, Du.”

  Her Fam licked her face. I love you, too, My FamWoman, but I am hungry now. He jumped gracefully from the sofa to glide from the room.

  Signet turned to look around, saw Vinni, and stilled. She could see his Flair! More brilliant, nearly incandescent, now that he was awake. Tightly packed florets in prismatic colors . . . with an incredible variety of shades. All spiraling through the teen in a double helix.

  She blinked and blinked again. Stared.

  “D’Marigold,” he said coolly.

  Avellana giggled. “Signet is being rude.”

  Signet dragged her gaze away from the GreatLord, sat up straight in a
proper posture, then narrowed her gaze to change the focus of her vision from Flaired to mundane—though colors were still vivid, texture more detailed. “My apologies,” she said, but didn’t mean it much. This new aspect of her psi talent was fascinating, and she wondered what Vinni’s Flair looked like when he was having a vision. Small of her, she knew, but she’d never had the lovely fun of knowing and experimenting with her Flair after Second Passage.

  “I think we should all get back to bed,” Cratag said.

  “It’s not even grown-up RetireBell,” Avellana said.

  Vinni moved to her. “Do you want some more bedtime tea, Avellana?”

  “No. And I don’t want stories, either.” She shot a look at Signet. “And if she wanted me to sleep, she shouldn’t have come poking at me mentally.”

  “I’m sorry,” Signet said. She nodded to Vinni also. “Like those who are just developing their Flair, I was experimenting with it.”

  The boy’s expression cleared, turned interested. He smiled. “We should talk, T’Ash—”

  “Bedtime for Avellana and T’Vine.” Hanes clumped in, perfectly groomed, his face set in benevolent lines that didn’t match the irritation radiating from him.

  “I won’t be able to sleep,” Avellana said.

  “Sure you will,” Hanes said. He plucked her away from Cratag. “Rhyz and Flora and Du and . . .” he looked around.

  “Beadle,” Cratag said, “is out enjoying adventures.”

  “Well.” Hanes jiggled the little girl as if jollying her from her pout. “All the other Fams will come and tell you Fam stories.” He looked at the cats and the housefluff. “Won’t you?”

  Of course, Flora said, hopping along after them.

  Of course, Rhyz said, purring. My favorite thing, telling you all My great adventures.

  Signet thought she heard a reluctant giggle from Avellana.

  Du trotted in, licking his chops. He’d obviously had a quick snack from the no-time in Signet’s suite. He sniffed, then rubbed back and forth across Signet’s ankles before catching up with the others. She has not heard any of My stories yet, and they are exceptional.

  Without looking back, Hanes waved a hand at them.

  Signet sighed. “Even though he has some strict ideas, Hanes is good with those two children.”

  “Yes,” Cratag said, pacing. “I’ve already done my house check,” he grumbled. “If I was at T’Hawthorn Residence, I’d get a couple of men from the night guard and spar.”

  He needed physical action.

  All her senses gave one last whirl then settled into pure sexual yearning.

  Be bold.

  She caught his hand with hers. It was hot and made her hotter. “Dance with me.”

  Sixteen

  Suddenly the night hummed with possibilities, and Cratag’s need for action changed into something a lot more basic—l ust.

  “I’d love to dance with you,” he said, responding to the slightest pressure of her fingers, and followed her downstairs. She trailed her fingers on the wide bannister, very ladylike, but his gaze was focused on her ass, which was all tempting female. As soon as they reached the base of the staircase, she pivoted into a close dance hold. He kept step and swept her into an intimate dance. The Residence piped lush, romantic music into the grand hall.

  She was finally in his arms. He could hold her and move with her and anyone watching would believe them to be respectably dancing.

  Hardly.

  His gaze was focused on her face, looking at the rim of gold around the irises of her eyes. He thought his expression was as granite as his shaft since he was trying desperately to be a gentleman and not back her up against the closest wall.

  She smiled, and it seemed tender, and he knew he was losing his wits. The beat of the music thrummed through his blood until he was moving fast, spinning them down the wide north corridor to the warm and private dark.

  It took all Signet’s skill to keep up with Cratag. She didn’t think he knew he was using Flair to quickstep down the hall. He seemed impassive, but she could feel the heat emanating from him, smell the scent of the man—physical and even the elusive other fragrance of his Flair. With him, her senses expanded.

  His body beneath his loose shirt and work clothes was all tense muscle. His dancing lacked his usual fluidity and was raw determination. As they whirled down the hallway, she murmured in his mind, The ResidenceDen has a large, soft sofa that I’m very fond of. She suppressed a giggle. Now she knew why her parents had had couches or lounges or reclining twoseats in nearly every room.

  She felt him shudder. Her thoughts began to fade beneath the onslaught of rising desire. She was breathing rapidly, and not just from the dance. She needed him, felt empty places inside her that he could fill. Not only her body, but the caring of another—a man—f or a woman who was his lover. Cratag would give her that. A connection with a man after so very long. Not just simple and casual sex, but an affair based on respect. And he wouldn’t leave her afterward.

  Now she understood that idea had been keeping her from intimate relationships for long years. The moment she met an attractive man she’d consider whether there was any way for him to disappear from her life. All too often the answer was “yes.” Another past mistake to be ashamed of, if she let herself.

  But desire and Cratag and the liquefying of her body . . . and Cratag’s thick sex against her . . . and the yearning for the climb to ecstasy and his thudding heart against hers made thought disappear.

  The door opened to the ResidenceDen, and Cratag spun them in, dipped her until she slid onto the leather couch. He followed her down, heavy, wonderful. His mouth was at her neck, nibbling, and she’d never realized how sensitive she was there. She slid her hand down the front tab of his tunic, opening it, gliding her hands around his already damp sides to his back, smooth of hair but rough with the occasional scar. Her insides clenched. She cared for this man, cared that he’d been hurt and suffered pain.

  His teeth closed gently on her earlobe, tugged, and a bolt of sheer passion flamed into her core. All that mattered was touching him, arching against him to press her needy fle sh against his. Whimpering moans escaped her, and her hands explored the steel of his biceps. She moved against him, trying to settle his arousal where she wanted it. There was a ripping sound and coolness as her robe fell away. Her arms were still caught in the sleeves, and she ached for all her skin against his. Her arms, her legs, all.

  His fingers curved into the waistband of her pantlettes, and his hand was hot against her hip. He yanked, and the cloth ripped, and she thrilled. Then his clothes were open, and he pressed into her, and she screamed in delight at the sensation of slick desire, the sense of utter fulfillment. Of closeness.

  She set her fin gers in his hard butt and grabbed on, felt the flex of him as his hips pumped, caressing her.

  Bliss came fast and fierce and wild, and she exploded and spun away. Before she could draw more than a couple of breaths a rip-tide took her fragments, melded her, then shattered her again in a pleasure so intense she thought she might be another star exploding in the night sky.

  A few minutes later her ears stopped ringing and she heard his ragged breathing. She opened her eyes to a moonslit room of gray and silver shadows and night. Cratag’s eyes were closed, his smile that of a man savoring an experience. Her arms clamped around him tight. She wanted to keep this experience in her memory always. He didn’t seem to notice the extra pressure, but that was fin e. Her arms encompassed all she needed tonight.

  “Wonderful,” she murmured and liked the low, throaty sound of her voice.

  He stiffened. “I’m too heavy.”

  “No.” She paused. Was he withdrawing again as he had earlier in the day? She wouldn’t ask and spoil the moment. Perhaps she’d been imagining it. He’d been worried about Laev Hawthorn, and the last few days had been packed with change for Cratag, too. “No,” she repeated. “I’m glad you’re here, that we’re together here.” Finally.

  “If
you’re glad, I’m glad,” he said gruffly , then added as he began removing himself gently from her with long stretching motions. “I am damn near ecstatic. Was—was ecstatic.”

  She chuckled, reached out, and let her fingers trail down his thigh from hip to knee. Noticed black against the skin of his arm. “You have body art!” She was delighted.

  He grunted, glanced at his biceps. “No. List of merchant Families I guarded. References and . . . identifying marks.”

  If he’d been killed and other parts of his body were unrecognizable. She swallowed.

  “They’re only good for fiv e years. They’ll go away soon.”

  “Oh.” She yanked her mind to the present. “There’s a washroom . . .” but he’d already headed there. Of course he would remember the layout of the house; he’d been through it on his walks. She found a smile. She’d given him an excellent alternative for those walks.

  Stretching, she couldn’t recall feeling quite as good as she did for a long time. Longer than a long time, years, eons, her whole life. The man was a fabulous lover.

  Before she knew it, he was back and, to her disappointment, dressed. His face was in shadows, but he draped her robe around her. “Sorry for the tear, and I can’t mend—”

  She’d already repaired the rips, though she had nearly been sentimental and brain-softened-by-sex enough to let them be.

  “Done, then,” he said. She didn’t know what he meant. Whether she was finished weaving the fabric back together with Flair, or they were done with sex . . . surely not? She refused to think so, refused to let him think so. “Done? No, we aren’t.”

  He smiled slowly then and she returned it. Offering his hand, he said, “Let’s go upstairs then, to bed.” He hesitated then said deliberately, “Your bed.”