Heart Fire (Celta Book 13)

by Robin D. Owens

  “Beautiful building,” Straif said, tapping the table and bringing up the three-dimensional model.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You do me—us—proud. Not sure I’ve said that lately.”

  This was just getting weird. Antenn cleared his suddenly tight throat. “I appreciate hearing that.”

  Straif waved toward the holo. “You know if you need any help we can give, you’ve got it.”

  Slinging his jacket on a coat stand, Antenn said, “I’m not letting Mitchella decorate it. The Intersection of Hope Chief Ministers have already chosen an interior designer for the rugs and chandeliers and pews and stuff.”

  “Pews?”

  “Wooden benches.” The Celtic religion used huge pillows in a circle if sitting. The Intersection of Hope used benches lined up in squares.

  “Odd.” Straif stretched out his legs. “Rumor has it in the FirstFamilies that you’ll be wanting some folk to take part in a strange ritual to raise spellshields for the building.”

  “The cathedral,” Antenn corrected.

  “The cathedral,” Straif said amiably. “I’ll go, and your mother is avid to see the space.”

  “Thanks. Where do you think those rumors started?” Antenn dropped into a black leather chair.

  Straif shrugged. “Dunno. Might be from the High Priest or Priestess?”

  Antenn grunted.

  “Might be from Vinni T’Vine.”

  Antenn grimaced.

  “Might even be a round of whispering through the network of Residences. Don’t know.”

  “All right.”

  “And speaking of Residences, that’s why I’m here,” Straif said.

  Straightening from his lounge, Antenn said, “What? Does our Residence finally want a little upgrade, maybe in the paneling?” His mind whizzed with old ideas, reevaluated, revised.

  “No. The Residence is perfectly happy with the renovations we did before I wed Mitchella.” A slight smile curved Straif’s lips. The man was remembering that time, years ago, and pleased. “I’m happy with the Residence as is, too.”

  “So, what does it want?”

  “I was asked if I minded if you slept in the HouseHeart tonight,” Straif said, in his I-am-a-FirstFamilies-Noble-GrandLord tone. “Naturally I replied I did not. So, the Residence and the HouseHeart want you to spend the night there.”

  “Why?”

  Straif raised a brow. “I was not informed.” He rose, flicked a hand at Antenn. “I didn’t ask. Just passing on the request.”

  A request Antenn couldn’t refuse . . . not that he wanted to. “All right.” He stood, moved close to Straif, and hugged the man. “Thanks.” The guy smelled like the only father Antenn had known.

  Claws of memory of before, when he’d been a child running with his older, crazy brother and a gang, raked Antenn, and he held the man close and harder for an instant before letting him go. Straif patted his shoulder, avoided meeting his eyes; maybe his were damp, too.

  “See you at breakfast,” Antenn said.

  “Right.”

  With the loose and silent tread of a tracker, Straif left the room, and Antenn let his breath whoosh out. Memories were a bitch.

  A quarter septhour later Antenn slipped through the secret door and descended the tight spiral stairs cut from the bedrock of the earth beneath T’Blackthorn Residence to the HouseHeart, chanting ancient Earthan Words of a special blessing. All of his adopted father’s children had equal access to the HouseHeart.

  And though Antenn was adopted by Mitchella and Straif Blackthorn, at their behest he kept his birth mother’s name, Moss. Neither he nor his lost brother Shade had known their fathers. He remembered his mother, and men sleeping with her, and her death.

  The day he’d been hauled before the SupremeJudge and Mitchella had taken him under her wing had been the very best of his life.

  Remained the best day of his life.

  The day his small cat had managed to expand his consciousness and become a Fam—something Pinky still didn’t speak of—had been the next best.

  Sort of sad that his best days were so far in the past. Well, becoming a Master Architect, being designated as FirstLevel—those had been great days, too, but he’d been aware of all the damn toil he’d put into making those grades. He’d been sweaty with nerves awaiting the results of the various tests.

  Come to think about it, he’d been covered in cold sweat as a child when he’d been in JudgementGrove. And he’d been so worried about Pinky . . .

  Huh, all the best days of his life had been accompanied by sweat.

  Today the Chief Ministers had signed the contract with him to build the cathedral. That had happened just before the press conference. So, yes, it had been the most successful day for his career . . . so far. And not so much sweat, except for the morning when he’d awakened from a sweaty, sexy dream.

  Just the word sex got him thinking of Tiana Mugwort. He both wanted to work with her and feared working with her, and the attraction between them.

  He’d reached the HouseHeart door, also carved stone and nearly blindingly white, with intricate carvings of an infinite Celtic knot. He’d said the chant by rote and had finished the last Word, but stood and caught his breath and admired the door, as usual. Some distant Blackthorn had been Flaired with stone.

  Antenn studied it. Would the Chief Minister like something like this for one of his doors? It echoed their culture, sure, but wasn’t overtly religious. There had to be some ancient Earthan Celtic knotwork that showed an equal-armed cross. If the Chief Ministers didn’t have such art, Antenn could make another visit to the starship Nuada’s Sword to mine its history and art data.

  He placed his hand on one of the portions of empty space in between the lines and received the typical small jolt. Because he didn’t have any true Blackthorn blood in him. Nope, he was as common as . . . Moss. No knowledge of his MotherSire or MotherDam, or other antecedents. Never any father, FatherSire, or FatherDam in the picture.

  When he shucked his clothes and folded them, he wondered, as he often did, whether his cuzes, of a minor Blackthorn line, felt such a shock or not. He knew his sisters and brothers did.

  The door swung open silently and the voice of the HouseHeart, some wise-old-woman-type voice, said, “Welcome, Antenn Blackthorn-Moss.”

  With his first deep breath, he smelled the scents that meant HouseHeart to him . . . ingrained incense, a mixture of blackthorn blossoms, birch leaves, and St. Johnswort. Harmonious, powerful. The sound that pleased him most wasn’t the crackling fire but the bubbling of the round tiered fountain.

  This room was circular. He wasn’t sure how many HouseHearts were, and as he’d experienced one after another, he’d been surprised how many were rectangular or square. The Celtan religion celebrating the Lady and the Lord tended to prefer round and curved and even digits. He wasn’t quite sure what the Cross Folk preferred . . . one times four? An individual moving through four stages of life? A spirit divided into four parts?

  Tiana Mugwort would know. Might even have a bit of that knowledge deeply embedded in her mind, since her mother was Cross Folk.

  Greetyou, Antenn. You have much on your mind?

  Uh-oh, please, not another lecture session. He cleared his throat, bowed to the ring of clear and polished cabochon quartz crystals. Some Residences could “see,” and it was wise to believe all could. He thought this one could. “My apologies, T’Blackthorn HouseHeart. My mind was elsewhere.”

  Your mind so often is, the sentient being, the core being of the Residence, said indulgently. It—she—preferred to speak with him telepathically. He thought she might also be monitoring his brainwaves somehow but hadn’t been rude enough to ask. After all, he wasn’t a real Blackthorn.

  You are Blackthorn enough! Scolding, now. Bonds of love are more important than bonds of blood.

  Yeah, that’s what his parents always told him. He answered aloud. “Let’s face it, bonds of blood can last longer. A man or woman with the Blackthorn
blood in his or her veins will always be welcomed by you. And they might not get shocked by the door, either.”

  “What!” The woman’s voice actually echoed through the room and pulsed against his eardrums, raised from mature calm.

  He turned over his palm and showed his slightly red skin to the crystals.

  I am appalled. I must check the door. Place your hand in the fountain and I will add a Healing balm to the water to cure your small burn.

  “Thanks.” He walked over and held both hands under the water . . . and realized that the effervescence he felt came near to equaling when he touched Tiana Mugwort. He continued, “And all of us adopted children would appreciate it if you did something to the door.” This close to the fountain, the tiny spray of droplets from the fountain coated his skin and added to the natural humidity of the room, offset by the dry, hot air pumping from the fire. He glanced at it. Unlike the rounded oven of the restaurant and tearoom, Darjeeling’s HouseHeart, this one was near bonfire proportions in a large square fireplace. Perhaps it made so much more impact because of the square against the curved wall, which continued to curve up into a domed ceiling. The room was half a sphere.

  The thick grass represented the element of earth, lovely to swish through, nice enough to sleep on, but deep within himself, Antenn yearned for a moss floor. Somewhere. Somewhen. He could have made one in his rooms . . . but this was T’Blackthorn Residence.

  There! It’s done! said the HouseHeart with satisfaction. My door will no longer harm any of my people, Blackthorn blood or no. And your burn is Healed.

  Antenn supposed so. He pulled his hands from the fountain and went toward the airshaft announced by a tinkle of small, melodious chimes. Obviously the early Blackthorns who’d built and modified the HouseHeart felt more in tune with the fire and water elements, even liked earth, but didn’t care much for air. Still, the warm breeze dried his fingers. He found a spot an equal distance between the fireplace and the fountain and lowered himself onto the plush grass.

  I heard the congratulations of the Family for you, Blackthorn son.

  “Blackthorn-Moss,” he corrected.

  It is honorable that you do not forget your mother’s surname. The older woman HouseHeart persona approved. So Straif T’Blackthorn had told Antenn when he’d wanted to ditch the name. No great honor attached to Moss. In fact, great dishonor did, with the deeds of his brother Nightshade. Not that Shade had gone by any other name than Shade.

  And it was obvious where Straif T’Blackthorn had come by his standards. His father probably would have said the same thing, as taught by this being here . . . ad infinitum back to the first colonist who’d funded the starship and called himself Blackthorn.

  Let me also say how proud I am of you.

  He flushed. “Thank you.”

  We are VERY interested in having a cathedral built! She sounded more than interested, thrilled.

  “We?” Was it thinking of itself as the HouseHeart and the Residence . . .

  We, the FirstFamilies . . . and other . . . Residences, the PublicLibrary, the starship Nuada’s Sword.

  He shifted uneasily. “Oh, yeah, I’d heard that you all talk to each other now.”

  We have a circle.

  He wasn’t sure what that meant and repeated, “Oh.”

  You can call on all of us or any of us for information. I will be pleased to relay it to you.

  “Thank you.” He’d sort of thought he’d have a nice meditation session here during his allotted septhours in the HouseHeart today. Guess not.

  Will you be building in a HouseHeart? she asked.

  His throat got clogged again. “That’s very confidential.”

  I will not tell anyone who is not directly involved.

  Antenn figured that since he knew little about the entities involved, that promise left a few loopholes. This time he answered mentally, too. Yes, a HouseHeart chamber has been designed.

  Good! T’Blackthorn HouseHeart sounded satisfied. We will be pleased to welcome him to our ranks.

  “Him?” Antenn asked aloud.

  Though two of their spirits are considered female, or gender-neutral, the Cross Folk tend to be male dominant, the HouseHeart stated.

  “Ah.” Antenn hadn’t thought that through.

  So the cathedral will likely take a male persona.

  “Oh.” The word slurred from his mouth. Tiredness began to press upon him.

  You should slee—meditate, the HouseHeart said.

  “Mmm.” He heard a faint hissing, from the air vent? Or maybe it was an extra sound from the fire . . . or the fountain . . . and there was another, nice fragrance wafting around him.

  I did want to speak to you of something, the HouseHeart said in an ultrasoothing, lilting tone. Antenn Blackthorn-Moss, son of the Blackthorns by love.

  He smiled. “Mmmm?”

  One time, long ago, you put a lockspell on your mind and emotions in regard to your HeartMate.

  HeartMate. That word had always been fraught with pain, with danger, with fear. So why wasn’t he feeling much now? Nothing much more than a sleepiness, a drifting into a trance.

  You asked my help to make that spell, and I agreed, and we did it in a trance rather like the one you’re falling into now. Her voice pattered.

  I sort of re . . . re . . . r’mem . . . ber . . . that.

  You are an adult now. Not a fearful boy. A man. We do not think it wise that you keep such a lockspell.

  Several words and phrases there that should cause alarm, and didn’t. And, like, who was this specific we?

  He slipped into an odd space—mental, emotional, he didn’t know. There was a sense of floating, of complete peace . . . nothing he had to do, nothing he had to worry about . . . though he knew who he was, and that the cathedral project could be all-consuming. Didn’t matter.

  And then, then, his body bowed as the sound of flesh hitting flesh came, smack, smack, smack! He felt nothing, but his mind reeled because what had been gray mist all around him now flashed bright colors of the spectrum, iridescent, holding huge worlds in each droplet.

  The mist became a waterfall and cascaded through him until he didn’t know if he was more than rushing water. He pooled and emotions whirled through him. Need.

  Lust.

  “It is done now. I will withdraw,” said the HouseHeart.

  And, yeah, he recognized her voice, was all the way back in his body, with skin sensitized so that he felt hot, moist atmosphere enveloping him. His face was wet.

  The tiny brush of flowing air scraped at him, as if he had a virulent sunburn. More, his favorite muscle was rampant.

  What the fliggering fligger had the HouseHeart done to him? Scowling, he thought back to its—her—words. Removed a lock on his emotions . . . the HeartMate thing he’d been so scared of experiencing at odd times in his daily life. He’d had more Flair than he’d known, triggered more and expanded more when he began living with Straif. His life had turned inside out and upside down and he’d struggled, especially during Passages—the dreamquests that freed his Flair.

  After second Passage, which had been unusually lengthy and featured a long term of flashbacks, he’d asked for and been allowed the HeartMate block. It had been removed during his time of Third Passage, then reinstated.

  Now, apparently the lock was gone and whatever HeartMate yearnings or connection might have withered was back.

  He was sure he could have done without it—forever. HeartMates weren’t for the likes of him, a stray who’d run with a gang Downwind. They were for Nobles or people who had exceptional Flair—no, just for Nobles. He didn’t like the idea that some force would drop him in the lap of some woman and make him googly-eyed and love-daft over her.

  Though, right now, contemplating his cock, he wouldn’t mind having a woman dropped into his lap.

  “Sleeeeppp.” That was a hushed word in a genderless voice and it occurred to him that septhours might have passed, maybe even most of the night, while the HouseHeart was tinkerin
g with his mind and his emotions and himself.

  Another fragrance wafted through the chamber, and this he recognized as a sleep aid. He stretched a little and winced, even the soft grass chafed under him. Might as well let that bank of darkness flood him, take him.

  The next thing he knew, he stood in the dark on a solid stone terrace overlooking what had been old Downwind. The FirstFamilies had moved in and rehabbed the place more than a decade and a half ago. No more shanties . . . most of the gangs had broken or had moved to the countryside and tried their hands at banditry and then were killed or dissolved . . .

  He shifted his feet, stopped. That would have gotten a reprimand from his old fighting trainer. Hell, would have him singled out for practice and demonstration at The Green Knight now. But he felt great. He was naked, but that didn’t bother him and the granite under his feet made him proud. This terrace had been built just last year, and he had designed it. Before him wound parks that looked lush and green even in the night, along with a few creeks that had been hidden by rickety structures. Now all was beautiful.

  He descended the stone steps to the park and began walking on the path. The area was so very changed, yet he knew, in his very bones, where his mother’s lean-to had been, where he’d grown up before she died. He’d never been back. Had shuddered to think of it.

  He walked, more like floated, to the place, and found himself in the center of a small garden, hedges around him. Blackthorn hedges. Straif must have seen the place in Antenn’s mind.

  As he turned, his feet scuffed thick, lovely moss, and the scent of rich earth and thick greenery came. The inner space wasn’t large, four meters at the most, and in the center stood a sundial on a pedestal. Pretty.

  “It’s lovely,” said a woman’s voice behind him, and before he could turn, she wrapped her arms around him and he stiffened, and flushed. She was naked, too. Her breasts flattened against him.

  “I’ve wondered where you were. And it’s here. But I don’t know where here is.” Her voice was husky, the essence of woman, any woman, all women.

  But he knew who she was. His HeartMate.