Heart Secret

by Robin D. Owens

  So he went to the small spellshielded storeroom off the one long main corridor. There he kept cat food, treats, a few toys, and a small canister of catnip. He’d left the back door open and returned to the courtyard with the bag of kibble and poured the daily amount into the trough.

  As if they’d unconsciously expected him to renege on the deal, they all hurried up to the trough with minimal jostling for position and crunched up the food. The cats were his informers and observers, but he knew that more than one of them had gone hungry before they’d become his secret eyes and ears around the city.

  Sleek Black finished first and sat back on his haunches, staring at Garrett. He’d only joined the band in the spring. Garrett got the impression that the tom might be considering becoming a Fam . . . if Garrett, as an example of a human, impressed the young cat. Garrett figured that the youngster would want a home and a warm hearth when winter came.

  The black cat burped discreetly, flicked his whiskers. What do you want Us to do for the food?

  Garrett shrugged. He’d find out who the Nobleman was soon enough. After that, if he felt he needed more information, he could have the cats check the guy out.

  Ears swiveled in his direction. As always, keep your eyes open and listen. He continued to speak mentally. He didn’t know what the man might be able to hear; his psi power Flair might have gifted him with augmented hearing.

  Sleek Black nodded and vanished into the deep shadows of the morning. The rest left the food trough, some stopping to clean themselves, some shooting away like they had their own business or something that might bring them an extra treat from Garrett. Dogs and the other ferals would come to eat now.

  Going back inside, he closed and locked the door with a Flaired Word and padded softly along the dingy corridor with offices on either side toward the front door. His sword was heavy on one hip, his blazer on the other. They were emotionally comforting, but they’d never been much use in the three events that had come after the warning dread had hit.

  He stopped at the front door and used Flair to make the small window panel in the door transparent on his side.

  The Nobleman in disguise was younger than he by about a decade. But his young face still had lines beginning to etch deeply in his skin, and his long dusty brown hair showed silver threads—careworn. His eyes were a muddy green. He was more even-featured, of course, than Garrett and held himself well. The man was nearly as tall as Garrett, who was a big man, but the guy wasn’t as muscled.

  Garrett yanked open the door. The Nobleman whirled, set into his balance, raised his arms ready to defend.

  “Good reflexes.” Garrett nodded to him. “I’m Primross.” He gestured the Noble to proceed ahead of him down the hall.

  “Vinni T’Vine,” the man said as he stepped inside. He waved the door shut, but made no other move.

  A great Noble, highest of the high. And the prophet of Celta. No one wanted Vinni T’Vine to show up on his doorstep with the knowledge of his future in his eyes.

  Close up, Garrett noted strain on his face, his sunken eyes. A hint of darkness in the tender skin under them showed T’Vine hadn’t gotten much sleep lately. Garrett really didn’t want to contemplate what might keep a man who saw visions of the future up at night.

  The Noble continued in a low voice that held more rough than smooth, “You must have figured out by now, Garrett Primross, that you are a point the fate of Celta circles around.”

  Garrett’s mouth dried and his bowels went sloshier than he’d ever admit. “Haven’t thought of that much,” he lied. Ever since he’d lived through a sickness when everyone else around him had died, he’d been considered unique by most.

  “I don’t like to try and guide the future.” An unamused smile from T’Vine. “Bites me in the ass more often than not.” His gaze drilled into Garrett with nearly tangible force. T’Vine examined him, shook his head. “But sometimes I have to take the chance.” His nobly sculpted mouth flattened, he dipped his head in what might be respect.

  All of Garrett’s nerves twined tight as he waited. The moment took on the glassy and acute atmosphere of danger.

  “You should cooperate completely with the FirstLevel Healers,” T’Vine said.

  Healers. Hell. Garrett didn’t like Healers, too much poking from them during the epidemic as he gave blood and Flair to help stop the sickness.

  He and the prophet stared at each other for a full moment of silence, until Garrett dragged out words. “That all?”

  Vinni inclined his head. More heavy silence. More matched stares. Breath stopped in Garrett’s lungs until his ears rang from the lack and he knew from the hair rising on the back of his neck that he had to listen to the prophet. Probably follow T’Vine’s advice. “I hear you.”

  The Nobleman’s head tilted. Garrett felt his own eyes widen as he watched T’Vine’s eyes change color from dull green to hazel, a better tint for the guy. The Noble’s shoulders relaxed and Garrett heard the puff of relieved breath. Then he smiled and his gaze warmed. “You’ll do.” He paused and his grin spread. “You and your HeartMate.” Another dip of his head and T’Vine teleported away.

  Leaving Garrett to stagger and lean against a wall.

  Healers. Hell.

  He’d almost forgotten his HeartMate was a Healer, he’d avoided her for so long. He wasn’t a good bet for a husband or father. Not to mention that he still mourned the woman he’d wanted as a wife.

  Healers. HeartMate. Doom. Damn.

  * * *

  Artemisia Mugwort Panax stood with two FirstLevel Healers in Primary HealingHall looking down at the sweaty and panting boy of six, Opul Cranberry.

  The room was tinted a rich cream and furnished comfortably, but it was still in an institution and the faint odor of sickness underlaid even the cleansing herbs.

  Her heart thudded hard as she waited for the verdict.

  “Yes, it is the Iasc sickness. The first outbreak we’ve had in eighteen months,” Ura Heather said flatly.

  “We can’t Heal him with our regular psi Healing, our Flair.” Sympathy with a touch of fear laced Lark Holly’s tones. No doubt she was thinking of her own children.

  The middle-aged Ura Heather turned away. She was the best Healer on Celta since her father had retired, and was in charge of all Healers. “Get that guard guy. Primross? Only survivor when everyone in the first group hit by the virulent illness died. Maybe his blood and the Flair in it can help.

  “No one except you two and the guard are allowed in this room. Lark, you and SecondLevel Healer Panax must take all care. We can’t afford another epidemic.” Ura Heather strode through the sterilization field Artemisia had erected, grunting as it affected her. Then her Flair spiked as she killed any lingering germs before she walked from the room.

  Artemisia took the child’s hand and stroked the back of it with her thumb. “Easy, Opul, we’ll help you.”

  The child tossed and turned, whimpering.

  Lark sighed. “I’ll contact Garrett Primross and let you know when you should meet with FirstLevel Healer Heather and me.”

  That was moving in circles Artemisia had only dreamt of. “Why do you need me?”

  Lark blinked lavender eyes. “Because Opul Cranberry is your patient.”

  “I was manning Private Intake Room Six a septhour ago when he was brought in,” Artemisia agreed. “But I work for the HealingHall.” And glad she was that she’d been accepted temporarily on the Primary HealingHall staff. “I don’t have him as a private patient.”

  “Now you do,” Lark said. “All his fees will be paid to you by the council.” Lark met Artemisia’s eyes and smiled. “Since you don’t get a NobleGilt salary.”

  Not since Artemisia’s Family, the Mugworts, had been smeared with scandal. Her father had lost his title and judgeship, her mother, her Healing practice. Everyone knew Artem
isia was a Mugwort, but since she went by a distant Family name on her mother’s side, everyone could pretend she wasn’t touched by the ruin of her Family.

  Lark glanced at her wrist timer. “I must put this in motion; Ura Heather isn’t a patient woman. If she hasn’t spoken with the boy’s parents, I’ll talk with them, too.”

  If it had been Artemisia’s son, she’d want the more sympathetic Lark Holly rather than Ura Heather to brief her.

  “I’ll see you later,” Lark said.

  “Yes,” Artemisia agreed. She pulled up a chair and sat by the elevated bedsponge. Even as she wiped the boy’s face with a tepid cloth, deep inside she experienced mixed emotions. A whisper of happiness that she was advancing in her career, along with the dread of every Healer, every Celtan, that the sickness that had claimed too many people was back.

  Two

  Minutes later, standing outside Heather’s office, Artemisia smoothed her tunic and said spell Words to tidy herself. She’d been through three sanitation and germ-sterilization procedures. The large windows on one wall of Opul’s room were uncovered, with a staff member observing him until she or Lark Holly returned. Artemisia touched the monitoring bracelet that matched the one on Opul’s wrist. All was fine with him.

  Her pulse was fast and she was flushed. She was rising in the world, and though she didn’t have great ambition, she wanted to find her place and keep it. This was another minor step, a consultation with the Healers because she had a patient with Iasc sickness.

  She rapped on the door and Lark Holly opened it.

  “GentleSir Primross doesn’t seem as angry about being called as before,” Lark murmured. “Yet.”

  “I haven’t met him, but I’ve heard of him.”

  Lark gave an ironic half smile. “Every Healer has. He’s mostly refused to let us . . .”

  “. . . Experiment with his blood?”

  Now Lark’s smile was full. “Yes.”

  “I’ve heard he’s been difficult.”

  Lark’s breath was audible. “Also true, but he helped us stop the sickness.” She slanted Artemisia a glance and said, “FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather has a plan. I think we’ll find out how difficult GentleSir Primross is. He’s already here.” She opened the door wider and stepped aside.

  “Thank you.” Artemisia straightened her shoulders. She wanted to be a solid, permanent member of the Primary HealingHall staff. If she followed Heather’s instructions, she’d get that position and prove herself. She’d have allies who would look beyond her name and the scandal. She’d be set exactly where she wanted to be in her career for the rest of her life.

  The paneled chamber was richly furnished with a large carved desk and several cushy chairs set on a thick rug of dark purple and gold. The scent of expensive herbal housekeeping spells permeated the room. Long curtains of gold gracing the Palladian windows were pulled aside to let in the sunlight. The torpid heat of summer didn’t reach here.

  Outside showed the lush green of the Healing Grove and Artemisia wished she were there. All she’d ever wanted was to be a Healer, and she disliked having to play politics to get what she wanted. She preferred to avoid confrontation and risk.

  Lark Holly sank into a chair. Since the man was propped against a wall with crossed arms, and his scowl deepened as Artemisia came in, she decided he had no intention of taking a seat. So she angled a chair to see him and FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather.

  He was not a handsome man, but there was something about him that made her catch her breath. He was tall and extremely well built—not slender nor thick bodied. His face wasn’t well proportioned. He had heavy brows, amber eyes set deep, jutting cheekbones, and a nose and mouth wider than was considered good-looking. His natural skin tone was a couple of shades darker than the average Celtan and went well with his sandy brown hair.

  His hair was tousled as if his fingers had plunged through it. He wore an air of supreme competence as well as sturdy brown work trous tucked into black boots and a top that appeared to be more like leather armor than a shirt. The masculine scent of him went straight to her core.

  “GentleSir Primross, you know FirstLevel Healer Lark Holly; this is SecondLevel Healer Artemisia Panax, who is treating the patient with the sickness,” Ura Heather said. She didn’t rise from her seat behind her desk.

  He hadn’t been fidgeting but now went completely immobile. “It’s back.”

  Ura Heather lifted her index finger. “One case.”

  His shoulders shifted, drawing Artemisia’s attention to their broadness. “Not good.”

  “No,” Lark said quietly.

  “What do you want?” Primross asked, still not moving from the wall.

  Heather smiled sharply. “Quite a bit. Please, take a seat.”

  His eyes narrowed and his face took on a lack of expression that was wary in itself. “One case. I’ll donate my blood if it will help.”

  “Opul Cranberry, age six, will thank you for that,” Artemisia said.

  He winced. “Starting with kids again?”

  “Maybe,” Heather said. “We know how he was infected.” She snorted. “Luckily the Cranberrys have stayed on their estate outside the city for the summer and didn’t have much contact with anyone else, and none when they guessed what the sickness was. The three of them teleported here immediately. We think we can contain the malady.”

  Primross grunted, nodded. “You want to increase my blood production?”

  “Much more.” The gleam in Ura Heather’s eyes was sharp.

  “What?” Primross asked.

  Heather glanced down at a papyrus file, then at Primross.

  That scrutiny wasn’t reassuring, either. Artemisia was shocked that the woman didn’t cultivate a better bedside manner.

  Primross pushed away from the wall, eyeing the premier Healer of Celta.

  “I have the details of your history.” Heather tapped the file. “But I’d like to hear them from you.”

  Pain flickered on his face, then was buried under impassivity. He jerked a nod at the folder. “I went over every fact many times, with many people, including your father, T’Heather himself.”

  Ura Heather’s mouth turned sour. Artemisia realized the head of Primary HealingHall doubted whether her reputation would ever equal her father’s, and that mattered to her. Artemisia shifted. Again, she didn’t want to be here, taking part in a conflict.

  The man’s gaze switched to her and she flinched at the storm in his eyes. Then his glance seemed to soften as he stared at her.

  “You’re a private investigator,” Ura Heather gritted out. “Surely you must prefer to talk to witnesses yourself and not rely on others’ reports.” She opened the file.

  Lark Holly stood and walked to him, held out her hand. “Please. We need you.”

  He flinched. “That’s pretty much what the Healer in Gael City said to me when all this started.” His voice, too, was rough.

  Lark gestured to her seat. As a shroud of dread enveloped her, Artemisia wondered if she could get out of hearing the tragedy. She knew Primross’s story vaguely and was sure the details would be much worse. Everyone had died except him.

  The skin on his face had tightened and he appeared haunted.

  Ura Heather looked at Lark Holly, her niece. Lark was of greater status and had a more sympathetic outlook. Primross would be an individual to Lark, and only a case and an informant to Heather.

  Primross stood on the balls of his feet, as if he might break away. Artemisia thought of Opul’s suffering. “Please,” she added.

  Once again his dark and brooding gaze touched her; a corner of his mouth curled. He snorted and trod to the chair and sat straight in it, challenging Heather. “Yeah?”

  She leaned forward over her desk. “We have new information. After three years of decontamination, we
retrieved the locking mechanism of the door for the body storage in the back of the transport vehicle that you drove.” She touched a hand-sized panel that ran with the slight orange light of Flair tech along the curving lines of spell algorithms. “Its recording mechanism of when and how often the door was opened is intact. So we have better details of how the sickness progressed that we would like you to confirm.”

  Garrett stared at the small piece of the bus he’d driven, and his brain played back Old Grisc in the driver’s seat when they’d smelled the first scent of death. He’d reached over and pressed the red button . . . setting the recorder as well as unlocking the door, Garrett now understood.

  Beads of sweat formed along his spine, were absorbed by his padded and Flaired armor. Now he knew why he’d worn it. More for emotional protection than physical. Primary HealingHall was in a well-protected part of town—not to mention that many of the less advantaged had died during the sickness that swept through the land two to three years before.

  “GentleSir Primross, can you give us more details about your experience?” prompted Lark.

  Nothing he enjoyed more than reviewing the worst days of his life. He felt his impassive expression stiffen into a stone mask. He’d made this report before . . . more times than he wanted. Doing so now just hurt because he hadn’t been expecting it. The scab had been ripped off his inner wounds. He wouldn’t let the tear or the inner bleeding show.

  “No.” He stood and walked back to the door.

  “Of course you do not need to help us,” FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather said. “We are only facing an epidemic again. One that you can stop.”

  He slammed his hand against the door and muttered curse words that should have singed the air with his frustration at having to fall into line with someone else’s plans.

  “Yes,” the Healer nearly purred, though he’d have expected more of a satisfied snake hiss. “Anyone else who dies of this sickness could be due to you.”

  “You shouldn’t say such things,” the SecondLevel Healer protested.