Heart Secret

by Robin D. Owens

  She stood and let the sounds of nature, the sun filtering through the tall trees, soothe her spirit. Then she left the knife box outside the building, put her hands together, fingers upright, and bowed to the door.

  Once in, she bowed again at the huge sculpture of a square cross edged in gold and filled with mosaic and grouted in gold in the center of the chapel.

  Again she let her breath filter from her as she soaked up the peace. There was the lingering scent of incense, but no pylor—the type that had played such a large role in the Black Magic Cult murders and was found in their home. As if most other Nobles, cross-folk or not, didn’t have pylor incense. The sticks and cones had been standard once. No more.

  There were four large square windows set high in the walls, all stained glass and showing a child to aged man in a boat on a journey. The rich colors always made her catch her breath. Right now the sun was illuminating the man-in-his-prime’s terror as the boat rushed to the waterfall.

  No, she wouldn’t feel that, the uneasiness that had settled along her nerves. Another big breath, and it was good to recall that everyone in this voyage of life had terrible times. Life was not smooth . . . though she also wished that she was in a round Celtan Temple that suited her more than this chapel. But she’d wanted to check out the knife on the altar.

  So she walked up to the draped rectangular table and studied the implements set upon it. Celtan altars usually had two knives, a blunt one for use spiritually and a sharp one used for cutting candles, trimming wicks, and any other sort of necessary mundane actions. The cross-folk used only one knife for everything.

  Artemisia stared a moment before she recalled the knife was part of one of the four equal-armed square crosses. Three of the crosses were solid, but when she peered closely at the second on the left, she could see a joint where one arm of the cross could be removed to reveal a blade. The opposite arm would be the hilt, and the other two arms perpendicular, like a rough hand guard. This was made of rounded dowel-like wood with Celtic knot carving.

  Staring at it and comparing it to the knife she’d left outside the chapel, she understood something else.

  There was a sheath for the murder knife that would match the other arms of the cross.

  It was missing, but when it was found, it would point to the murderer.

  * * *

  Garrett walked, with Rusby on his shoulder, from his apartment in MidClass Lodge to his office. He half listened to the kitten’s mental chatter-comments on the world around them.

  He’d made things worse with Artemisia. Now he’d have to work hard to insert himself into her life.

  He recalled intimately how her body fit his, how their hearts pulsed together when they made love. No way he’d forget that. It was ingrained in every molecule of his being, and particularly settled in his cock. Damned hard to ignore.

  Unwillingly, he stopped in front of a jewelry shop that had a display of marriage armbands. He liked the glisten metal ones that were shiny and shot off rainbow-colored light. They also had a subtle and intricate engraving of lines that flowed into each other in a never-ending pattern, symbolizing the HeartMate bond. And each band had a ring of small cabochon emeralds, the color of Artemisia’s eyes when she was in a passion, around the wrist. They both had a large oval stone also of dark green crystal, though he didn’t know what the jewel was.

  Then he realized exactly what he was doing. Sweat trickled down his spine and his vision blurred.

  Yeah, he was a coward. He didn’t want to lose another woman. Didn’t want to have to see another child dead.

  Yet if something bad happened to Artemisia, Lord and Lady forefend, he would lose her anyway, even if she were wed to another man.

  And that idea made his gut clamp.

  He had little idea on how to court her. He grumped a sigh. Might have to visit his good friend Laev again. Must be a glutton for punishment in the friendship field as well as the arena of HeartMates.

  First he had to check on his office—he’d had no new business scrys forwarded to his perscry pebble, but his feral informants would expect to be fed.

  He’d sent the word out that he wanted to meet all of them—all species—in Apollopa Park at NoonBell. With everyone looking for them, the small familial group of raccoons would be found.

  Garrett had heard from Captain Winterberry that the councils of Celta had put pressure on the Eryngo Family to hold a memorial for their murdered son that afternoon.

  The Captain of the guard had been tight-lipped. No matter how much Winterberry had disliked being the guardsman the FirstFamilies requested when they were involved in any kind of case, he wasn’t happy at handing Garrett the lead on this one. Garrett couldn’t blame him and didn’t hold it against the guy.

  And here We are at the office! Rusby nipped Garrett’s ear. Let Me down!

  “You don’t want to lord it over all the other cats from my shoulder?”

  I will sit on the back stoop.

  Garrett didn’t think that was the right strategic move in showing a tiny FamCat’s superiority over tough feral informants, but shrugged and placed Rusby on the small back porch.

  Black-and-White greeted Garrett. We have told some dogs and the foxes and others that you wish a meeting at Apollopa Park at NoonBell.

  “Thank you.” Garrett undid the spellshields, went through the back door, the hallway, and into the storage room. The building smelled like mildew again. He wondered if he should let the landlord know or move to somewhere a little more upscale.

  As he poured food into the trough, he sent a mental comment to Black-and-White. I am thinking about moving my office.

  As he munched, Black-and-White said telepathically, We would like the Turquoise House fine.

  Not going to be the Turquoise House; that is for a home. And not his.

  Now Black-and-White stared at him. We do not like the alleys as much as we like brush and greenways. Perhaps you could make the old Temple at Apollopa Park an office. The last was said slyly, as if the cat was aware that the priest, Leger Cinchona, seemed to be restoring it.

  “No,” Garrett said aloud. He put away the supplies and locked up again. “But I’ll take your preferences under advisement.”

  You are not working today?

  “Not inside.”

  Black-and-White wiggled his whiskers to rid himself of some stray bits of kibble. We will see you later.

  “Sure,” Garrett said. Of course he wouldn’t tell the cat that everything other than his HeartMate could wait.

  He had to do something for Artemisia. Had to prove he wanted and needed her. For more than sex. Would do whatever it took to show her he’d been mistaken.

  For the first time in his life, his relationship with a woman was his first priority.

  * * *

  GreatLady Danith D’Ash, the animal and Fam Healer, cooed and complimented Randa until she preened and allowed the woman to scan and study her as a prime example of a raccoon.

  When the examination was done, Artemisia asked to use a private scry cubicle. Randa accompanied Artemisia on her own four paws, stating that the feel of the energy in the floor sparkled on her pads.

  The cubicle had a simple counter with an equally simple metal scrybowl that Artemisia wanted to use instead of her own perscry.

  With Randa sitting on her lap, she stiffened her spine and scried the main Druida guardhouse and asked for Captain Winterberry, the head of all the guards and the man she and Garrett had spoken with before. Winterberry liaised with the FirstFamilies—and the FirstFamilies would, of course, meddle in this, the case was so scandalous.

  He answered her call at once. “What can I do for you, SecondLevel Healer?”

  “I am scrying about the Black Magic Cultist murder.” She took a steadying breath. “I have more information.”

  His eyes gl
eamed, then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m not able to help you.” He paused a few seconds. “My HeartMate and my cuz were the only victims who survived, so I am not allowed to work that case.” He bared his teeth in a grin and the fire of fury showed in the back of his eyes. Despite the fact that it had been sixteen years, the man looked as if he could be a suspect himself.

  Artemisia was afraid that all the other Families who’d lost loved ones would feel the same.

  “You should contact Garrett Primross, as he is coordinating the investigation,” Winterberry said.

  Twenty-six

  Garrett Primross is the head of the murder investigation!” Artemisia bit her lip. “But he’s a private investigator, not a guard.”

  Winterberry’s gray gaze flattened and he replied with exquisite courtesy, as if his feelings were ruffled, too. “Very true. But the FirstFamilies have confidence in GentleSir Primross and requested he be put in charge of this matter.”

  And, like always, the FirstFamilies got what they wanted. Had it been less than a week ago that she’d defended those Nobles to Garrett? But that was before she’d been so intimately entangled in their interest in the murder. Now her and Garrett’s positions had switched. He was the one the highest Nobles had confidence in and she was the one who didn’t trust their motives or actions—reactions—to this matter.

  “Do you need GentleSir Primross’s personal scry image?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said automatically through cold lips. She had hoped to avoid her HeartMate until her feelings were less tender.

  Randa cheeped and Winterberry’s glance focused on the Fam and his masklike face softened. “Who is that?”

  “She is Randa, my FamRaccoon.”

  Winterberry dipped his head. “A pleasure. Here’s Primross’s business image.” The icon of a golden pyramid appeared.

  “Thank you.”

  The guardsman’s mouth thinned and he nodded once more. “I wish I could handle this.” His shoulders shifted. “I’ll have to wait to get word through official channels. Merry meet.”

  “No, wait.” Artemisia swallowed. “I, uh, have an object that I must bring in. At once. I’ll be right there. You can scry GentleSir Primross.” She ended the call and leaned her head on her hands, rubbing her scalp for a while.

  A knock came at the scry room door. “SecondLevel Healer, are you all right?” asked Gwydion Ash.

  She had been in the cubicle longer than she’d expected and now she noticed it was stifling. She opened the door with a smile. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Good.” The large teen, slightly clumsy in his body, smiled back at her.

  “Can you tell me where the main guardhouse of Druida is in relation to here?”

  His brows went up and he shook his head. “No, I don’t know. But I’ll have one of our gliders take you there.” Before she could disagree, he hustled away.

  She petted Randa, liking her chirruping sound. It was very tempting to keep Randa with her, but Artemisia had no illusions about how the guards would treat a person bringing in a murder weapon a couple of days after the killing.

  The whole situation would be tense. She rocked with Randa before speaking mentally to her, Danith D’Ash wasn’t scary.

  No. Randa snuggled.

  But the guard station may be.

  We will not go. Randa sat up and patted Artemisia’s face.

  Artemisia sighed. I must, but you don’t need to. Hold still and I will translocate you home.

  I love you. I will help with the ’porting.

  Artemisia fixed the image of the teleportation area in her sitting room in her head, the faded colorful pattern of the rug, the cream-colored walls of old silkeen that showed trailing pastel flowers, and projected the scene to Randa.

  Randa added her mental image—similar enough that Artemisia was sure that the Fam would have no trouble.

  “On three,” Artemisia whispered.

  “One, Randa ’coon, two, BalmHeal home, and three.” She pushed her Flair to send Randa to their room, felt her Fam’s Flair meld with her own.

  I am here!

  Another sigh, this of relief, broke from Artemisia’s lips. She stood, lifted her chin, and strode with a false smile to the glider outside.

  The guards would suspect her, of course. So might Garrett.

  * * *

  Garrett found Artemisia sitting on the edge of a carved wooden bench, back completely straight and hands folded in her lap. When she saw him, she flinched, then her expressive face went stiff. He didn’t like either reaction. He sat down next to her—close—and she tensed.

  His teeth hurt from clenching them. She could affect him faster and more than anyone else in his entire life.

  Several other guards he’d met previously were there, including Fol Berberis, Rosa Milkweed, and Captain Ilex Winterberry. The Captain sat behind a desk angled across a corner.

  “I understand that FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather reported a missing knife from the cross-folk altar in Primary HealingHall right before GentleLady Panax arrived with the item?” Garrett asked.

  “My name is Mugwort,” his HeartMate said without looking at him.

  “That’s right,” said Rosa Milkweed. Her forehead wrinkled as she glanced at Artemisia and away. Garrett got the gist of that look. Her boss would have stood behind her; the guard respected Artemisia and wasn’t sure why Artemisia’s superior wasn’t supporting her.

  Winterberry may have seemed casual, but his penetrating gaze was on Artemisia. “A little odd that of all the places that the knife could have come from, it was the Primary HealingHall chapel.”

  Artemisia swallowed, wet her lips, then answered. “Unlike many cross-folk chapels, the one at Primary HealingHall is not secured.”

  Winterberry nodded slowly. “And most cross-folk chapels are secured. Especially since the accusations that they were in a conspiracy with the Black Magic Cultists sixteen years ago. Odd how things circle round.”

  Artemisia’s deep breath wasn’t audible, but Garrett noted it. She said, “The cross-folk were wrongly implicated sixteen years ago by the press and your current victim. I’m sure they aren’t involved now.”

  “You sound as if you are still angry,” Winterberry said. “But then your Family was the one that suffered the most—your home was mobbed, your parents lost their careers. How is your mother, by the way? Is she concerned about this—and how you now seem to be the main . . . target?”

  Hopping to her feet, Artemisia went to Winterberry’s desk and planted her hands on the gleaming wooden surface. “Naturally my parents are concerned about me. But I have an alibi. I was in quarantine with GentleSir Primross. The Turquoise House has vouched for me.”

  “And your mother?” Winterberry pressed.

  “My mother has not stepped onto the streets of Druida City for many years.”

  “Interesting phrasing,” Winterberry said as Garrett thought the same.

  Artemisia stepped back. “My mother isn’t in Druida.”

  But there was a shadow of a lie in Artemisia’s voice, and Garrett thought every guard in the room heard it.

  Her lips pursed, then flattened, and she swept the room with a glance. “The press whipped up a scared mob, and the Nobles of our rank who envied us our . . . our happy Family life and the status of our careers were the ones who savaged us before. That’s far past. As for now, FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather would be concerned about anything missing from Primary HealingHall. It is her purview. Has she accused me of anything?”

  “No,” Winterberry said.

  Artemisia jerked a nod. “As a Family, years ago, we Mugworts didn’t appeal to the FirstFamilies Council for an investigation.” This time her breath sucked in. “But I have an alibi for the murder and so does my sister, Tiana. She was participating in a vigil
in GreatCircle Temple. Neither Mother nor Father were anywhere near Apollopa Park. We will fight this time.” She lifted her chin. “I don’t know what FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather will say about me, but she is not the only FirstFamily Lady or Lord that we know.” Now the truth in her words rang.

  Winterberry’s lips curved, but his eyes remained steady and serious. “I hear you.”

  Garrett wasn’t lulled. The man was acting pleasantly to Artemisia but didn’t believe in her.

  Garrett would protect her and keep her close. He said, “The FirstFamilies have their own ideas and ideals, their own viewpoint on matters, and their own standards of behavior.”

  Rosa Milkweed nodded and snorted, relaxed a bit, as if trying to lessen the tension in the room. “That they do.”

  Fol Berberis shot a glance at his Captain, then looked down into Artemisia’s eyes. “Nobody wants the FirstFamilies meddling in this.”

  Garrett slid his gaze to Artemisia. “Someone once told me that those greatest Nobles do the best they can for everyone.”

  Artemisia stiffened even more as the guardswoman laughed. Captain Winterberry raised a brow. At that gesture, Garrett turned to him.

  “You have an optimistic friend,” Winterberry said. “Though, in general, I have found the highest Nobles to be . . . odd but honorable.”

  “Uh-huh,” Garrett said.

  “Really?” Fol Berberis asked.

  Winterberry inclined his head. “Yes.”

  A shrug from both Garrett and Rosa. “Well, you should know.”

  This time a faint smile passed across the Captain’s lips. “I have been on more cases regarding them than I care to think about.” The corners of Winterberry’s mouth turned up even as his eyes narrowed—evidently he had mixed feelings about something and Garrett figured he’d hear about it.

  “I think in the future, they may be considering having a more private consultant than me. Guards have rules that we don’t care to bend,” Winterberry said.

  Icy chill slithered along Garrett’s spine. He was all too afraid that Winterberry was right and the new liaison between the guardsmen and the FirstFamilies would be himself. He stood. “Just because they might pay me”—and he’d make sure that he got a good rate from whichever FirstFamily Lord or Lady needed his services—“doesn’t mean that I will break laws and bend my own rules, betray my own honor.” Though laws were sometimes less important to him than his own rules.