Heart Secret

by Robin D. Owens

  Garrett had winced at Sorrell’s words. He gazed at the corner. “There are quite a few people from the Families of the victims present.”

  Modoc’s sister’s face tightened with gray lines. “They were the first to arrive and will no doubt be the last to leave.” She angled her head at the body of her brother. “A barbaric custom. A cross-folk custom. He meddled with other religions like cross-folk before he joined the Cult.” She swallowed as if acrid anger had coated her mouth, took a drink from the wineglass set on a table beside her.

  “You don’t mourn him?” Garrett asked.

  She glared at him, jutted her chin at Artemisia. “About as much as GraceMistrys Mugwort—sorry, that was your old title, was it not?—about as much as GentleLady Mugwort does. He ruined my life. He was the heir; when he disgraced us, our business faltered and has never quite recovered. Furthermore, I had my life planned, then I became heir. He upset all that.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Artemisia murmured and withdrew, and Garrett came with her.

  “I suppose we should add some Eryngo Family members to the suspect list,” he said.

  “How long do we have to stay?” she asked. She sure didn’t like this aspect of his work.

  “A while,” he muttered. “To see who might come. The killer might like to gloat, to get a feel of the approval from people like Sorrell. All the suspects are gathering.”

  She glared at him.

  “You’re not a suspect. You have a solid alibi. You’re just with me.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  Artemisia flexed her knees a little to steady her emotional balance. Her next surprise was when Barton Clover entered the room, along with GrandLord Walker Clover and his lady. Barton scanned the room and acted completely like the household security guard he was. Captain Winterberry accompanied the three.

  Holding her body tight, GrandLady Clover crossed to the body and Modoc’s sister. “I’m sorry for your . . . difficulties,” she said to the woman. Glancing at the body and away, she turned to face Winterberry and said in a calm, clear voice, “I did not know the man. He was not one of my friends in that time long ago. As I’ve stated, I only knew three of the Cult.”

  “Only the three highest in the Cult used my lady as a resource,” Walker Clover’s mellow voice said. “We will leave now.” He looked as forbidding and unhappy as Winterberry, who sent a narrow-eyed scathing glance at the body.

  Artemisia blinked. More and more people were involved in the case than she’d ever anticipated.

  Barton Clover’s gaze met hers and his face relaxed into a brief smile. As he passed, he murmured, “You should not be here, Artemisia.” Another quick scan of the room, then his eyes met hers again. “Not a fit place for any sensitive lady.”

  Garrett stepped in front of her, and when she moved from behind him, she saw Barton’s brows had raised and his smile had turned wry. He nodded and left after Walker Clover and his wife.

  She didn’t think Barton would scry her again. Anger flickered through her at the masculine posturing.

  Gasps came and people went motionless around her. Slowly she turned toward the door—to see that some of the greatest people in the land had arrived, FirstFamily Lords and Ladies.

  Like most, she knew them from newssheets images. First was a pale but determined GreatLady D’Willow, Dufleur Thyme, who had nearly died on the altar of the Black Magic Cult . . . and when the GreatLady moved, Artemisia saw a small cat—and recalled that while most of the human victims of the Black Magic Cult had died, there had also been Fam animals involved who had lived.

  Would the Fams come?

  GreatLord T’Willow set his hand on his lady’s lower back. He wore a long sword on one hip and a blazer on the other. No one said a word and the atmosphere thrummed with tension.

  “I don’t recall much,” GreatLady D’Willow said steadily. “I don’t remember this man specifically. But I’m glad he’s dead.” She put a hand on her chest. “It’s a relief there will be no more threat from him.” She and her HeartMate crossed to the other victims’ Families.

  Before the door swung shut, another couple entered. And everyone remained silent, shrank against the walls like Rosa Milkweed, or huddled in their seat like GraceLord Sorrell. No one wanted to call the attention of Vinni T’Vine, the prophet of Celta, to himself or herself. Not many cared to casually hear their future.

  Garrett stiffened beside Artemisia.

  Walking beside T’Vine was GreatMistrys Avellana Hazel. T’Vine carried a housefluff, and Hazel a tomcat. Cuddling the Earthan rabbit–Celtan mocyn mixture, T’Vine showed the Fam the body. “Flora, this is the last of the people who hurt you. He is dead and circling the wheel of stars until his next reincarnation.” He paused and his eyes changed colors as he saw what others couldn’t. “Which won’t be pleasant.”

  A ripple of motion went around the room as people felt the powerful Flair of prophecy in T’Vine’s announcement.

  Bad time, Flora projected loudly. Bad, bad people.

  The tom leapt from Avellana Hazel’s arms onto the thin shield surrounding Modoc’s body, and the stench of cat urine rose.

  “Oh, Rhyz,” Avellana said.

  But Artemisia stepped forward, along with D’Willow and GreatMistrys Hazel, and they said a common chant for cleaning cat pee.

  The atmosphere relaxed. Artemisia went back to where Garrett stood, though she kept a longer pace between them. The Nobles said something to Eryngo’s sister, then went over and spoke briefly to the other Families.

  On their way out, T’Vine paused by Garrett, his gaze warm as he looked at Garrett, then Artemisia. “Good job,” he said in a low voice that no one else could have heard. “And you should leave now. You will learn no more here today, and you are overdue for an appointment.”

  Garrett’s face went blank, then his eyes widened. He nodded to the guards and took Artemisia’s elbow and they followed the Nobles out. By the time they reached the fresh air outside, the Nobles had all teleported away, and Artemisia relaxed.

  She shouldn’t enjoy being with Garrett, and when she thought of how he’d hurt her, she didn’t . . . but her body knew they were HeartMates.

  Garrett wiped an arm across his forehead. “Glad to be out of there.”

  “It wasn’t pleasant,” Artemisia agreed. She glanced at her timer. “I’m due to start work in a septhour, I should return to Primary HealingHall.”

  Garrett’s gut clutched even as his brain sought to juggle a few thoughts: T’Vine knew who Garrett’s HeartMate was and was pleased. Garrett had followed the prophet’s advice and T’Vine was pleased at that, too. How much had Garrett and T’Vine changed the future? How bad had the alternative been? Not that he would have refused the Healers . . .

  And what of the viewing? There had been plenty of suspects; who was important to the case?

  “See you . . . sometime,” Artemisia said not really cheerfully.

  “Please, Artemisia, walk with me,” the words were out of his mouth before he realized how pleading they sounded.

  “I don’t think—”

  Sleek Black shot from the bushes, trotted beside them. There you are! he scolded Garrett loudly. You called the ferals together and did not come.

  “I’m late,” Garrett agreed between his teeth. Go to the park and tell them I am on my way and those who stay will have extra good food. So will those who have left and return.

  The cat’s tail thrashed. And I get treats, nip.

  “Go,” Garrett said.

  Sleek Black narrowed his eyes, twitched his whiskers, and bounded away.

  “Gathered the ferals together?” Artemisia asked.

  “Yes, my informants that I use in my business.”

  She blinked.

  “You must have figured that out.”

  Color came to h
er cheeks. She jerked her arm from his grasp. “Yes, but I didn’t consider all the details because I’m just a gentle, naive soul.”

  “Why are you angry? And why do you say that?” It was true, but he wasn’t foolish enough to admit it.

  “Everyone seems to think that I am not a strong person. That I should be sheltered. Because I like a peaceful life.” She stomped a few steps. “I don’t like confrontation, but I can fight if I need to.”

  “You’re very strong.” That was the truth. “And I’m sure you fight.” Battled against sickness, at least. He wouldn’t have trusted her in old Downwind that had been demolished.

  “I don’t need to be protected.” She tossed her head and some of her hair escaped her braid. “Barton Clover said I shouldn’t have been at the viewing. As if I haven’t seen more corpses than he ever has, haven’t seen more blood and wounds and sickness.”

  Guilt twinged through Garrett. He shouldn’t have taken her to the event. “The atmosphere was bad.”

  “True.” Her lips firmed, she shook her head. “I doubt Barton Clover will scry me again, the way you acted.”

  A surge of satisfaction was chased by incipient panic at the thought of her wedding—or even having sex—with someone else. He was in a terrible mess. His own damn fault.

  She slid him a look. “T’Vine seemed to know you.”

  At least she was curious. He matched step with her and slid his hand around her arm again. He’d like to hold hands with her, even link fingers, but was sure she wouldn’t allow that.

  Oh, yeah, he was doomed, all right, unless he did something right. Soon.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” he kept his tone light. “T’Vine paid me a visit the morning that I met you at Primary HealingHall. He recommended that I do everything the FirstLevel Healers requested.”

  “Oh!” Her lovely emerald eyes widened and she looked up at him, fascinated, stroking his ego.

  “Yes. And I did.” He linked elbows at that.

  “I wonder . . .” But Artemisia shook her head and sighed. And though she was gentle and naive in some areas, Garrett believed she had enough imagination to visualize another epidemic of the Iasc sickness.

  “It’s a pretty day,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Great, he was so smooth he had to talk about the weather to his HeartMate. They were in step, the link between them had naturally widened. The rhythm of their breathing and hearts were the same.

  Apollopa Park came into view, already looking more tended from Leger Cinchona’s efforts. Garrett’s shoulders tightened. He had faced the fact that Artemisia wouldn’t wait for him. Gentle she might be, naive, but he was sure she had a stubborn streak. She wasn’t going to change her mind about him, about waiting for him because he was her HeartMate. She planned on loving someone else, making a life, having children, with another man.

  He ripped inside, bled.

  But why should she wait? He hadn’t searched for her, claimed her, offered her a HeartGift. He’d even resisted making a HeartGift during the dreamquest Passages that freed his Flair.

  Had she made him a HeartGift? He was afraid to ask.

  He couldn’t go on like this. Couldn’t. There was no way around it, he’d have to make more of an effort to win her trust.

  If he accompanied her to the appointment with the priest, offered to be counseled with her—or even spill his guts, accept whatever the man had to say—that might help. Show he would work with her to fix his mistakes.

  When he reached the park, none of the ferals waited in the open, though he could sense them hiding in the shadows or the bushes or a burrow.

  The mirrored cubes of the fountain glittered with shiny surfaces, reflecting rainbows, throwing colorful sparkling water droplets into the air. The splashing water sounded cheerful. Garrett didn’t know what the priest had done to the park, but the layer of negativity laid by the murder had been erased.

  Yet he led Artemisia to the opposite side of the park from where they’d found the body, closer to the round Temple and flowers that released equally pretty fragrance into the summer afternoon. Reluctantly he withdrew his arm from Artemisia’s, holding his breath to see if she’d run.

  “Oh, Leger Cinchona has done so much work in such a short time!” she said.

  Garrett had wanted her focused on him. “Will you sit with me as I summon the ferals?” No need to say they were already near. He rocked back, heel to toe, sensing the energy of the earth and the area. Again, cheerful. “Place seems acceptable for a light meditative trance.”

  Once more her gaze slid to him, along him. Did she wonder whether she was safe with him?

  “I will always protect you,” he said.

  She snorted, shrugged, her lip curled. She trod around a small area, using her own Flair, then settled in the short grass, legs crossed.

  Keeping an eye out, he moved close to her, only stopping when he saw a line form between her brows, then slid into the same position. Not quite as near as he’d wanted, of course, their bodies didn’t touch—though as he breathed deeply, he became aware of the energies cycling between them.

  She dropped immediately into a deep trance and he stared. She could do that—would do that—in a public place?

  He was torn between calling her back with a sharp lecture and the fact that she must really trust him, innately, to defend her.

  So he didn’t go deep, only let his body and thoughts relax into the hum of nature. He drew more ferals that way, the more skittish came to talk—or be a part of the circle—or partake in the energy or whatever. He figured Artemisia’s serenity and the feral Fams’ curiosity would lure them all.

  His eyelids lowered, and he remained lightly in trance but alert. The area had an unexpected feeling of blessing about it, obviously was still sacred ground. He was aware enough to feel the auras of the feral Fams as they crossed into the open. Sleek Black came and sat before them, beyond Garrett’s reach. Garrett let the Fams ring him until he thought they were all there . . . eight cats, two dogs, and three foxes. Despite the word he’d sent out, there were no raccoons.

  One last deep breath and release and he opened his eyes fully and scanned the crowd. As usual they were quiet . . . pride was involved and not one of them wanted to show any uneasiness before members of their own species, let alone any other.

  At his movement the leader of the fox contingent barked. You have an interesting quest?

  More than one. Garrett smiled; some of the animals rustled in anticipation. Before a cat could ask, Garrett said, I will provide a feast for you all in the courtyard behind my office building, but I wanted to speak to you here first.

  Because a man was killed here, said another fox.

  Yes.

  Black-and-White sniffed. There are many human smells here of people who looked for data about the man and the one who killed him.

  And it has been long since, the smallest cat added.

  Sift everything with all your special senses, especially anything that might pertain to the murder. Each of you who comes to me with an individual report will be given a treat.

  Mouths smacked. Drool spilled from one of the dogs’ muzzles.

  That is the first request, said the fox. What else?

  I want to track each of the raccoons who lived here, learn their whereabouts, and speak with them. Garrett gestured to the raw opened earth where the den had been. I believe there was an adult male, female, and two kits. They are smart, like you, potential Fam animals.

  Artemisia jerked awake beside him. Garrett examined his band for clues that one of them knew something more.

  A dog with gray around his nose yipped. I heard the male ’coon likes beach more than forest. I heard one kit was hurt by the bad one who killed the man, heard a raccoon male said so.

  Fam murder! someone yelled. We are l
ooking for Fam murderer!

  Shudders rippled through the Fams, some of the youngest bolted. Garrett treasured each and every informant, never knew which qualities he might need for a job. He hoped they returned, if not now, then later.

  Cats hunched down, ears flattened, gazes darting, hissing. Dogs and foxes hopped to their feet. Fear.

  Should he use Flair to reach and sweep and hold many Fam minds?

  Twenty-nine

  No. He watched young ones dash away.

  An instant, clear memory flashed of Artemisia sending love to a . . . to a Fam in TQ’s HouseHeart? He let his shoulders fall from the high line of tension and gathered concern . . . affection . . . for these colleagues.

  He took Artemisia’s hand—it was unexpectedly cool—and on a long puff of exhalation, he imagined a silver stream from himself to the feral Fams. Artemisia eased beside him and bolstered his sending with affection and power. They worked together, a good sign.

  Purring rumbled from the cats. All the foxes sat straight and the muscles of their muzzles pulled back, showing their tongues as if they were smiling. The dogs trotted close to Garrett, then flopped in front of him and rolled over so he could rub their bellies—their tongues had been lolling, too.

  Garrett grinned himself as he sent more affection out, enjoyed the rough hair under his fingers as he petted the dogs and the dampness of their tongues on his hand as they wriggled to lick him. Surprise and pleasure filled him when a wave of love came back to him from the group.

  Black-and-White leaned against his knee, even Sleek Black purred loud enough that Garrett could hear him. With a last stroke on each of the dogs, he addressed his friends. Are we calmer about the murder now?

  “Yesss,” vocalized Black-and-White.

  “Good,” Garrett answered aloud. “Because I’m not done.”

  What else? asked the head fox.

  Garrett took the simple square cross he’d picked up at the guardhouse from his belt pocket and unsheathed it, revealing the knife. He didn’t like the way it felt in his hands, poorly balanced and not a good weapon. Of course, it wasn’t supposed to be a weapon. Even as he frowned down on it, he knew it wasn’t a tool he’d have felt comfortable using in a ritual.