Heart Secret

by Robin D. Owens

  That, too, surprised him. He didn’t consider himself a spiritual man . . . and knew more about the Dark Goddess who claimed those ready to transition to another life than the more benevolent Lady and Lord. He shrugged the idea aside as the ferals crowded around him to examine the object.

  Odd knife. One of the foxes shook his head. Then he sneezed. Smells of smoke stuff, but not blood or hurt ’coon.

  “That’s right,” Garrett said. “The weapon that killed the man and hurt the raccoon looked like this.” He angled the blade so sunlight gleamed off the edges. “The knife was found, but not the sheath.” Opening his hand, he showed the sheath to his informers. “It would look something like this.”

  Again there was some shifting, mental images flying between those animals of the same species so quickly Garrett caught only flickers of the speech.

  Black-and-White mewed, then broadcasted, We have not seen this knife.

  None of us foxes have noticed such a thing in our travels, said the leader.

  The dogs shook their heads. No, no, no. Nothing like that, no.

  Garrett nodded. “Very well, you will all look for the sheath?”

  He got various types of assents, then the cat yowled. It is now time for Our feast food.

  Garrett went back to telepathy for the whole group. Yes, raw and cooked meat will be dispersed in the troughs of the courtyard behind my building.

  Sleek Black shot from Apollopa Park and down the street, a black blur. The dogs followed fast, the foxes were a bit more dignified, but it wasn’t more than a minute before Garrett was alone with Artemisia in the greenery.

  He scanned the grasses, the flowers, but saw nothing, sensed nothing he’d missed before.

  “That was very interesting.” Artemisia stood and shook out her tunic, brushed it, then actually smiled at him. “It’s obvious you have a bond with those Fams.” Then she glanced away and wet her lips. “I—”

  “What?”

  “It’s hard to say.”

  “I’ve heard a lot of hard things from you. Don’t stop now,” Garrett said.

  Her gaze flashed to his. Her brows dipped. “You haven’t always been kind, either.”

  Gray Tabby slunk from the shadow of a big-boled tree. He darted up to Artemisia and sniffed around her feet and legs. Smiling, she bent down to pet him. He followed his nose up the line of her braid. Her eyes were wide, but there was no fear running through her connection with Garrett.

  I thought so, the cat said smugly. She smells of the raccoon family who denned here and specifically of the she-kit the bad one wounded.

  “What!” Garrett said.

  Artemisia straightened, calm and reserved. She crossed her arms. “Yes, that’s what I wanted to tell you. I found, or rather, Randa found me when she was wounded yesterday.”

  “Randa?”

  “My new Fam.”

  Not only had Artemisia kept information from him, she had won the trust of the raccoons when he had not. It grated. “I need to speak with her.”

  Artemisia glanced at her wrist timer. “And I need to go to work. I’m late enough that I’ll have to teleport.”

  And he, Garrett, damn well needed to send this new irritation away and treat her right. He couldn’t afford any more screwups with her. So he sucked in a big breath and shook out his arms and legs. Noted that the cat ran toward the direction of his office.

  “I’m sorry. My pride was hurt that . . . Randa . . . came to you instead of me.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I’ve been trying to woo them.”

  “Unlike me,” she said.

  Stup! “Do I need to apologize again?”

  “No. But I must go.”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  She shrugged. “You have the recordsphere of my interviews with the guards regarding the altar knife and how it was found.” She swallowed. “In Randa. She’s fine, by the way.”

  Artemisia teleported away.

  FAMMAN! yelled Rusby. I am at Our office. There are A LOT of FAMS here and they all want FOOD.

  Gritting his teeth, Garrett teleported to the pad in the corner of his office. The smell of mildew was even stronger. He had no doubt that the other tenants had reported the problem the day before, but the landlord hadn’t taken care of it.

  Yep, he had to leave this place.

  He noted a couple of calls in his scry panel cache, but fed the feral Fams prime soft kibble and some actual furrabeast shreds that he pulled from the no-time—the last of the batch.

  While they ate, he and Rusby went back to the office and Garrett watched the scrys. One was from Laev and was brief and nearly angry. “The Mugworts don’t have anything to do with the murder. Leave them alone.”

  Garrett stared at the fading image of his friend on the scry panel.

  Oddly enough, in the second scry, Winterberry said almost the same thing in a more courteous manner and with a puzzled expression on his face. “I have been informed by several people—including Tinne Holly, the owner of The Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon, and Captain Ruis Elder of the starship Nuada’s Sword—that the older Mugworts, the once GraceLord and Lady, have unshakeable alibis.” His mouth twisted. “I have not been given proof of that.” He ran his fingers through his cap of white hair, then smiled. “I trust that you will receive proof.” The Captain of the guards shifted his shoulders. “I must admit I am beginning to like the idea that someone else will have to deal with the higher Nobles, the FirstFamilies, and the FirstFamilies Council.” His grin spread. “Good luck.”

  Garrett sat in his comfortchair, leaned back, and contemplated the now dark screen of his scry panel. “Huh.” He let notions flow through his mind, pulled out some coins, and exercised his fingers, rolling the coins across his knuckles. “Must be nice to have high-ranking friends.” That didn’t come out as bitterly as it would have a year ago.

  Rusby, who was on Garrett’s desk, stopped grooming and looked at Garrett with yellow eyes. “Yesss,” he said.

  “Don’t need to think about the Mugworts right now. There are other threads to pull.” Lounging, he scried Winterberry back and spoke at length about Modoc Eryngo’s viewing. There were several copies of the viz camera recordings and one arrived in Garrett’s office mail cache.

  They discussed the Eryngo Family members who had rotated the duty of sitting next to the body—his sister and father and nephew and niece. All of them were angry and on the suspects list.

  Garrett kept his face straight as Winterberry finally relayed in a dry voice the alibis for the murder for himself—at the guardhouse catching up on reports—and his wife, Trif Clover Winterberry—in bed and vouched for by her Fam, Greyku. Garrett had commented that if Fams’ words were being taken, especially cat Fams, then the Turquoise House’s reports should be good.

  Having the man’s knowledge available to him was priceless. Garrett shifted uncomfortably when he recalled that Winterberry had perfected the skill of interacting with the FirstFamilies . . . something that Garrett supposed he’d have to learn. Lord and Lady knew, the FirstFamilies would want a guy to report to them at regular intervals, too.

  “My wife’s Fam, Greyku, did attend the viewing.” Winterberry’s gaze went to the left of his panel as if staring at the cat. “Despite our requests that she would not go.”

  There was a loud cat sniff from Winterberry’s vicinity. Since the FamCat wasn’t projecting telepathically to Garrett, he didn’t hear her comment but knew there had to be one. No doubt the cat was disguising her curiosity as duty or something.

  “As for the rest of the alibis, we are continuing to tabulate the whereabouts of each of the victims’ Families: the Gingers, Sedums, Dills, and Sorrells.” Winterberry’s voice went carefully colorless. “FirstFamily GreatLord Saille T’Willow was in bed with his HeartMate.”

  Despite the fa
ct that Willow had worn weapons to the viewing, Garrett knew firsthand that the man was one of the least capable fighters of the FirstFamilies, not a man accustomed to violence. Not a man who would think of killing someone as a first option of revenge.

  “I suggest that we take Willow’s word for his wife’s whereabouts, at least for now,” Winterberry said. “Her presence in T’Willow Residence is also confirmed by that entity, her FamCat, Fairyfoot, and T’Willow’s FamCat, Myx.”

  There was something Winterberry wasn’t spelling out. Garrett narrowed his eyes at the Captain.

  A corner of the guard’s mouth kicked up. His voice remained soft and polite, though there was the hint of a gleam in his eyes. “As you work with the FirstFamilies, Primross, you will have to become accustomed to each particular Flair. You do recall that GreatLady D’Willow is also D’Thyme and she can move through time.”

  Garrett shuddered. “I’d forgotten.”

  “The way I understand how her Flair works, she can move through time, but not space.” Winterberry stated it flatly, as if he was sure the Willow-Thyme Family was keeping secrets, as, of course, every FirstFamily would. “There is no indication D’Willow-Thyme was outside of her Residence, her estate, or Noble Country.”

  “Thank you,” Garrett said. “Is that all?”

  “Our weapons expert is still examining the knife. She should have something within two days.”

  “That’s good.”

  “We have discovered that the reason Modoc Eryngo was in Druida City was to manage and retrieve some money he had under an alternate identity. This was not the first time he had returned.”

  “But someone recognized him this time,” Garrett said.

  “Sounds right.” Winterberry’s steady gaze met Garrett’s. “And that’s all the information I have for you today. Our shifts will, of course, continue to work the case around the clock.”

  Garrett nodded. “I have some leads of my own.”

  “Good. No doubt the FirstFamilies will be in touch.”

  “No doubt.” He straightened. “We’re missing something.”

  “What?” asked Winterberry.

  “Not sure, but something simple. We’ve gone over everything.”

  “That’s right.”

  There were a few heartbeats of silence. “I can’t read your mind,” the Captain said. He dipped his head. “If that’s all, I have other cases.”

  Garrett wanted to wince, but didn’t. “See you tomorrow.”

  Winterberry nodded. “Been a hard day; glad I’m going home to my wife. Later.” He ended the scry.

  Garrett himself had discussed his other cases by scry, or, in the case of the lord, set an appointment for tomorrow evening at the man’s social club. He wasn’t sure whether the guy wanted to intimidate or impress him.

  Garrett looked at the old wall timer. Artemisia would be ending her short workday now, too. And heading for her appointment with the priest.

  Time to man up.

  He paced the short length of his office, then prodded his kitten awake. Rusby had fallen asleep on the one cushy client chair.

  He didn’t want to talk to anyone about the damn meeting with the priest, but if he was going with Artemisia, best if Rusby understood some rules. He wrapped both hands around his Fam’s middle and held the kitten in front of his face out of paw range. “This is a very . . . touchy . . . time between my lady and me.”

  You’ve been mean to her.

  That hurt, but if he couldn’t admit it again to his Fam, he had a feeling that he wouldn’t get anywhere in a damn counseling session with Artemisia and the priest.

  “That’s right, and Artemisia and I and you are going to see someone to help us with the mistakes.”

  The man whose Flair smelled nice. The one We met when We ate and who was in the park later.

  “That’s right,” Garrett repeated.

  The man who wasn’t mean to her. He will listen to your apologies.

  Garrett ground his teeth only once before he answered again, “That’s right. I want you to be as quiet as you can.” One more half grind. “Please.”

  Rusby nodded somberly. Yes, I will, so you can say again that you are sorry for being mean and making her cry and hurt.

  Garrett closed his eyes and parroted, “That’s right.”

  I will be quiet, Rusby said.

  One last request for the Fam. “And I’d like to take you in a hip bag, so . . .”

  I like sitting on your shoulder; I can see everything.

  “I worry about you on my shoulder.” True enough. He translocated a small bag that he’d purchased from Gwydion Ash and had sent to his cache box.

  It was an oblong bag with a long flap over the top that could be folded up to show a mesh where Rusby could see out. The Fam carrier was several times longer than the kitten. And if Garrett had to fight, the pouch had a loop that would break free with a yank of his thumb. If it fell, it turned hard, into a small fortress. Rusby would be protected unless he teleported out. The bag and the spells had cost more than Garrett had once made in a month, but he considered it worth it.

  “This is yours.”

  Mine! My first present from My FamMan! The kitten squealed and pounced on it. The bag didn’t seem to roll like Rusby expected and he fought it with tooth and claws, leaving raw scrapes on the leather. Garrett winced. But it was stupid to think that something made for a kitten would remain pristine—even for two minutes.

  Rusby pawed the flap open and wiggled inside. The bag rocked, then took a slight shape around the kitten. Garrett folded up the flap but couldn’t see through the mesh. Smiling, he crouched, “You in there, Rusby?”

  You can’t see Me?

  “No.” Though he could see plenty of here-and-gone bulges as Rusby squirmed.

  A secret! A secret ride for Me.

  “That’s right.” And hopefully it would be an added reason for Rusby to stay quiet. There was so much Garrett wanted to tell Artemisia—even before a priest—that he was afraid he’d stutter, and if his Fam distracted him, Garrett might not get everything out.

  I will be your secret informer.

  The identities of his informers were secret . . . except both TQ and Artemisia knew, since they’d taken care of the ferals when he was sick.

  Garrett shrugged. If Artemisia was still speaking to him after this—and he prayed that things would go well—she would give her word not to talk about his irregulars.

  He stewed about the appointment on the glider ride all the way to GreatCircle Temple, but when Artemisia stood outside the huge doors, he joined her.

  She flinched. He hoped because she’d been lost in thought and hadn’t seen him, not because the sight of him hurt her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked in less than serene tones.

  He dipped his head in an inclination of respect and held out his hand, trying not to notice it was a few shades darker than her skin and rough with calluses. She’d never looked so Noble to him, standing here where the Nobles worshiped.

  And never looked so dear.

  “I think the reason you are troubled in your mind—” he started.

  “In my heart.” She put her hand between her breasts, shaping her tunic to them, lush and full. His palm tingled as he remembered how her nipple, tight with passion, felt against the hollow of his hand, how softness overflowed his fingers.

  He cleared his throat, tried again. “I think the reason you are troubled in your heart is because of me.” How could his throat have clogged up again so soon? “That I caused this, and that we . . . we should . . . we should speak to the . . . the priest . . .” Suck it up and get it out, Primross! “We should speak to the priest together.”

  She stared at him, as if she were amazed.

  Not appalled, like he was.<
br />
  She looked down at his hand, then back into his eyes, then stared at him, and he suffered, for far too long. He had to set into his balance, meet her eyes, accept her skepticism, and not look away. He had to stick this out.

  After a long two minutes, her answer was whispery soft and gentle. “You really think we should go to Cinchona together?”

  No, he didn’t want to speak to the priest. Not with Artemisia, and not without her. But he’d already learned when she could be talked out of doing something, and this was not one of those times.

  “Yeah. Yes,” he said.

  Her head tilted. “You think so? Or do you believe so? Or do you feel so?”

  None of the above. Or, maybe feel, so he went with that. “I feel so.”

  She nodded and her fingers slipped into his. Seemed like he’d found the right answer for her.

  “All right,” she said, and pushed open the door.

  The place smelled good. And looked rich and elegant. And felt wonderful, with incredible uplifting energy. Lady and Lord, if he’d known the place had felt this good, he might have come before.

  Not really, but so far it wasn’t a hardship to be here. Maybe he’d—they’d—get through this damne—difficult—session.

  This south entrance was tinted in filmy streaks of gold and yellow and touches of orange, all melding together. The entry room was about four meters square, with another set of double doors—open—before them. Garrett’s feet sank into the rug and he looked down to see it was white—not practical for an entryway.

  Artemisia let out a sigh, her lips curved. “I always forget how lovely it is here.”

  She looked at him, as if weighing his commitment. He straightened his shoulders and squeezed her hand. “Yeah.”

  They walked together from the foyer into the wide corridor that circled the building. This time the doors ahead of them, leading into the main Temple, were closed.

  The walls of the hallway were another pale color but had the fuzziness showing they held several mural spells, for different rituals, he presumed. Rusby shifted in Garrett’s hip pack and Garrett sensed pleasure and excitement from his Fam.