Heart Choice (5 page)

The little cat settled more comfortably—for them both—on his shoulder.

Very well.
She continued to purr all the way home.

 
 
Mitchella was in the tiny space that served as her den,
surrounded by papyrus, when the door to her small house slammed and her twelve year old ward, Antenn, banged in.

“There's a hot furrabeast sandwich for you and crunchies for Pinky in the no-time,” she called. After grove-study with all the other Clover boys, he'd stayed to play sports in the courtyard of the sprawling Clover homestead. Mitchella heard the faint hiss of the no-time shield falling, the clatter of a plate, and her ward's tromping.

“You're in the den,” he mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich. He shoved a bunch of books aside and plopped his damp and slightly muddy self down on the twoseat. Mitchella didn't even wince anymore. Her furnishings had taken a battering when she'd accepted Antenn as a ward three and a half years ago, but after just a month she'd realized the boy gave back in companionship much more than the value of any inanimate object.

He swallowed, slurped at a cylinder of cinnamontea, then grinned. “You look happy. We have a job?”

Mitchella set aside the drawstick, rolled her shoulders, and smiled back at him. “The best, the
very
best.”

“Guess I'll be able to stop ducking the Clover boys' questions, then, huh?”

Mitchella stiffened. “Have they been . . . pestering you?”

Antenn waggled his eyebrows. “All the Clovers gossip a lot, and since we don't live in the compound, they like to talk about us. I can handle the boys, and everyone else, too.” He threw out his skinny chest. “It isn't as if the Clovers are Downwind Triad gangs.”

That he could speak so casually of the past pleased Mitchella, and she relaxed, then picked up the drawstick and fiddled with it. Naturally the other Clovers would gossip about her. She had her own business instead of working at the family furniture concern. She rented a house instead of living in the large jumble of Clover homes on Fabacay Square. She was sterile.

Antenn angled on the sofa, putting his feet, sans boots, she was glad to see, on the cushions, knocking off more papyrus. Pinky, his small cream-colored tomcat, trotted in and hopped up on Antenn's lap. “Tell me more about the job,” Antenn said.

Mitchella passed over a holostone on which she'd copied various views of T'Blackthorn Residence, inside and out. The egglike stone also held images of the furnished rooms and floor plans. Antenn stuck his thumb in the indentation and flicked through the holos.

“Beautiful house. Must be a Noble's—wait, this is T'Blackthorn Residence!” His expression clouded, and his voice held a note she hadn't heard in a long time. Sadness, despair. Trouble.

 
All Mitchella's maternal instincts rose as she studied
Antenn. She wanted to pull the boy to her, but he'd sneered a few months ago that he was too big for that anymore. “You know T'Blackthorn Residence?”

His lips compressed—old gang secrecy? Then he shook his head, stopped the holostone, and tossed it to a mat on her desk. “We ran there. The Triad,” he spoke jerkily. “Got a girl. Turned out to be T'Ash's girl.” He smiled humorlessly and looked far older than his twelve years. “T'Ash got her back. We all ended up at T'Blackthorn's. Guess that's where T'Ash hid when he was a kid on the streets. There were a couple of fights.”

Mitchella knew the story now. How could she have forgotten? She was Danith's best friend, and though it had been a long time, the events would always live in everyone's memory.

She raised a hand for him to stop, but Antenn was staring at a painting ahead of him on the wall, chin quivering. She knew he didn't see the art, but the past. His fingers trembled as he petted Pinky. Pinky rumbled a purr, turned over onto his back to have his stomach rubbed, paws curled. That brought a faint smile to Antenn's lips, and Mitchella was glad. Neither Antenn nor she needed to recall the deaths of the Triad, one of whom was Antenn's brother.

Gritting her teeth she added another reason other than Straif Blackthorn that this job would be trouble. But she had no choice. And the Residence was so beautiful. Running a hand through her own hair, she chose her words carefully. “If I could, I'd reconsider the commission, but I need the job. A FirstFamilies GrandLord's Residence.”

Antenn turned his head and smiled sweetly at her, and her heart contracted. She loved the boy, he was closer than any of her nephews, like her own son. She swallowed, then smiled back. Someday that sweet smile of his would win a woman.

Carefully, he lifted Pinky, stood, and placed the cat on the worn blue velvet nap of the twoseat. Antenn took the two steps to her desk and looked down at a two-dimensional drawing of T'Blackthorn Residence. With his forefinger he traced the lovely lines of the house. “Nice place. It will make your reputation.” He grinned, but it wasn't as carefree as the one he'd walked in with. “It doesn't look anything like that now, or didn't a couple of years ago, and it could only have gotten worse. You're gonna work your tail off.”

She wished he hadn't said that. Before she could respond, he patted her on the shoulder. “I have some grove-study to do.”

That was a first.

He whistled to Pinky. The cat grunted, rolled off the sofa to land lightly on his paws, and agreed to follow him.

They both left the den, and it was a lot lonelier. Antenn didn't pound up the narrow stairs, and that was worse.

She rubbed her temples, glanced at a holo of T'Blackthorn Residence, and recalled the hip-shot stance of the very virile Straif Blackthorn. Oh, yes, this job was going to be
trouble.

 
 
In the low light, Straif trod to the far end of the corridor in
the east wing to a small parlor, too dim in both light and his own recollection to harbor memories. He banished the dust from the carpet and furnishings with a tiny spell that used the last of his energy, then he set up his bedroll and Drina's pillow on a divan. He undressed, carefully set his whittling tools on a table. He hadn't wanted anything from the house when he'd left except his travel pack, but the set of tools a G'Uncle had given him had been in the pack. It had taken him a couple of years, though, before he could use them.

Straif still didn't want anything from before. He crawled into the travel-bedsponge he'd used so long. With a small, demanding mew, Drina clawed at the top of the cover. Grunting, he lifted it up for her. She slid her cold, damp nose against his cheek and cuddled up near him.

“Why aren't you on your pillow?” he asked groggily.

She might do as a Fam, too. But his last thought was of the brilliant Mitchella Clover. She would
definitely
do as a lover. He'd be sure to convince her of that, whatever it took. Even restoring the Residence wasn't as important as getting her in his bed. Why, he didn't know, and supposed the idea should concern him. But he was expert at banishing the demons of the past.

 
 
That night Mitchella slept deep and dreamt of a lover.
Even in the dream she told herself she did not know his face and form, but his hands were calloused, and he smelled of sage. His voice was rich, deep, and said things that excited her as his fingers explored her body. She panted and moaned and yearned with the deepest hunger to have him enter her, cover her.

A scream ripped her from sleep, and she rolled off the bed and grabbed a robe in one motion. Antenn. Another nightmare. Sometimes he spoke of them, sometimes not. Mitchella sensed that in all the time she'd been his guardian there were bad experiences he'd hidden from her.

When she reached the door of his room, he was sitting bolt upright and shaking, but gave her a wan smile. Pinky crouched at the bottom of the bed, lashing his tail, as if he could find the dream and pounce on it.

Mitchella sat on his bed, ran her fingers through the tousled boy-brown hair. She sighed. “You had nightmares about the gang again. Those holos of T'Blackthorn Residence probably set them off.” Risking rebuff, she leaned in and gave him a squeeze. To her surprise, he buried his head in her shoulder.

“Do you want to talk about the dreams?”

“No.”

“I'll give up the job.” It was a pang, not having the once-in-a-lifetime experience, knowing to the tips of her fingers that she could handle the project and she would never lack work again. But nothing was worth hearing the child's screams in the night.

Now he pulled away, grabbed a softleaf from his night table, and blew his nose. “No. T'Blackthorn Residence is
big,
and it's a real mess. This could make us a mountain of gilt.”

If the boy was thinking of money, he was back in the real world, and all right. She tilted her head. “True.”

“We could buy our own house. Better, we could
build
our own house.”

Her heart clutched. Through T'Ash's Testing Stones it had been determined that Antenn had a Flair for architecture. Just a moment before she'd been thinking of him as a child, now he was considering the future like a boy growing into a man.

She was sure some of the experiences he'd had as a young child following the Downwind Triad gang had been incomprehensible to him at the time, but as he matured, he understood them better and grew even more adult because of that.

“Besides”—his hazel eyes met hers steadily—“you've always said we should face our fears and problems. You've faced that you're sterile.”

Hearing it said aloud and baldly still hurt, and as she thought of
her
dreams she knew that though her mind and heart had accepted the idea, her body still wanted to make babies. And she'd been dreaming of Straif Blackthorn for goodness sake! But still she managed a crooked smile for Antenn. “It's something I deal with on a daily basis.”

“But you do so.” His chin jutted. “I can face my fears, too. Since you'll be working at T'Blackthorn's, I'll have to go there now and then, like with some of your other jobs, right?”

“Yes.”

He turned and pummeled his pillow into an acceptable shape. Pinky trotted up from the end of the bed to lie on his own pillow, beside Antenn's. It was unsanitary, had always been unsanitary, but how did you explain that to a boy who'd lived in the slums? And companionship was so much more important.

“So I'll deal with my fears and my past,” he said.

Mitchella's smile widened. He'd said that as if he'd had twenty years of criminal activity behind him. She smacked a kiss on his brow. He turned red and wriggled. “Good night.”

“Good night.” She rose and went to the door. “Night-light!” she ordered, and a small glowing ball of light hovered in the far corner of the bedroom.

“Mitchella?” asked Antenn as he scooted back under his covers.

“Yes?”

“T'Blackthorn Residence isn't really cursed, is it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Good,” he said.

She closed the door softly behind herself and walked down the short hallway to her own bedroom. The Residence wasn't cursed, the Blackthorns had never had bitter enough enemies to do that. No, if anything was cursed, it was the Family, poor souls.

As she slid into her own bed she thought of her own abundant family. They could be unbearable at times, but she loved them. How hideous to know that every few generations a common Celtan virus could sweep through your Family and kill you all. Just because the gene that had mutated in most Celtans to protect them from the illness was faulty in you and your Family.

She shivered. Life on Celta continued to be hard. She'd suffered Macha's disease as a child, and it had left her sterile. Though life spans were longer, people didn't flourish on Celta like they had on Earth—except the Clovers.

But it wouldn't do to pity T'Blackthorn. Not only would he loathe such a feeling from her, but it could lead her into softer emotions that he could exploit. He was not a man to be pitied. He was a FirstFamily GrandLord with a HeartMate, and she shouldn't forget that. She could envy him the power, wealth, and love that he'd have in his life.

 
 
Straif's nose itched. He rubbed it. The tickling came
again. He shook his head, but couldn't escape the sensation. Finally, he opened his eyes—to a looming cat brushing her whiskers under his nose. A surprised cry caught in his throat. “Aarrrgh,” he croaked.

Drina smiled beatifically.
Time to eat. Minced clucker for breakfast would be good.

Straif would prefer eggs, but he'd have to find the kitchen, first. He wondered if there were any prepared breakfasts in the no-time food storage. Grimacing at the thought of scavenging on his own in his decaying home, he decided that he might have been hasty in leaving the Hollys. He did like his breakfast.

He sat up and stretched as he looked around the room. The walls of the small parlor were covered in deep purple fabric with traces of curlicued gold. Straif winced. If those lines still gleamed after all this time, it must be real gold, and he'd neglected it. Getting the value out of that wallpaper would probably be futile. Cleaning it would probably cost more than it was worth. He grit his teeth. More evidence of his lack of care and attention for his home.

Drina set her forepaws in his thighs and extended her claws to prick through his travel blanket.
Food!

Well, the cat had her priorities straight.

“Right,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Residence?”

“Yes,” it answered immediately, and Straif sensed it had only been waiting to be addressed.