Heart Secret (24 page)

“I'm sure all our mental and emotional connections will progress quickly so we can speak telepathically with each other,” Artemisia said. “Residence, could you contact Danith D'Ash's office and request an appointment with the animal Healer for Randa?”

Randa whimpered. Artemisia gave her a stern Healer look. “I will feel much better if an animal Healer checks your health.”

“Scrying T'Ash Residence,” BalmHeal said.

“Good.”

We are in the conservatory,
her mother projected mentally and Artemisia relayed that to Randa. She took off in a back-hunched lope, ears straight out. She didn't move like any cat or dog Artemisia had seen.

When they reached the conservatory, her parents were sitting in greeniron chairs with plush brown cushions. Caff and cocoa carafes were on the glass-topped table, along with an object draped lightly in a softleaf. The knife.

Artemisia went straight for the cocoa.

“I thought so,” her mother murmured, sharing a glance with her father. “What's bothering you, Artie?”

Just that easily, she recalled Garrett and his words. Her hand shook and a stream of milky brown liquid splashed on the table and ran off to the flagstone floor. Randa lapped it up.

“I can—can't.” Artemisia's voice broke. “Can't talk about it. Not now. Maybe not ever, and espec-specially not to Tiana.”

Her father gave her a straight look. “That's not like you, and not healthy.”

She inhaled a deep breath. “I will speak to someone. A priestess, maybe. But not right now. Now I only have to get through it.” And if she told her father that Garrett had revealed they were HeartMates, it would deeply trouble the older man. Her Family had had enough problems in the past and it appeared that controversy would be spinning around Artemisia and Tiana some more. Artemisia wouldn't add to that.

As for her, she didn't care about the law since she hadn't been hurt by it. Garrett wasn't claiming her illegally. He'd set her free.

A slow breath sifted from her father. “Very well.”

Her mother had said a short housekeeping spell and all traces of the cocoa spill disappeared.

Randa burped. Artemisia's mother waved a hand in the direction of flagstones near the dry sink. “We can finally use the Fam feeding area there.” Randa's head swiveled, then she scampered off to the small square and a bowl of dry dog food.

“Now, about this knife . . .” Artemisia's father started.

She told them how she found Randa, had pulled the knife from her and thrown it into the pool.

Randa's crunching of the food stopped and she padded close to them, hunched down.

There were interesting smells in the park where we denned. Then there was death. My dam took the knife and hid it in our burrow. Then the bad human came and kicked our den apart and found the evil knife and threw it and it hit me and hurt! We all ran away in different directions.

“You nearly died,” Artemisia's mother said, obviously now able to hear the raccoon's telepathy, though her mother's face remained haunted. “This is another wrong against me and my religion.”

“What?” Artemisia asked.

Her mother gestured to the knife under the softleaf. “That is a cross-folk ritual knife, but with edges and point sharpened enough to become a weapon.”

Artemisia's father cleared his throat, but his gaze stayed on Artemisia. “You and Randa must tell the authorities this story.”

“I know,” Artemisia said.

He nodded to the softleaf folded over the knife. “And give them the knife. It may have trace amounts of evidence on it. And someone with Flair might be able to sense the murderer from it.” He lifted his elegant hands, let them drop. He wasn't a judge, a man of legal authority, anymore. Her heart twinged. It wasn't often she saw regret for his lost career, but it peeked out of his eyes now. “I can provide you with a sterile vacuum box for the weapon.” He still had that skill.

“Thank you.”

“But your mother's softleaf might have also left traces, and might identify her. You will have to be more careful than usual to guard our secrets.”

The dreadful feeling that neither of her parents would survive being cast from the sanctuary welled inside Artemisia and clogged her throat. She coughed. “I'll be very careful.”

His gentle smile was back. “I know you will. You are often too careful. Both my daughters are.”

His gaze searched hers. “It is a cross-folk altar knife, and your mother—and I—might know more about such than the authorities.” Skin tightened around his eyes. “Will you grant me a little time to research the knife? I think I might be able to determine the artist who crafted it. You could take it in to the guards tomorrow with more information.”

“Of course.”

“We are breaking laws keeping it.” He shifted in his seat. “But something of the energy surrounding the knife also feels a bit familiar.”

“The murdered man was Modoc Eryngo.”

Her father's face solidified into a stony judge's expression. Her mother gasped.

“He did great harm to us, implicating us and the cross-folk in the Black Magic Cult murders.” Her father's tone was harsh and his lips tightened. “It seems this new murderer wants to do the same.” He let out a deep breath. “But your mother and I were here, and you at a Healing vigil in the Turquoise House with Garrett Primross, and Tiana at a spiritual vigil at GreatCircle Temple. In this particular case, the murderer was unlucky.”

“Will you researching the knife add traces?”

“I don't intend to touch it.”

Artemisia eyed the lump under the softleaf. She hadn't gotten a good look at it. But she really didn't want to. Though her father had it shielded so they couldn't feel its negativity, she recalled the evil of it. She made herself smile. “I can take it in tomorrow, with an expert opinion.”

“Artemisia,” BalmHeal Residence said aloud, “the first appointment Danith D'Ash has to examine a new Fam is tomorrow morning at WorkBell. I accepted that as your schedule shows your first shift at Primary HealingHall begins at NoonBell.”

“Thank you, Residence.”

“I'll have the weapon and my report on the knife ready then,” Artemisia's father said.

Her mother closed her eyes, murmured a prayer to her god, then opened her lashes. “We will be all right. Everyone except those who granted us this sinecure believes that we left Druida City after suffering a year of disgrace and scandal.” Her mother's mouth was turned down with bitterness, again something Artemisia didn't often see.

Her father reached out and took both of his HeartMate's hands. “This should lead to a final ending of the matter.”

“I hope so,” her mother said. “But it will stir everything up like dirt in well water first. Don't let the
authorities
fall into the trap of thinking I had anything to do with this, again.”

“I promise you that,” Artemisia said.

We will not,
Randa said. She stood on her hind paws and put her front ones on the edge of Artemisia's mother's chair.
I will say I found the softleaf. It has my blood on it, too. I can lie,
she ended proudly.

Artemisia's father chuckled. “Not really a quality that should be encouraged.”

His wife raised her elbow to nudge him in the ribs. “Little lies make life smoother.”

He leaned over to kiss her on the lips. “As always, we will agree to disagree on that point.”

The cocoa that had made it into Artemisia's mug had cooled and she drank the half cup down. “I'll scry Guard Captain Winterberry from Danith D'Ash's office after Randa is checked out. That may give the guards some pause, being called from a FirstFamily Residence.”

“Very true,” Artemisia's mother said. “A good idea.”

Randa had hurried back to her bowl and was crunching again, as if eating would help her forget the upcoming ordeal.

The Residence made a sound like a clearing of a throat. “I have a scry from Barton Clover, who wishes to invite Artemisia to dinner tonight.”

Artemisia's mother sat up straight, eyes gleaming. “Oh, today is not without blessings!”

“I hadn't thought to go out into the city again today. I wanted to spend more time with my Fam,” Artemisia said, even as she knew her mother would insist.

But Artemisia's battered heart had picked up its beat and determination washed through her. She would find a husband.

Twenty-three

G
arrett spent some time at the guardhouse with Winterberry, Berberis,
and Milkweed, telling the guards what his informants had relayed. Naturally he protected the secret source of his data.

Suppressed emotions swarmed through the station. Every guard who worked there knew that a smear on their honor—the escape of the last Black Magic Cultist murderer—was finally over. Winterberry, of course, was outwardly calm, but his eyes glittered. He'd been the main investigator at the time. Berberis must have been on the team, also, and maybe even Milkweed, though she was younger than her partner.

When Berberis and Milkweed went to question people at the old airship landing port, Garrett couldn't resist the itching at the back of his mind to ensure Artemisia was safe.

The guards had offhandedly told him that the Turquoise House had confirmed her alibi, but the team didn't seem too impressed. Time to talk to the House itself and see what kind of hard data the place had that might clear her.

This he could do for her, easily and right now. He could protect her.

Rusby had stretched out on Garrett's shoulder to snooze, attached by a “stay” spell. Garrett was taking no chances with his Fam.

He was taking no chances with his woman.

That wisp of thought/emotion twined through him, as if the bond between them had already infiltrated his nerves, wrapped around his bones in tight spirals.

She'd gotten to him. Not just to his body, which would be attracted to her because of the bond, but her quiet serenity, her grace, her compassion.

Her sharp insight into him that made him so uncomfortable.

He left the public carrier before Apollopa Park. As he walked by, he found the gray aura that he associated with the miasma of murder had already dissipated. Near the Temple, he saw the man Artemisia had lunched with, Leger Cinchona, and Garrett's gut knotted, his shoulder muscles stiffened. Threat.

The man was hunkered down, looking at pink yarrow blossoms. Gawky, intellectual. A priest, so probably even sensitive. And was still a threat to Garrett, taking his woman.

His whole body tensed as he stared at the guy. Who didn't seem to know he was being watched by an enemy.

Messing around in Apollopa Park looked suspicious to Garrett. He pulled his glare away from the man and shook out his limbs. He needed a good workout in the worst way, would have to take some time at a gym. Or maybe even darken the door of The Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon. His friend Laev T'Hawthorn had put Garrett's name in as a guest for a temporary membership. Garrett had never followed through on that.

Maybe it was time. Good networking for his business and the best training in fighting and weapons a man could get—if he could afford it. And he could afford it now.

As he could afford to stay at the Turquoise House, no matter what that being charged, something Danith D'Ash had put into his head. Though he wasn't sure it was a move he should make. Since he'd actually have to ask . . . or hint heavily that he might want to be the House's tenant. Would the House allow that?

The shells he'd encased around himself since Dinni's rejection—and especially since the hideous trip to the clinic and the aftermath, the continuing struggle against the sickness—were cracking, letting more emotions in.

Tenderness and love for a kitten.

Yearning and attraction and lust for a woman.

Now an unexpected ambivalence about wanting a special place, a home.

So he thought of
home
as he approached the Turquoise House. He'd been in the HouseHeart and recalled being amazed and touched, though not at what. Yet he doubted if TQ was the right home for him. Garrett liked MidClass Lodge, but he was worried about Rusby and the nearby ocean, all the threats from people and animals that could harm a youngster.

The Turquoise House would be safer, and Garrett's band of ferals liked it. He rolled his shoulders. The resonance, the feeling didn't seem right. And would he ever forget suffering through the Iasc and reliving the worst days of his life there? He didn't think so. Bound to be memory smudges.

For some reason, the fever dream where he looked through gates at a garden rose. Dream home. Lush garden, serenity, turquoise pools—Healing pools. Didn't Artemisia live near . . .

Hello, Garrett.
Sleek Black paced him.

Rusby awoke, shook himself out, and stared down.
Hello, feral Cat.

Sleek Black growled.

“Enough of that.” Garrett glanced at Sleek Black. “You have information?”

I want a treat.

Of course he did.

“All right, once we get to the Turquoise House.” As far as Garrett knew, the House still had someone delivering food for the ferals it fed. And if there wasn't a stash of treats, he could translocate them from his office or his home.

Then he was there, and gleaming, recently tinted greeniron gates opened. He glanced up at the scrystone embedded in the pillar. “Good control, TQ.”

The green blue crystal pulsed in response, but TQ didn't have the power to talk much outside its walls and Garrett saw no front speaker.

It was probably contrary of Garrett to prefer the rusty gates he'd seen in his dream, and a tangled green garden, to TQ's tended grassyard and flower beds and, now, polished flagstones in the glider courtyard before the House.

Neither the shiny walls of the House itself nor the pristine door appeared any different than when he'd walked through a few days ago. But all
was
different, for Garrett himself, Artemisia, TQ—whose HouseHeart had changed—and the fliggering bastard who'd been killed.

Who'd deserved to be killed after his own actions with the Black Magic Cult torture murders. Garrett was pretty sure that everyone on Celta would think of the death as justice.

Sleek Black gave a small throaty whine and Rusby sniffed in Garrett's ear and he turned aside from the front and walked around to the back grassyard.

The flowers exploded with even more color and abandon. He eyed them. No doubt TQ was very proud of them, as he was with everything that pertained to himself. Garrett didn't think he could live with such a summer view. Too darn groomed . . . and there wasn't as much land as he liked—a nice-sized yard for a middle-class Noble, but the courtyard in MidClass Lodge was larger and close to the beach.

Garrett stretched. Yeah, he wanted more room. Who could have known? He wouldn't be asking TQ about renter's rates. Garrett's tight breathing eased. No, he wasn't ready to have TQ as a home. A blessing, he supposed.

But they were in the back area where the bowls for ferals were. He lounged on a bench, letting Rusby hop down to sit on his thigh, and petted his kitten as Sleek Black munched a few bites. Just for form, Garrett thought.

The cat came and sat in front of Garrett, slicked his whiskers, and wrapped his tail around his paws. He gave a small belch and lifted his gaze to Garrett's.
The raccoons from the park have definitely moved. They have not returned.
His back gave a ripple cat shrug.
But raccoons usually move very often.

Garrett crossed his ankles, let his lids droop over his eyes. Bright with flowers, the garden smelled really great, and even in the shade, the heat was settling into his bones. Nice to be able to take a break and not worry about a case or gilt or responsibility or . . . personal problems. “I don't think that's enough information for a treat.”

Rusby snorted and smiled, showing baby teeth. Garrett tapped his small head with his forefinger. “Don't tease. You're with me now, you're a Fam. You have more dignity.”

The tip of Rusby's tail twitched and he wriggled on Garrett's leg, then subsided.

Sleek Black's ears angled, nearly flattened. His eyes narrowed.
I am sure that at least one of the raccoons would have seen the big red anger well. You just must find them.

“Um-hmm.” Garrett rubbed his chin, put Rusby back on his shoulder with a “stay” spell, and stood, popping his joints. Felt good. “Come on inside and I'll get you a treat.”

Sleek Black hissed.
Do not want to go into bad-smelling House.

Garrett thought of all the House's plans. He supposed he was surprised that there weren't workmen or furniture movers or something, that the yard and House seemed empty.

“So, Sleek Black, how many winters have you lived through?”

The cat shuddered.
One. Icy paws.

“Maybe you should consider an inside job.”

He lifted his muzzle, wrinkled his nose.
Do not want to be a tame FamCat.

Rusby snorted.
I will have pets and food and warms all of My life. And love.

Garrett swallowed as emotion rose through him.
That's right.

As he approached the back door, it opened. There was a very small room with a bench and hooks. One of the shelves—new oak shelves on a sage-tinted wall—held several bags of dry pet food in various flavors. And a couple of small bags of moist treats.

“How'd you like some fishy moist treats?”

Sleek Black's tongue came out and licked his muzzle. “Yesss,” he vocalized.

“You've gotta come in,” Garrett said, stooping down to pour out some of the fish-shaped bits into a little bowl.

“Welcome back, Garrett,”
TQ said
.
“It is good to see you and Rusby. You must have a tour!”

Garrett supposed so. Sleek Black inched through the open door, sniffed.
Smells much better.

“Yes,” Garrett answered. He could only pick up traces of herbal housekeeping spells but knew the cats' noses were more sensitive.

While Sleek Black ate, Garrett said to him, “Tell all the others that I want a background check on a man.” When he'd first started gathering his little troupe, he'd explained the term. As new ferals joined, they got the info from the others. Garrett had never asked his informants to trace a priest before, wasn't sure how to describe him, fell back on location. “He ate lunch with Artemisia Mugwort this afternoon at Darjeeling's HouseHeart and left with her. He was just in the park.”

The altar man from the biggest round,
Sleek Black said mentally, licking the bowl clean.
I saw him.
He glanced up at Garrett, and Garrett made sure from his expression that the cat knew begging for more was useless.

“Tell everyone to keep an eye, ear, and nose out for the raccoons.”

I will go now,
Sleek Black said and flipped his tail, running from the House and back toward Apollopa Park.

“Altar man?”

He is a man who stands at the altar in outside holiday human circles for other humans,
Rusby said.

Though any man could perform the duties of a priest and act as a manifestation of the Lord, a priest would do it more often. Garrett had already figured out
the biggest round
meant GreatCircle Temple.

He closed the back door and kept Rusby on his shoulder. Since the kitten was sitting up, Garrett touched him to make sure all was well.

Stepping into the main hallway, he found the color of the walls a pale, warm gold, and golden oak molding around the ceiling and for baseboards. “Very nice, TQ,” he said.

“Thank you.”

The more he went through it, the more he was impressed, though his heart was settled now that he knew it wasn't the home for him. The tinting throughout the House was something either a man or a woman could live with.

“I only have furniture in my MasterSuite,” TQ said.

Garrett's steps lagged as he approached the place of his suffering. He glanced in. The walls and ceiling were a pale blue. Tinted wisps of clouds drifted across the ceiling. Sort of charming.

The furniture was a deep cherry, with a bedsponge platform in a rounded rectangle and smooth curved sides. The headboard was a simple half circle. There were tables on each side of the bed and simple white lamps.

“Looks great.” Garrett put enthusiasm in his voice.

“Thank you
.
”

Rusby mewed impatiently.
I want to jump on the bedsponge.

“No,” Garrett said. He reached into his pocket and took out a chewy treat that would keep the kitten occupied for a while.

An idea occurred to him. “Say, TQ,” he began casually. “Do you still have that mural on the wall? I liked it.” The only thing besides Artemisia he remembered with fondness. And he felt a buzzing hesitation from TQ.

“No,” the actor's voice said aloud, with a hint of regret. “It was decommissioned, as requested by the artist and the provider of the images.” A more cheerful tone. “It was made especially for you.”

“And I thank you for it again,” Garrett said, though his ears pricked up at TQ's wording. “You have the artist's name?”

“The mural was also an experiment by GreatMistrys Avellana Hazel. Though we did not activate the option, it could have been three-dimensional.”