Heart Secret (29 page)

Now to find her spine and face Garrett.

Her perscry lilted a dance measure. Her parents were calling. She pulled the pebble out of her sleeve pocket and put it on the counter. “Here,” she said.

When she saw their serious faces, her stomach jittered. This wouldn't be good news, either.

“We have discussed the matter,” her father said, with his implacable judge face on. Whatever decision they'd come to, there would be no appeal. “We can only believe this murder situation will become increasingly unstable and affect your career. We want you to go to T'Hawthorn Residence and speak with Laev T'Hawthorn, call in the favor he owes us to exert influence regarding your position there.”

Artemisia's voice was high. “We saved his HeartMate's life, we'd have done so for anyone, but Camellia is our friend.”

“Yes,” her mother said.

“But he offered the favor,” her father continued inexorably, “and we accepted on your behalf.”

She remembered and resentment spiked. They'd always thought she was softer, less a fighter than her younger sister.

“It's not that you're gentler than Tiana,” her mother said.

“That's exactly what it is,” Artemisia said.

“You helped save Camellia's life,” her father pointed out, “so the favor was also for you. Tiana did not. And Tiana's colleagues accept her. Yours do not.”

“When the scandal broke sixteen years ago, FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather at Primary HealingHall was quick enough to tell me my services were not needed,” Artemisia's mother said. “And GrandLord T'Heather did not overturn her decision.”

Artemisia's father ran a hand up and down her mother's tense back. “It was not a battle he could have won.”

“So he didn't fight it.”

Artemisia frowned. Her mother brought the steely will to fight to the Family—that of a Healer battling for life and death. Artemisia was more of her father's contemplative temperament, unless she was engaged in that Healing struggle. And, like him, she understood not fighting battles she couldn't win outside Healing. “I'll go see Laev.” Tomorrow. Maybe.

“Thank you.” Her father dipped his head in understanding that she'd do this because they asked.

Her mother smiled her usual serene smile. “Thank you.”

They didn't fear for themselves, though Artemisia was beginning to think that they should. They worried about her. That was Family. “I love you,” she said.

Her parents answered in unison, “We love you.” Her mother blew her a kiss that made Artemisia smile and the scry ended.

Artemisia let her shoulders slump and wallowed in self-pity for a few seconds before she stood, returned her perscry to her pocket, and walked down to meet Garrett.

To her relief, he and the guardswoman were speaking with the housekeeper. Artemisia thought from the simmering irritation through her narrowed bond with Garrett that Ura Heather had given them a perfunctory interview.

The Healing Grove was crowded and Artemisia didn't want to stay in the Hall when she couldn't work. She didn't know who took care of her patients—people she'd almost begun to know—but it was disheartening to be there and not allowed to help. So she waited outside, sitting on a smoothly sculpted bench, soaking in sunshine, until Garrett reappeared. Alone.

Her hope of keeping the guard and a professional attitude between herself and Garrett was futile. “Where's Guardswoman Milkweed?”

“She was called to duty at another venue.” He glanced at his wrist timer. “Same place we need to go. A viewing of Modoc Eryngo's body.”

“A
viewing
of the body!” Artemisia was shocked. That wasn't a usual part of death rites in their culture, though some cross-folk practiced such.

Garrett slanted her an ironic look. “Apparently the Family—and the All Councils—agreed a viewing to show everyone the last Black Magic Cultist is truly dead was necessary.”

Artemisia swallowed. “I don't like this.”

“I don't think anyone does.” Garrett gestured to the public carrier plinth and offered his elbow.

She ignored it.

He scowled. “Better get used to being with me today outside your work schedule at the HealingHall, Artemisia.” The guards had wanted her at the memorial, and had requested he keep an eye on her. If her being there would fix in their minds that she was innocent, he'd get her there. But with regard to the murder, he had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he'd missed some simple clue that he'd seen or heard.

She looked him straight in the eyes. “I have an appointment to speak with a counselor at EveningBell.” How she wished she could walk away from Garrett. But her Family was too entwined in the murder, and now she had a source of inside information.

She swallowed, felt her mouth turn down. “Even if I was working my full shift, I'd be allowed to take the time to see him.”

“Him?” Garrett pounced.

She blinked. “Leger Cinchona.”

“I thought you were seeing him socially, like a gallant.”

She made her voice icy. “As I believe I said before, I have options for my personal life.” Staring at the beautiful Garrett, she kept her tone and heart hard. “I will not cancel my appointment with Priest Cinchona for you, and if you object, I will notify Captain Winterberry of the appointment and ask his permission.” However hideously embarrassing that would be for all of them.

Garrett strangled a sigh. Not difficult to understand Artemisia was trying to distance herself from him. Their bond had thinned again. He was
not
making her feel safe, as he'd thought to do, to protect her, to cherish her. And he would protect and cherish to the end of his strength and life. Hadn't he proved that previously in his life during the Iasc sickness?

But he'd only hurt Artemisia.

When he'd met with Ura Heather, he'd wanted to threaten the old flitch with political ramifications of her dislike of Artemisia—reports to Laev and the FirstFamilies—but this was not the time.

Gentling his voice, he said, “Of course you must meet the priest. I truly believe you will be of help in this matter.” Thankfully she didn't ask how.

“Shall we go?” He gestured to the upcoming public carrier.

She grimaced. “Oh, very well.” But her eyes went stark before she said with a shake of her head, “It's not going to be pleasant. Despite everything, too many people believe the cross-folk and we Mugworts were involved in the Black Magic Cult murders.”

Garrett was afraid she was right.

Twenty-eight

A
rtemisia made sure to hop down from the public carrier glider before
Garrett so he wouldn't attempt to help her.

Nevertheless, when he caught up with her in a couple of strides, he wrapped his fingers around her upper arm. Sensation sizzled between them, lovely, deep—heart wrenching.

She didn't want to go to the body viewing, but Garrett gave her no choice—unless she wanted to stop in her tracks and argue in public with the man.

Nor did she expect the ambiance of the whole situation to be at all nice. Having a body available for public view wasn't common.

The viewing wasn't at a round Temple. Garrett told her that the highest priestess and priest of the Lady and Lord had stated that since the man had defiled their faith and he could not possibly have remained a believer in the duality, they would not house his shell in their Temple. Nor would they offer him any rituals for the dead. So the body was in an outbuilding of the Southern Temple, a rectangular building.

There were guardsmen at the door who questioned their presence. Fingers firm on her elbow, Garrett told them their names, that he was investigating for the FirstFamilies, and that he and Artemisia had discovered the murder.

Loud enough that some of the crowd lingering near could hear—and so could those in the anteroom.

They stepped from hot summer sun into a cool, tile-floored and walled room that held odd echoes as they crossed to the arched opening of the main room.

The body lay on a platform under a stasis spell, Eryngo appearing cleaner and more prepossessing than he had in crumpled death.

There were people in a short line filing by the body. Neither the sight of death nor the shell of the soul and spirit bothered Artemisia, though this event was distasteful.

Guards were stationed around the room, including Rosa Milkweed and her partner, Fol Berberis.

Next to the dais sat a tense-jawed woman with the same features as Modoc Eryngo, probably his sister. She looked as if she did bitter Family duty and seemed to be the only Family member present.

To Artemisia's fascinated horror, a viz recorder sending images was positioned in the ceiling over the body.

“People have always been morbid,” Garrett murmured, then made a disapproving noise. “And the councils want to prove to the public that the last of the Black Magic Cultists is dead.”

His quiet words were loud enough to be heard in a moment of awkward silence. “Is that true, do you think?” an elderly man asked. His face was lined and he hunched over a cane—a man worn down more by emotional ills than physical. His embroidered cuffs showed him to be GraceLord Sorrell, the father of the last victim killed. He scuttled to Garrett, raised a hooked nose to stare him in the eyes. “So much is still unknown.”

“I don't think so, sir,” Garrett said. “I believe everything was straightforward except for the capture of this guy. Now he's dead.”

Sorrell's lower lip curled. “Good riddance. Still had plenty of more years than my Calla. There's a lot of speculation about the cultists, that one or two might have been missed.”

“No. The guards accounted for everyone except Modoc sixteen years ago. And there are stories because time has passed and rumor and myths spring up like weeds. A lot of odd and just plain wrong theories,” Garrett said.

Artemisia hadn't known that.

GraceLord Sorrell stared at the corpse with contempt, swept a glance around the room, and said loudly, “I'm glad he's dead and I bless the one who did it.” He marched to a corner where other people—Families of those who had been sacrificed by the cult members—had gathered.

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 her 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.