Heart Secret (30 page)

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 looking 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

N
o. 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.

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 fact 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.”