That meant he was dead.
A creak came, a pair of huge red eyes stared at him, then undulated through the room in a terrifying manner.
Trif ’s scream in the future mixed with her shout in the present and he snapped back.
She’d reached the end of the labyrinth and was dancing ahead of him; then she waved her hand in the air and her tin whistle appeared in it. She began a merry tune.
Teleportation of objects—an excellent sign. He ached to know that she’d be safe when he was…gone, that he’d helped her in one way, at least—teaching her to ’port.
He fixed a smile on his face and forced his feet to move to the end of the labyrinth where they could teleport away from this place and the vision that had wrecked his fragile hope of love once more.
As soon as he finished the path, she pulled her lips from the whistle and leapt at him.
His arms curved around her reflexively. Her lips still pulsed with music as she pressed her mouth to his.
And he was lost. Again.
He opened his lips to her probing tongue, desire pouring through him as her sweet taste slipped forever into his being. His hands went to her hips, pulling her tight against him, delighting in the feel of her against his rigid shaft. The length of her fit him, her scent—fresh with a hint of arousal—sank into him. His own tongue thrust into her mouth, mimicking the love act. A fog of passion numbed his mind and only his body mattered—and how she felt. Her soft body, humming with vitality, her round breasts, full hips, slightly curved stomach against him, holding him.
She broke the kiss and looked up at him with emerald eyes. Her lips were red, marked with his hard kiss. “Ilex,” she said on a ragged breath, blinking. “You are attracted to me. You don’t have a lover, a HeartMate?”
Nettle lashes of pain stung him. He flinched. He’d just seen his own death. What was he thinking to endanger her so?
“I told you I didn’t connect with one during my Passages, and linking with someone then is the only sure sign. Leave it be, Trif. Our kiss was a sudden impulse, is all.” It hurt to say the words, to deceive her.
Not to be able to claim her.
The more he was with her, the more it hurt. Reckless, he pulled an image of her work place from her mind and ’ported them there, then left her. He teleported to his own office, shut the door, and leaned against it. His head ached, his body throbbed with vicious need. At the same time his very soul felt shattered beyond mending.
He couldn’t have her. He’d been a fool to think he could.
If he loved her, took her, bound her to him, she would die soon after he. And a solidity to his vision meant it would be shortly in the future.
He couldn’t allow that to happen.
Trif managed to get through the day, head buzzing with questions about Ilex. He wasn’t a man who showed his emotions, yet there’d been a flash of excruciating pain after she’d asked her stupid question.
Obviously, the matter of HeartMates was a sensitive one with him. Why hadn’t she realized sooner? Something had gone wrong with his life in that direction, she sensed it deep inside. Something about his HeartMate had wounded him. Had he found her, but she’d died before the HeartBond was in place? Was she married to another as Trif had heard was the case with Tinne Holly’s HeartMate?
There were a few reasons why HeartMates stayed apart, but not many, and she’d messed up her chances of asking him casually. She’d just caused him pain, and for that she ached too.
She’d done everything all wrong with him, and now it would be difficult to find an easy manner with him again. The kiss had been exciting, ravishing even. And she’d forfeited any more of those feelings too.
When she reached home that evening, she wanted to play something on her silver flute that would soothe Ilex, but her own emotions were too raw. They’d spill out into her music and hurt him even more with melancholy tones. Besides, she’d promised T’Willow that she would leave his HeartGift in a very public place, and had decided the Maypole dance club would be perfect. Maybe the place and people and the live music would lift her spirits.
She eyed the small wooden box she’d placed T’Willow’s pouch in. Though she didn’t feel the waves of heavy sexuality a HeartMate would from the gift, waves of something—T’Willow’s intense desire to find her—emanated from it enough to make her uncomfortable. She wanted it out of her home.
So she dressed up in fancy underpinnings and a filmy chiff gown that floated around her. Instead of braiding her hair—this year’s fashion—she left it loose around her shoulders, and used discreet makeup.
Greyku watched the whole process with fascination, now and then licking a paw to groom herself. Where are We going?
Trif lifted her eyebrows at the little cat. “I am going to a dance club, the Maypole.”
I can dance! Greyku jumped and did a pirouette.
Trif ’s mouth fell open. She shut it and cleared her throat. “Yes. Well. I think cats’ natural movements are dance.”
Greyku sat smugly, nose lifted in the air. Of course.
“But the music may be very loud, and there will be a lot of people.” Trif looked at her kitten doubtfully. “I’d hate for you to get lost or, or stolen.”
With a huff, Greyku said, I will not let Myself get stolen. I can yowl. She opened her mouth.
“No, don’t demonstrate. I’ve heard you yowl.” Trif frowned. “If you’re sure you want to come…”
The kitten looked around the apartment. You will be gone and without you this place is bo-ring. I want More.
“I think you always do,” Trif murmured.
Nothing wrong with wanting More, Greyku assured her.
“I suppose not.” She wanted more of Ilex’s kisses, but put that stray thought out of her head. It wouldn’t happen…until she figured out what had gone wrong with his HeartMate. Could a man ever really love a woman if he had lost a Heart-Mate? So many difficult matters that she’d never considered. How much did Tinne Holly love his wife? Now that was something she’d never learn. Still, from the times she’d seen the couple together, they were attracted to each other and caring.
Clovers didn’t often have HeartMates, yet she knew her parents loved each other deeply. For an instant, Trif thought she could settle—perhaps with someone like Ilex—then brushed the thought aside. Ever since she’d felt her HeartMate in her Passage, she’d wanted him, and the erotic dreams she experienced made her yearning something that wouldn’t vanish soon.
She wondered if he shared those dreams.
The idea was revitalizing. She cast one last look at herself in a mirror, put T’Willow’s box in her pursenal, then picked up Greyku and held her to meet her eyes. “You must be careful.”
And how had she become the lecturer? She smiled. “Let’s go.”
Greyku purred. Go get more fun.
“Yesss,” they said together, and Trif laughed and left.
Ilex had spent the day listing everything he sensed about the individual killers. Right now, three seemed to be the correct number. Two men and a woman.
He’d gone over the sensorballs again and again, assigning deep laughter and taller height to one, a hitch in breathing and heavier perspiration to another…and on and on, trying to sort out distinguishing features. If he had enough, he could make poppets, and if the poppets were identical enough to the person, they might serve as compasses to the real human. It was a near-futile effort, since the best poppets needed something directly from the person and all Ilex had were a few skin cells left on Gib Ginger.
Again, he’d canvassed the incense shops, but for that too he didn’t have enough information. He dreaded getting more, because that would mean another murder.
So he sat in the gloom of his apartment and brooded. He heard Trif laugh as she walked down the hall, murmuring to Greyku. The sound stabbed him as he recalled she was off to the Maypole to dance and mingle with youngsters her own age.
A cat’s demanding growl near his feet surprised him. “Lights!”
he ordered and looked down.
Vertic sat looking up, mouth open in a silent laugh. Beside him was a small, short-legged cat. One glance told Ilex it was feral.
This is Fairyfoot, Vertic said. She is an intelligent cat, of Fam quality.
“She’s feral.”
She only needs to bond with a person. I told her you would find an acceptable human.
Ilex grunted.
The cat had big, round green eyes she used to great effect, making Ilex feel like she deserved a better life than being a feral. She stood and stropped his ankles, no doubt leaving cat hair on his trous. He shrugged. They were black.
Her pretty eyes, tufted ears, and slightly scruffy appearance reminded him of someone. Eyes narrowed as he considered her, he realized it was his cuz, Dufleur. He chuckled, then studied the cat. No doubt Dufleur hated living with his mother and hers. Narrowing his eyes, he visualized the cat and Dufleur together, using a smidgeon of Flair. They fit well.
Dufleur could do with a companion, and a Fam was a status symbol. If it came from Danith D’Ash.
“I’m picking you up,” he informed the cat.
He did so, and the scent of her had him tensing. He was sensitive to fragrances, and this was one he’d never forget. He’d smelled it on other cat fur.
A flash of the other experience rose to his brain. Incense. Scary-laughing adults with odd swooping lights—candles, and they were dancing, laughing, drunk on smoke? liquor? Flair?
Trif had distracted him. Any fool, scenting the odor of incense, recalling the testimony of the Fams, would have come to the conclusion that there was ritual magic going on—ritual murder for negative magic. Black magic.
The fact no one had seen it before now—maybe no one wanted to understand the ramifications—didn’t lessen his guilt.
Ilex knew his history. There had been some cases of black magic before—but not since he’d joined the guards. The fact was, most of the real misfits of Celtan society ended up leaving the cities and forging out into the interior of the planet. There was plenty of frontier on Celta.
But this wasn’t mere alienation from society, or pursuit of other cultural beliefs than the mainstream.
This was evil.
He didn’t know enough about ritual black magic—what these people wanted, why they were killing—to understand them and find them. He was sure the why was the biggest part of the puzzle that needed to be solved. So he needed to talk to someone who did. He had to get his clues in order: young people with uncontrolled Flair and Fams, altars, a special incense, the taking of the heart—through the body somehow—the cutting of the Fam. And that might not be the correct order of importance.
Should he go to the leaders of the Temple, priest and priestess? Or a mystic? Or a scholar?
The priests and priestesses would want to deny what was happening, or interfere more. Mystics tended to keep to themselves and their ideas might not be associated in any way with regular Celtan spirituality or black magic.
Who was the greatest mystical scholar on Celta? Were there any in Druida? He didn’t know, but suspected they had to be a GrandLord, of the High Nobility—perhaps even a FirstFamily son or daughter.
Which meant he should scry Tinne Holly, who might know the name of such a person.
At that moment, his own scrybowl pinged. From across the room he could see the deep green with sparkles of white. His gut clenched. His mother.
Twelve
He held the cat, stroking her as he crossed to the bowl. “Here,” he answered.
The water stopped spinning and the hard, heavy face of D’Thyme looked out. She snorted as she saw him, then her glittering gaze fastened on the cat. “You have a Fam?”
“Yes.”
“We’re on D’Ash’s waiting list.”
Ilex shrugged. “What do you want?”
Her expression tightened. “The retrieval spell is placed on the amulet.”
“But is it done well?”
Frown lines etched deep and gray around her mouth. “You didn’t tell us the amulet and spell were for your HeartMate. Your mother performed the spell in the HouseHeart and the HouseHeart possessed her—flooding her with energy and Flair—using her to craft the spell. She’s a fragile woman. It nearly killed her. She’s resting now. Come and get the thing. We want it out of the Residence.” The bowl flickered dark as she ended the call; then the water became clear and serene again.
Yowl! The cat wiggled in his arms and he opened them to let her drop. She sent him an irritated look.
You squeezed her too hard, Vertic said, cocking his head. A night full of adventures. Where do we go first?
Ilex stared down at the cat, who stared right back up at him. Something bit his arm. He slapped his sleeves, then muttered a spell vanishing fleas. “I’m taking her to D’Ash. She can evaluate Fairyfoot and get rid of the livestock. Are you sure she’s Fam?”
Fairyfoot turned her back on him and flicked her tail. You are rude. And snide. But the Fox has confidence in you. Take Me where I must go to fulfill My destiny.
That was interesting.
“Where were you that you smell of incense?”
The cat shrugged. Don’t know. I go to many empty places.
No help there.
I would like to teleport, said Vertic. We have not often teleported.
“You haven’t wanted to.”
Because I am a fox and run fast and fine.
Ilex sighed. “We go to D’Ash, then to my mother’s house.”
Vertic’s ears pricked. To your kit den?
“My childhood home, yes.”
Interesting.
Ilex didn’t think so. “I believe that cat would do well with my cuz, Dufleur.”
The cat looked over her shoulder, sniffed. You do?
“I used my Flair,” Ilex said stiffly.
Lashing her tail, the cat turned back to stare at the door. The fox trusts you. I will see your cuz.
With a half bow in the Fams’ direction, Ilex said, “Good of you.”
Yes.
“I’m picking you up again so I can scry D’Ash. Try not to infest me with any more of your fleas.” Gingerly, he picked the cat up. She didn’t wriggle or scratch.
“T’Ash Residence, Danith D’Ash, please,” he ordered the scrybowl.
The bowl played an echoing melody, then D’Ash said, “Greetyou, Winterberry.” She was flushed and laughing. She held a bundle, a solid toddler with the black hair and dark blue eyes of her HeartMate. Just seeing the child made Ilex’s spirit lighten. T’Ash had had a hard road, and cherished his son. The little boy clapped fat hands. “Win-ter-bee!” he said, then beamed up at his mother.
“He remembers you,” she said proudly, then brushed a kiss atop her son’s head. “He’s precocious.”
“I wouldn’t have expected anything else of T’Ash,” Winterberry said.
D’Ash flung back her head and laughed.
Beautiful woman, Fairyfoot breathed, almost in awe.
D’Ash had a way with animals, and her Flair got stronger every year.
Her stare fixed on the cat. “Who do you have there?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “My Fam brought her to me. They both say that she’s a Fam.”
“She’s feral.”
“Yes.”
“Hmmmm.” D’Ash studied the cat. “Zanth was a feral Fam. It doesn’t happen often, but…Yes, bring her to me.” The scrybowl water rippled.
“One moment. I used my Flair and think she’ll be right for my cuz.”
D’Ash looked out at him once more. “Very well.”
“I’ll be ’porting, and bringing my Fam, Vertic.”
Eyes bright, D’Ash said, “The fox? I get to see the fox? Yes!”
“The fox gets to see you.”
D’Ash laughed. “Come now. I’ll hand this one”—she jiggled the boy on her hip—“off to his father. You may end the scry, Nuin.”
A plump little hand slapped the water.
Trif felt the
throbbing vibration of the music before she opened the Maypole’s rose-colored door. Bespelled instruments, for sure. She grinned, impatient to see the band.
She wasn’t known to the Maypole management—it was a far too expensive and high-class place for that—but her name was recognized by a few musicians. Maybe she’d be lucky and she could play. On that off chance, she’d packed her silver flute—also bespelled with her own Flair.
There was nothing better than playing for a room packed with people enjoying themselves, who sent off bits of Flair in happiness and flirtation with the opposite sex. A charged room, oh, yes.
“Are you ready?” she asked Greyku, whose little rump was stuck to Trif ’s shoulder with a spell.
Oh, yes.
The door was taken from her hand by a doorman inside dressed in rose and pale green. He nodded to her, a touch of disdain in his eyes. “GentleLady.”
Greyku hissed. The doorman started, then narrowed his eyes, bowed. “And Fam.”
Trif walked to the counter, where she paid an entrance fee, then went to the glowing door in the translucent shieldspell that would let her through into the low-lit club. She hadn’t often been to the Maypole, but it was the place to dance. A place where Nobles mixed with Commoners, a place where many single people gathered to play—or connect. A perfect place to leave T’Willow’s HeartGift. She was glad that he’d given her an excuse to indulge herself in a treat, even though she’d be eating meals she’d saved in no-time storage for emergencies.
As she wound her way around the huge dance floor to a small, empty table for two she’d spotted, a man swung her into a dance, yelped as Greyku scratched his hand, and hastily let Trif go. He melted quickly into the crowd. The embroidery on his cuffs had proclaimed him the Heir to a GrandHouse.
Rude man, Greyku said, licking a drop of blood from her claws.
I like to dance. And like to listen to the music even more. We’d better put you somewhere safe.
The small table was still empty. Trif rushed to it and claimed it, banishing Greyku’s stick-spell so the kitten could hop from shoulder to the table. Trif glanced around. No one was paying her any attention. Not many people were even looking at Greyku. Trif hung her bag from one of the spelled security hooks on the underside of the table, then slipped her hand in it. Her fingers touched her silver flute first, caressed it; then she reached for the box. She set her thumbnail under the latch and opened it. The furrabeast leather pouch fell into her hand, nearly searing the skin of her palm, the heat was so intense. She jerked it out and dropped it on the edge of the table.
Heart Quest Page 13
