“No, but I do need to supervise this first week. It’s vital, and I have to go home first to change my clothes. Not the right image for the HouseHeart.” She shook out her business tunic. It was an old tunic and trous suit of uninspired brown. A fleeting thought that Laev had seen her in it and not something more flattering writhed through her mind. “The crop looks good.” That was all she needed to check on right now. “Can you take care of Mica for me?”
“Of course,” Glyssa said. She slid her gaze to Laev and back to Camellia. “We’ll have dinner at your place again.”
Camellia wasn’t prepared for that, either, but the press of unspoken questions—about her HeartMate, her background—enveloped her and she wanted to get away fast. “Fine.”
She hugged Glyssa and Tiana, then curtsied deeply to the Supreme-Judge. “Merry meet.”
“And merry part,” the judge said.
A thought tugged at Camellia, something she could do to make up for her rudeness. “Why don’t I send you and your Family dinner over from Darjeeling’s Teahouse or Darjeeling’s HouseHeart?” She waved a hand. “Ship can access the menus from my newssheets ads.” Another curtsey bob. “Family of four, two males, two females. My thanks, my thanks to Ship, and merry meet again.” She half turned to Laev. “Ah, good seeing you again, T’Hawthorn.”
“Always,” he said and she wondered if that were true.
She ran to Landing Park then teleported to her bedroom in front of her closet. Bumped into someone. She screamed.
Eleven
Rough hands shoved Camellia away hard, she landed on the bedsponge and bounced.
“Fliggering fligger, what do you think you’re doing!” yelled her uncle Takvar. “If you’d have ’ported into me, we’d have both died!”
Camellia wrapped her arms around herself, equally shaken. She wouldn’t let it show in her voice. “I was teleporting into my own bedroom, in my own house.” She hopped up and jutted her chin, headed back to the closet. Takvar grabbed her arm and squeezed. “Where’s that custom-made gown you have from D’Thyme?”
“In T’Reed Residence’s no-time storage.” She yanked away, but not before he bruised her. Relief welled inside her that she’d put the garment in a safe place, though inward shivers rippled through her that Takvar had heard of the expensive gown. She slid the folding doors to her closet wider, saw a nice long robe of gold silkeen, old but still elegant, and flung it over her casual tunic and trous, leaving the bloused sleeves unbuttoned. As she turned around, she saw her safes open again. Her nerves quivered.
She pivoted to stare at her uncle. Takvar didn’t bother to hide his smirk. His eyes were the flat gray of thick winter ice coating a lake. She didn’t quite dare take his arm to teleport him to a guard station. As far as she knew, he hadn’t gotten anything.
“Are you finished?” she asked.
He slowly tucked his fingers into his trous pockets, his nostrils widened, and his upper lip lifted. “You have nothing of value here.”
“Why should I?”
“Where’s the cat?”
Now she smiled. “With SupremeJudge Ailim Elder. You want me to teleport you to JudgementGrove?”
Something lurked in the depths of his gaze like a monster under the ice. He snapped his fingers and the one cup from her antique tea set appeared in his hands. He smiled as she jolted. Lifted the delicate cup above her reaching hands, a malicious sneer twisting his features. “A teacup fashioned by the famous Zisha. From the famous salvage of the famous sunken ship. The only object from the set not owned by Camellia Darjeeling. It should go for a nice amount of gilt.”
“You can’t! No one would buy—”
“Of course I can. The whole set should have belonged to me, or your father. Ours by right.”
“You weren’t here to claim the set. Didn’t even know the china existed. Wouldn’t have had the brains to ask the Kelps to look for the set.”
He swiped at her and she ducked but was off balance and fell against the closet doors.
A creaky laugh came from Takvar, then he flicked a finger against the delicate china and a sweet note chimed. “You got the set. You have it . . . for now.” He turned his back and strolled from the bedroom, through the short hall to the mainspace, and out the front door.
Seething, Camellia went to reset the front spellshield. Her uncle was already out of sight, teleported somewhere else. Good riddance. As she pulled the door shut, an outline in the shadows across the street formed into a man.
Watching her? Or her uncle?
He vanished between one blink and the next, teleporting away to some area he knew well.
She shut the door quietly, layered an additional spellshield on the lock. That would keep everyone out but her uncle. She pulled off the robe, stripped from her other clothes and put them in the cleanser, dressed again, smoothed her hair with a simple spell. All in a measured, controlled pattern that soothed her with its everyday sameness.
Her mainspace wall scry panel sounded with the trickling noise Camellia had programmed—tea pouring from a pot. The flicker of Darjeeling’s Teahouse logo pulsed from it. “Here,” she answered.
The tight face of her trusted manager, Aquilaria, showed in the panel. “Greetyou, GraceMistrys Darjeeling,” she said with unaccustomed formality. “Your father, GraceLord Darjeeling, is here with an authorization from you for gilt from our intake today. Unfortunately we don’t have as much gilt as he anticipated.” From Aquilaria’s words and manner, Camellia guessed that her father was just out of sight of the scry—and Aquilaria was lying. She was a friend, not as close as Tiana and Glyssa, but close enough that Aquilaria knew that Camellia would never willingly give gilt to her father. Aquilaria was protecting her.
And Camellia had an emotional link with Aquilaria, so she used it now for mental communication. I will be there transnow. Give him nothing unless he threatens you or begins to make a scene. If my uncle arrives, give them anything they want. Aloud, Camellia said, “I just got home from the bank, let me check . . .” Without cutting the connection, hoping her father would stay there, wondering if she had the guts to cause a scene in the teahouse, Camellia hurried over to the teleportation area, checked the private pad in the small teahouse office, and ’ported. Aquilaria and her father stood just outside the designated area.
“Aquilaria, thank you for helping me in this matter. Can you check the front?” Camellia asked. Her manager whisked from the room.
“Dear father.” Camellia smiled brightly, stepped off the teleportation pad. “You shouldn’t have visited here, especially while I was away. My staff have instructions not to give any gilt to you or Uncle.” Camellia rubbed her hands, reached for him. “Now we have an appointment with a guardhouse about my diamond bracelet.”
He grew red. He sputtered. Finally he shouted, “Curse you, you Sheela Na Gig!”
Camellia was shocked at the insult to a sacred goddess. “I wouldn’t take a goddess’s name in vain if I were you,” she gasped. Swallowed. “Not many do that.”
He grunted another infuriated bellow, leapt to the teleportation pad, flung his head up as if checking a distant public pad for availability, and disappeared. A lot of men were doing that in her life today. With her father and uncle, it was nothing new and she was glad to see them go.
Camellia tottered a couple of steps to her comfortchair behind her desk, sank into it, and rubbed her temples. Aquilaria slipped sideways through the doorway. “Did he actually say what I thought he did?” she asked.
Wincing, Camellia wondered how many people in the three dining rooms of Darjeeling’s Teahouse had heard him. Now that she listened, sounds were muted.
Like everyone else in her culture, Camellia had been brought up to revere the goddess of fertility, the Sheela Na Gig.
Aquilaria followed her thought. “For a man to have such contempt for a goddess . . . he has no respect for women.” It seemed like an alien thought to Aquilaria.
“That’s more common than you know,” Camellia said. �
�Our culture is based on the Lady and Lord, equals and partners. But Earthan society was patriarchal for a long, long time. And some men don’t respect anyone or anything that is weaker than themselves. Think of those weaker as prey.”
“Warped men,” snapped Aquilaria, coming over to give Camellia a hug.
“I think so, too.”
“Well, it’s no wonder you don’t like men.”
Camellia winced again. “It’s that obvious?”
“Yes, though you’re good with male employees. No problem there.”
“That’s something, I guess.”
Slowly Aquilaria turned and sniffed the room. “There’s a smell in here.”
Camellia hadn’t noticed. Aquilaria was frowning, staring at the spot where Camellia’s father had been. The manager’s shoulders wiggled. “Something about that curse—”
Two cats bulleted into the room. The black one stopped before he ran into Aquilaria, but the little plump calico—Mica—tumbled over him, bounced off Aquilaria’s calves, then lit on a circular spot on the carpet that seemed slightly scorched. Mica yowled. Bad, bad, bad. Bad smell. Bad spot. Bad place! She leapt onto Camellia’s desk, then onto Camellia’s lap, tucking her head in Camellia’s armpit.
Brazos lifted his upper lip to show sharp incisors and growled. Do NOT want to stay here.
“I think that makes it unanimous,” Aquilaria said. “The energy in this room has mutated, Camellia.”
Camellia frowned. “I don’t feel anything wrong.”
“Maybe because you’ve been used to your father’s awful energy for a long time,” Aquilaria said.
“Excuse me,” said Laev T’Hawthorn from the doorway.
Camellia bit back a groan. Just what she needed—a man she was unwillingly attracted to overhearing her humiliating problems with her father. She lifted Mica and stood. “Can I help you, T’Hawthorn?”
“Simply following my Fam. I’m sorry to intrude.” That sounded obligatory. Again his eyes gleamed with interest. She sure was giving him some good raw material to think about today—much as she didn’t want to.
This spot SMELLS! Brazos said.
One side of Laev’s mouth lifted. Dammit, she was thinking of him as Laev.
When she shouldn’t be thinking of him at all. When she shouldn’t be feeling a nice little tingle rush through her as she thought of him. When she shouldn’t have to force the image of him as sympathetic from her mind.
No man was sympathetic unless he wanted something.
She said, “I don’t smell anything, Brazos. Certainly nothing as bad as you smelled a couple of days ago.”
Brazos hopped onto the desk and began grooming his whiskers. That was fake flower smell and nasty. THIS is curse bad stuff.
Brows dipping, Laev’s smile vanished. “Curse?” He sniffed, his nostrils opening elegantly. He made no sound.
Contrasting with both Mica and Brazos, who seemed to be having a sniffing war—to see how loud and long each could do it. Heat crept up Camellia’s neck and she figured it painted her cheeks, too, since they were hot. The room had gotten very small.
Aquilaria glanced at the cats, pressed her lips together hard, drifted toward the doorway. “Excuse . . . me.”
Camellia glared at her, knowing she wanted to laugh at the predicament of the sniffing cats. How to really impress an attractive GreatLord.
Laev hesitated, then stepped into the room so Aquilaria could glide out in a nicely professional manner.
“Oh, GraceMistrys Darjeeling, I think you should have your friend, the priestess, check out this office . . . perhaps your person, too. It’s no small thing to be in a place where a goddess was insulted,” Aquilaria said.
Interrupting Mica midsniff, Camellia set her down on the desk. The small cat sighed and bumped noses with Brazos.
“Which goddess?” Laev asked sharply, scooping up his Familiar as if he was in danger.
“Sheela Na Gig,” Camellia muttered.
His eyes widened. He met her gaze and looked away. All images of the goddess emphasized her sex. “Ah.” Then he took a step back. “That goddess was insulted here? By whom?” Outrage emanated from him, his whole body had tightened again into strict noble posture.
“GraceLord Darjeeling,” Camellia said drily, folding her hands, meeting his gaze steadily. “Actually he was cursing me.” She angled her chin daring Laev to comment. Their gazes met, locked, mingled, and once again he seemed sympathetic. Which made her cheeks heat more. She was a blushing fool lately.
Mentally she called Tiana. Ti, I need you. At my office. Curse! A short, emphatic blast so Tiana knew it was urgent, but not an emergency.
Before Camellia turned toward the teleportation pad, she heard a slight displacement of air and scented Tiana, who smelled of Temple incense.
“What’s wrong?” Tiana asked.
The cats sniffed in unison, long and lustily.
“What—” Tiana began, then she stilled, and instead of moving her head, she slid her gaze around the room as if not wanting to attract attention. “Listen to me,” she said quietly, barely moving her lips. “GreatLord T’Hawthorn, I want you to step carefully over to Camellia and teleport her away when I count to three. Cats, you need to go also, with your FamPeople or by yourselves.”
“Is the teahouse in danger?” Camellia whispered.
Tiana’s forehead creased. “I . . . don’t . . . think . . . so. Just this office, and I’m sure we can contain the curse . . . or at least send it to follow the one who invoked it, so it rebounds on him and not you.”
“My father,” Camellia said flatly, a little too intensely, because Tiana grimaced at her.
“I’m going to call in a couple of my mentors—a FirstLevel Priestess and Priest.”
Treading quietly, athletically, Laev T’Hawthorn moved closer to Camellia. Brazos leapt to her shoulder and stretched out his paws as if he wanted to lay on both of them. With a little burble, Mica jumped up and Laev caught her.
Get close, Mica ordered.
Another step and Laev slid his arm around Camellia’s waist. Her heart began to thud strong and fast. His grip was tight so he could take them all when he teleported to a location he knew.
“Where?” she breathed out.
“To my ResidenceDen,” he murmured.
They were all so quiet that Camellia noticed that the cheerful conversations had picked up in the dining rooms of the teahouse. She shut her eyes and prayed to the Lady and Lord that her clients would be safe—as well as the business that was the livelihood of her and her staff. When she opened her eyes, she found that she was within a hairbreadth of leaning against Laev’s shoulder.
The rustling of robes announced the arrival of the priestess and priest. Their Flair swirled through the room.
The priest made a disgusted noise. Bushy silver and black brows lowered over rich brown eyes set in a thin, lined face. “We’ll take care of this.” His voice was hard. “We’ll make sure the insult and curse is removed from here, attached to the one who profaned. He will pay for the hatred that is his life.”
“When?” asked Tiana.
Bending a stern look on her, the priest said, “You were right to call us, and you may work with us, but only the Lady and the Lord and the offended Sheela Na Gig will determine when the curse activates. Go.” He turned his head to stare at Laev. “If you please, GreatLord T’Hawthorn. This is no place for you.”
“Will the patrons of the dining rooms be safe?” asked Camellia again, watching the priestess as she sprinkled a powder on the rug that revealed a black and oily spot.
“Yes,” the priest said. “Only this space will be affected, and we will cleanse it thoroughly when we are done. Go!”
“Thank you, T’Sandalwood,” Laev said. Of course he would know the priest; T’Sandalwood was only one step lower in status than the FirstFamilies. Camellia stared at the man who was the highest priest on Celta. She’d never seen him up close before.
“On three,” Laev said. “Let me do the
teleporting.” Well, of course, she couldn’t visualize his ResidenceDen.
His arm drew Camellia close until their bodies touched along the side. Her head whirled with the scent of him.
“One, Mica cat. Two, Brazos cat, three!”
Camellia’s Flair seemed to merge with Laev’s . . . and she felt his strong psi power. Magic that had been bred into his blood and bones for centuries—even before his ancestors had landed on Celta. For a moment she felt caught and was pirouetting through a spiral of darkness with bright multicolored pinpoints of flickering light. Then there was an instant’s sensation of falling and Camellia found her feet on a thick rectangular carpet that obviously served as a teleportation area for the elegant room.
A room that smelled like Laev, only more so. Generations of Hawthorns. A room that looked like him, intelligent, sophisticated, noble. Another deep breath and Camellia realized the odd atmosphere in the room was because the house—the FirstFamily Residence—was a sentient being itself.
She stared around her, at the bookshelves that lined the walls around the windows, the thick, darkly patterned rugs of an incredible knot count.
This is My house. It is FUN. Come with Me, Mica! Brazos shouted excitedly.
“Wait!” Laev commanded. “I don’t want you running all over the Residence, distracting or upsetting people. You are to stay in the ResidenceDen.” His arm dropped from Camellia’s waist and she let her breath out in a whoosh. The place—the man—was overwhelming. She wouldn’t move from the teleportation corner chamber.
With every scan of her gaze, she lusted more for a room like this—and the reason it was so wonderful was because it was nearly four centuries old. She could spend a massive amount of gilt replicating the room with antiques the same age, furniture—that incredible burled desk—everything else, and her room still wouldn’t be the same. No, she didn’t move as Laev spoke to the cats.
Brazos was throwing a fit, thrashing around, black hair flying from him in his stress. This is MY home and I WANT to SHOW it to MY FRIEND. Especially MY ROOM.
Heart Search Page 12
