Heart Secret (2 page)

One

D
RUIDA
C
ITY
,

421 Years After Colonization,

Late Summer

N
ightmares and a sense of foreboding woke him, so Garrett Primross
walked to work as dawn broke hoping the infrequent uneasy feeling of doom was wrong for the first time in his life. In his career as a private investigator, he felt in control. He knew what he was doing. And at work he might be able to avoid or mitigate any disaster that might be looming today.

As he approached the back entrance of his shabby office building located in a lower-middle-class neighborhood, a cat hissed and a group of seven intelligent feral cats slipped from the shadows within the alley. Animals that Garrett used as observers and informants, they were able to become Familiar Companions to people if they'd wanted. Most didn't. They preferred the wild and free life—with regular meals and occasional petting.

Garrett had contacts within the fox dens and with the rare wild dog.

Gar-rett!
the current leader of the ragtag band of ferals shouted loudly in Garrett's mind.

I hear you,
he broadcast to the group. Their milling around slightly decreased.

You promised first thing at office, We get FOOD!
Black-and-White tom insisted.

I haven't broken that promise,
Garrett said.

There is a MAN on OUR front stoop. He has big magic-Flair. He looks like he belongs around here, but he wears clothes that don't smell of him. He wants to talk to YOU.

At a little after dawn, septhours before WorkBell? Not a good sign.
How do you know?
Garrett asked telepathically.

He said your name to the door, but the door was quiet. Then he looked at Us and told Us, but We ignored him. You can talk to him, but We get Our FOOD first!

That's the deal,
Garrett agreed, though his curiosity was ruffled. So were the hairs on the nape of his neck that warned of trouble.

The young and slinky short-furred black cat slipped around the corner of the building at the end of the alley.
I got close. He did not see Me.

Maybe not, but if the man had great psi power—Flair—Garrett would have bet that the guy had sensed the intelligent animal.

He did NOT sense Me with any of his Flair,
the cat, also a tom, insisted.
He smells like rich.

Garrett grunted. Probably a Nobleman. A spot between his shoulder blades twitched and the damn foreboding increased. Sounded like a man with a problem. A high-class client usually meant a tough problem. The last one had included theft, kidnapping, and murder.

And he smells like a long-eared, ball-tailed housefluff Familiar Companion,
the black cat that Garrett called Sleek Black continued.

More interesting, but still not enough data for Garrett to figure out who the guy might be.

And he smells like RESIDENCE.

Only the greatest Nobles on the planet lived in Residences—Houses as intelligent as these animals, and a lot longer lived. Interested, Garrett asked,
What do Residences smell like?

Cats would sometimes answer, but usually not unless they wanted something from him. He made it a point to always be in the credit column with intelligent cats, giving them information without expecting payment. It had irked him at first, then he'd shrugged and accepted it as a cost of doing business.

This time, again, there were many replies.

Special housekeeping spells for pee,
said the brindled tom.

And for puke,
said the fat brown tabby female.

Thick, rich, nose-stop smoke smells for rituals,
said the leader, sniffing lustily, as if proving he could.

Expensive incense, Garrett translated. The twenty-five FirstFamilies—descendants of the colonists who had funded the trip from Earth—all resided in sentient Houses. Garrett ran through the lords mentally, but didn't come up with any reason why a person so powerful would want to hire him.

A yowl went up, followed by more.
We get Our FOOD!

Garrett winced.
FINE!
he yelled back at them telepathically.
Stop that caterwauling, NOW.

They did, having learned by experience that when he gave such an order, the consequences of disobedience could be major. Like a delay in being fed.

Now they ringed his feet, staring up at him, narrow-eyed.

He said,
I will feed you in the back courtyard.
Then he'd see if he could come up from behind the Nobleman and check him out—begin the conversation on his terms. And whip his inner dread into shape, get control of the problem from the start.

Quiet, the cats trotted after his own soft-footed prowl to the back entrance of the office building. The area was paved with flagstones as old as the building in the optimistic hope that the tenants would have gliders to park. No one who rented in the building was wealthy enough to do so.

He murmured the spellshields down and the locked door open with a few Words. Once inside he tilted his head but sensed no one else was there.

So he went to the small spellshielded storeroom off the one long main corridor. There he kept cat food, treats, a few toys, and a small canister of catnip. He'd left the back door open and returned to the courtyard with the bag of kibble and poured the daily amount into the trough.

As if they'd unconsciously expected him to renege on the deal, they all hurried up to the trough with minimal jostling for position and crunched up the food. The cats were his informers and observers, but he knew that more than one of them had gone hungry before they'd become his secret eyes and ears around the city.

Sleek Black finished first and sat back on his haunches, staring at Garrett. He'd only joined the band in the spring. Garrett got the impression that the tom might be considering becoming a Fam . . . if Garrett, as an example of a human, impressed the young cat. Garrett figured that the youngster would want a home and a warm hearth when winter came.

The black cat burped discreetly, flicked his whiskers.
What do you want Us to do for the food?

Garrett shrugged. He'd find out who the Nobleman was soon enough. After that, if he felt he needed more information, he could have the cats check the guy out.

Ears swiveled in his direction.
As always, keep your eyes open and listen.
He continued to speak mentally. He didn't know what the man might be able to hear; his psi power Flair might have gifted him with augmented hearing.

Sleek Black nodded and vanished into the deep shadows of the morning. The rest left the food trough, some stopping to clean themselves, some shooting away like they had their own business or something that might bring them an extra treat from Garrett. Dogs and the other ferals would come to eat now.

Going back inside, he closed and locked the door with a Flaired Word and padded softly along the dingy corridor with offices on either side toward the front door. His sword was heavy on one hip, his blazer on the other. They were emotionally comforting, but they'd never been much use in the three events that had come after the warning dread had hit.

He stopped at the front door and used Flair to make the small window panel in the door transparent on his side.

The Nobleman in disguise was younger than he by about a decade. But his young face still had lines beginning to etch deeply in his skin, and his long dusty brown hair showed silver threads—careworn. His eyes were a muddy green. He was more even-featured, of course, than Garrett and held himself well. The man was nearly as tall as Garrett, who was a big man, but the guy wasn't as muscled.

Garrett yanked open the door. The Nobleman whirled, set into his balance, raised his arms ready to defend.

“Good reflexes.” Garrett nodded to him. “I'm Primross.” He gestured the Noble to proceed ahead of him down the hall.

“Vinni T'Vine,” the man said as he stepped inside. He waved the door shut, but made no other move.

A great Noble, highest of the high. And
the
prophet of Celta. No one wanted Vinni T'Vine to show up on his doorstep with the knowledge of his future in his eyes.

Close up, Garrett noted strain on his face, his sunken eyes. A hint of darkness in the tender skin under them showed T'Vine hadn't gotten much sleep lately. Garrett really didn't want to contemplate what might keep a man who saw visions of the future up at night.

The Noble continued in a low voice that held more rough than smooth, “You must have figured out by now, Garrett Primross, that you are a point the fate of Celta circles around.”

Garrett's mouth dried and his bowels went sloshier than he'd ever admit. “Haven't thought of that much,” he lied. Ever since he'd lived through a sickness when everyone else around him had died, he'd been considered unique by most.

“I don't like to try and guide the future.” An unamused smile from T'Vine. “Bites me in the ass more often than not.” His gaze drilled into Garrett with nearly tangible force. T'Vine examined him, shook his head. “But sometimes I have to take the chance.” His nobly sculpted mouth flattened, he dipped his head in what might be respect.

All of Garrett's nerves twined tight as he waited. The moment took on the glassy and acute atmosphere of danger.

“You should cooperate completely with the FirstLevel Healers,” T'Vine said.

Healers. Hell. Garrett didn't like Healers, too much poking from them during the epidemic as he gave blood and Flair to help stop the sickness.

He and the prophet stared at each other for a full moment of silence, until Garrett dragged out words. “That all?”

Vinni inclined his head. More heavy silence. More matched stares. Breath stopped in Garrett's lungs until his ears rang from the lack and he knew from the hair rising on the back of his neck that he had to listen to the prophet. Probably follow T'Vine's advice. “I hear you.”

The Nobleman's head tilted. Garrett felt his own eyes widen as he watched T'Vine's eyes change color from dull green to hazel, a better tint for the guy. The Noble's shoulders relaxed and Garrett heard the puff of relieved breath. Then he smiled and his gaze warmed. “You'll do.” He paused and his grin spread. “You and your HeartMate.” Another dip of his head and T'Vine teleported away.

Leaving Garrett to stagger and lean against a wall.

Healers. Hell.

He'd almost forgotten his HeartMate was a Healer, he'd avoided her for so long. He wasn't a good bet for a husband or father. Not to mention that he still mourned the woman he'd wanted as a wife.

Healers. HeartMate. Doom. Damn.

*  *  *

A
rtemisia Mugwort Panax stood with two FirstLevel Healers in
Primary HealingHall looking down at the sweaty and panting boy of six, Opul Cranberry.

The room was tinted a rich cream and furnished comfortably, but it was still in an institution and the faint odor of sickness underlaid even the cleansing herbs.

Her heart thudded hard as she waited for the verdict.

“Yes, it is the Iasc sickness. The first outbreak we've had in eighteen months,” Ura Heather said flatly.

“We can't Heal him with our regular psi Healing, our Flair.” Sympathy with a touch of fear laced Lark Holly's tones. No doubt she was thinking of her own children.

The middle-aged Ura Heather turned away. She was the best Healer on Celta since her father had retired, and was in charge of all Healers. “Get that guard guy. Primross? Only survivor when everyone in the first group hit by the virulent illness died. Maybe his blood and the Flair in it can help.

“No one except you two and the guard are allowed in this room. Lark, you and SecondLevel Healer Panax must take all care. We can't afford another epidemic.” Ura Heather strode through the sterilization field Artemisia had erected, grunting as it affected her. Then her Flair spiked as she killed any lingering germs before she walked from the room.

Artemisia took the child's hand and stroked the back of it with her thumb. “Easy, Opul, we'll help you.”

The child tossed and turned, whimpering.

Lark sighed. “I'll contact Garrett Primross and let you know when you should meet with FirstLevel Healer Heather and me.”

That was moving in circles Artemisia had only dreamt of. “Why do you need me?”

Lark blinked lavender eyes. “Because Opul Cranberry is your patient.”

“I was manning Private Intake Room Six a septhour ago when he was brought in,” Artemisia agreed. “But I work for the HealingHall.” And glad she was that she'd been accepted temporarily on the Primary HealingHall staff. “I don't have him as a private patient.”

“Now you do,” Lark said. “All his fees will be paid to you by the council.” Lark met Artemisia's eyes and smiled. “Since you don't get a NobleGilt salary.”

Not since Artemisia's Family, the Mugworts, had been smeared with scandal. Her father had lost his title and judgeship, her mother, her Healing practice. Everyone knew Artemisia was a Mugwort, but since she went by a distant Family name on her mother's side, everyone could pretend she wasn't touched by the ruin of her Family.