Heart Secret (3 page)

Lark glanced at her wrist timer. “I must put this in motion; Ura Heather isn't a patient woman. If she hasn't spoken with the boy's parents, I'll talk with them, too.”

If it had been Artemisia's son, she'd want the more sympathetic Lark Holly rather than Ura Heather to brief her.

“I'll see you later,” Lark said.

“Yes,” Artemisia agreed. She pulled up a chair and sat by the elevated bedsponge. Even as she wiped the boy's face with a tepid cloth, deep inside she experienced mixed emotions. A whisper of happiness that she was advancing in her career, along with the dread of every Healer, every Celtan, that the sickness that had claimed too many people was back.

Two

M
inutes later, standing outside Heather's office, Artemisia smoothed
her tunic and said spell Words to tidy herself. She'd been through three sanitation and germ-sterilization procedures. The large windows on one wall of Opul's room were uncovered, with a staff member observing him until she or Lark Holly returned. Artemisia touched the monitoring bracelet that matched the one on Opul's wrist. All was fine with him.

Her pulse was fast and she was flushed. She was rising in the world, and though she didn't have great ambition, she wanted to find her place and keep it. This was another minor step, a consultation with the Healers because she had a patient with Iasc sickness.

She rapped on the door and Lark Holly opened it.

“GentleSir Primross doesn't seem as angry about being called as before,” Lark murmured. “Yet.”

“I haven't met him, but I've heard of him.”

Lark gave an ironic half smile. “Every Healer has. He's mostly refused to let us . . .”

“. . . Experiment with his blood?”

Now Lark's smile was full. “Yes.”

“I've heard he's been difficult.”

Lark's breath was audible. “Also true, but he helped us stop the sickness.” She slanted Artemisia a glance and said, “FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather has a plan. I think we'll find out how difficult GentleSir Primross is. He's already here.” She opened the door wider and stepped aside.

“Thank you.” Artemisia straightened her shoulders. She wanted to be a solid, permanent member of the Primary HealingHall staff. If she followed Heather's instructions, she'd get that position and prove herself. She'd have allies who would look beyond her name and the scandal. She'd be set exactly where she wanted to be in her career for the rest of her life.

The paneled chamber was richly furnished with a large carved desk and several cushy chairs set on a thick rug of dark purple and gold. The scent of expensive herbal housekeeping spells permeated the room. Long curtains of gold gracing the Palladian windows were pulled aside to let in the sunlight. The torpid heat of summer didn't reach here.

Outside showed the lush green of the Healing Grove and Artemisia wished she were there. All she'd ever wanted was to be a Healer, and she disliked having to play politics to get what she wanted. She preferred to avoid confrontation and risk.

Lark Holly sank into a chair. Since the man was propped against a wall with crossed arms, and his scowl deepened as Artemisia came in, she decided he had no intention of taking a seat. So she angled a chair to see him and FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather.

He was not a handsome man, but there was something about him that made her catch her breath. He was tall and extremely well built—not slender nor thick bodied. His face wasn't well proportioned. He had heavy brows, amber eyes set deep, jutting cheekbones, and a nose and mouth wider than was considered good-looking. His natural skin tone was a couple of shades darker than the average Celtan and went well with his sandy brown hair.

His hair was tousled as if his fingers had plunged through it. He wore an air of supreme competence as well as sturdy brown work trous tucked into black boots and a top that appeared to be more like leather armor than a shirt. The masculine scent of him went straight to her core.

“GentleSir Primross, you know FirstLevel Healer Lark Holly; this is SecondLevel Healer Artemisia Panax, who is treating the patient with the sickness,” Ura Heather said. She didn't rise from her seat behind her desk.

He hadn't been fidgeting but now went completely immobile. “It's back.”

Ura Heather lifted her index finger. “One case.”

His shoulders shifted, drawing Artemisia's attention to their broadness. “Not good.”

“No,” Lark said quietly.

“What do you want?” Primross asked, still not moving from the wall.

Heather smiled sharply. “Quite a bit. Please, take a seat.”

His eyes narrowed and his face took on a lack of expression that was wary in itself. “One case. I'll donate my blood if it will help.”

“Opul Cranberry, age six, will thank you for that,” Artemisia said.

He winced. “Starting with kids again?”

“Maybe,” Heather said. “We know how he was infected.” She snorted. “Luckily the Cranberrys have stayed on their estate outside the city for the summer and didn't have much contact with anyone else, and none when they guessed what the sickness was. The three of them teleported here immediately. We think we can contain the malady.”

Primross grunted, nodded. “You want to increase my blood production?”

“Much more.” The gleam in Ura Heather's eyes was sharp.

“What?” Primross asked.

Heather glanced down at a papyrus file, then at Primross.

That scrutiny wasn't reassuring, either. Artemisia was shocked that the woman didn't cultivate a better bedside manner.

Primross pushed away from the wall, eyeing the premier Healer of Celta.

“I have the details of your history.” Heather tapped the file. “But I'd like to hear them from you.”

Pain flickered on his face, then was buried under impassivity. He jerked a nod at the folder. “I went over every fact many times, with many people, including your father, T'Heather himself.”

Ura Heather's mouth turned sour. Artemisia realized the head of Primary HealingHall doubted whether her reputation would ever equal her father's, and that mattered to her. Artemisia shifted. Again, she didn't want to be here, taking part in a conflict.

The man's gaze switched to her and she flinched at the storm in his eyes. Then his glance seemed to soften as he stared at her.

“You're a private investigator,” Ura Heather gritted out. “Surely you must prefer to talk to witnesses yourself and not rely on others' reports.” She opened the file.

Lark Holly stood and walked to him, held out her hand. “Please. We need you.”

He flinched. “That's pretty much what the Healer in Gael City said to me when all this started.” His voice, too, was rough.

Lark gestured to her seat. As a shroud of dread enveloped her, Artemisia wondered if she could get out of hearing the tragedy. She knew Primross's story vaguely and was sure the details would be much worse. Everyone had died except him.

The skin on his face had tightened and he appeared haunted.

Ura Heather looked at Lark Holly, her niece. Lark was of greater status and had a more sympathetic outlook. Primross would be an individual to Lark, and only a case and an informant to Heather.

Primross stood on the balls of his feet, as if he might break away. Artemisia thought of Opul's suffering. “Please,” she added.

Once again his dark and brooding gaze touched her; a corner of his mouth curled. He snorted and trod to the chair and sat straight in it, challenging Heather. “Yeah?”

She leaned forward over her desk. “We have new information. After three years of decontamination, we retrieved the locking mechanism of the door for the body storage in the back of the transport vehicle that you drove.” She touched a hand-sized panel that ran with the slight orange light of Flair tech along the curving lines of spell algorithms. “Its recording mechanism of when and how often the door was opened is intact. So we have better details of how the sickness progressed that we would like you to confirm.”

Garrett stared at the small piece of the bus he'd driven, and his brain played back Old Grisc in the driver's seat when they'd smelled the first scent of death. He'd reached over and pressed the red button . . . setting the recorder as well as unlocking the door, Garrett now understood.

Beads of sweat formed along his spine, were absorbed by his padded and Flaired armor. Now he knew why he'd worn it. More for emotional protection than physical. Primary HealingHall was in a well-protected part of town—not to mention that many of the less advantaged had died during the sickness that swept through the land two to three years before.

“GentleSir Primross, can you give us more details about your experience?” prompted Lark.

Nothing he enjoyed more than reviewing the worst days of his life. He felt his impassive expression stiffen into a stone mask. He'd made this report before . . . more times than he wanted. Doing so now just hurt because he hadn't been expecting it. The scab had been ripped off his inner wounds. He wouldn't let the tear or the inner bleeding show.

“No.” He stood and walked back to the door.

“Of course you do not need to help us,” FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather said. “We are only facing an epidemic again. One that you can stop.”

He slammed his hand against the door and muttered curse words that should have singed the air with his frustration at having to fall into line with someone else's plans.

“Yes,” the Healer nearly purred, though he'd have expected more of a satisfied snake hiss. “Anyone else who dies of this sickness could be due to you.”

“You shouldn't say such things,” the SecondLevel Healer protested.

“Stop this, Aunt!” demanded Lark Holly.

“It's true.” Heather's voice was smooth, like she was a fighter who knew she had him by the balls.

Guilt always gnawed. He'd start off as usual. “The Iasc sickness was traced to an unknown fish with an unknown infection that washed ashore on the beach of the Smallage estate near Gael City.”

“We know that.” Ura Heather's brows snapped down.

Garrett angled his thumb at the thick folder. “You know all that I have to tell you.” He put his hand on the door latch.

“Please, stay, GentleSir Primross. We understand this is hard for you,” Lark Holly said. “We'll take it in chronological order so you can settle before we ask about the new information.”

His gut twisted. It was hard for him and he didn't want any of the women—especially his HeartMate—to pity him.

Yeah, he hadn't seen her for a while, a year maybe, since he avoided her. They'd never met. He didn't think that she knew they were destined mates, and he couldn't legally tell her and limit her choices. Not that he wanted to tell her anyway. Not that he wanted her.

Maybe his blood was humming because they were in the same room, but that was his body. His emotions were . . . Who the hell cared?

“The Iasc sickness was traced to the discovery of the large fish on the former Smallage estate,” Ura Heather repeated.

There was no more Smallage estate. The house had been demolished, the land sterilized, remotely. There were no more Smallages.

Garrett stood where he was. He didn't want to be sucked back into that dark time. But words came from his mouth. “People from the estate got sick, a group went to a research HealingHall on the edge of Gael City for help. By that time, they were sick, too,” he began in a monotone.

Rushing air pounded in his ears, matching an inward, rumbling shudder. Even if he left this office, memories would slice him. He might fall apart in bits before he left the HealingHall.

Someone made a soft noise of concern. Not someone. He knew who, the SecondLevel Healer. She was there, standing beside him, her fingers light on him near his elbow, nudging him back to the chair. He picked up his feet carefully, let the pressure on his arm guide him since he was having trouble seeing. Seeing outside. Inside, his mind flashed vision after vision of those terrible days.

He bumped the edge of the chair, sat back down. His face felt cold. But the memories were fever hot. Like the sickness he'd survived.

Heather said, “The research HealingHall determined the sickness was unknown and virulent. They took samples and wanted the infected moved to a quarantine clinic in the hills. You were called in to guide the off-road quarantine vehicle.”

“Me and the driver of that bus, Old Grisc,” Garrett said. Old Grisc had been tough, but not tough enough. “We both knew the rough back trail to the clinic.” Little used, and since one part of the shelf road had crumbled behind the heavy vehicle, never to be used again. The trip had been hazardous. More from the sickness than the rugged terrain.

“There were twenty-three who left on the journey. It was supposed to take six septhours?” Lark Holly asked in her calm voice. Not as pleasing to his ears as the younger woman's, who he didn't want to name.

Pain razored through him as he was back again in the Gael City HealingHall. He saw the fearful expression of Dinni, his childhood friend. They'd been each other's first lover. But Dinni was the girl who'd rejected him because he'd had a HeartMate somewhere and Dinni believed in that kind of love. She hadn't wanted to take a chance on him and the love between them.

Dinni had cradled her fretful and sick baby. Her son, no more than two months old, his father already dead of the sickness. She had begged Garrett to take the job, to go with them. Had the utmost faith he would save them.

His Dinni. More memories—sweet, laughing, as sunny in nature as her blonde hair, as a child, a girl. He'd have done anything for her. So he'd agreed.