Heartmate (27 page)

“Women,” Tinne snorted. “Always interfering. Mixing up in men's business.” He thrust out his narrow chest. “Stopping fights.”

T'Ash looked less grim. “You sound very like your brother.” His gaze sharpened as he scanned the boy. “How do you fare?”

Tinne sighed a little mournfully, shook his head. “Only three fights. Hard to believe, almost like something's holding me back. Humph.”

With one smoothly efficient motion, T'Ash's sword disappeared into his sheath. He clapped the young Holly on the shoulder. “Well done.” T'Ash looked down the alley where the band of teenagers dressed in purple and white had disappeared. “I think that's as much excitement as you'll get this holiday eve. 'Port home.”

Tinne's mouth set in mulish lines. “I want—”

“'Port home, GreatSir Holly.” T'Ash's voice contained as much steel as his sword.

Muttering under his breath, Holly sheathed his sword and his long dagger. Still unhappy, he made a short bow to T'Ash. “My thanks for the main gauche.”

“A gift from your brother. You are welcome. Use it sparingly, but when you use it, use it well.”

Holly snorted once more and winked out of sight.

Zanth loped to the end of the street and took a less lit offshoot to the left, deeper into Downwind.

“Zanth says we must hurry,” T'Ash said, holding a hand out to her.

For some reason she felt relieved that he was still speaking to her, that she hadn't offended him. Why? Didn't she want him out of her life?

She darted a glance at him. He obviously wasn't going to explain himself. It had cost him, she knew, to reveal all that he had earlier. She suspected that there was an incredible amount more to know about the complex man, and not just that which was publicly available. Did she truly want to get so deeply involved?

She didn't, but began to feel her own heart would give her no choice.

A whistling blaze of light burst into the sky, a stream of magic fireballs to celebrate Discovery Day. She hastily put her hand in his, and it was instantly warmed by his large, strong fingers.

The Fam's flat and tattered ears seemed to curl inward as the pops and bangs of homemade fireworks and magical displays increased in volume and brilliance.

“Zanth doesn't like the noise. It sets his already belligerent nerves on end. I've no doubt that once we two are safe tonight, many sewer rats will lose their lives.” A smile hovered on T'Ash's lips.

“How long will it take to get home?” Danith asked. It was getting harder for her not to give into the ache in her foot and limp.

Her head throbbed, as it did whenever Zanth and T'Ash spoke telepathically. T'Ash frowned. He pulled Danith down a narrow, crooked passageway to a dead end. An abandoned Zanth complained behind them.

To Danith's amazement, T'Ash pulled off his vest and reached high above her head to swipe with the soft leather at a protruding stone. It appeared part of the wall, until T'Ash scrubbed some of the grime away.

He looked at Danith, hesitating. “It's an old public scrystone. Though it doesn't look it, it still has a little power left. I can feel it. Zanth says the bonfires have gotten out of hand and have drawn drunks and the gangs—Downwind and noble alike. It would be rough getting through without injury. The streets tonight are no place for a lady like you.”

“And?”

“If I can clean the scrystone, I'll be able to see if Zanth is right. Get an overview of things instead of merely a cat's-eye view.”

Zanth hissed at the perceived insult.

Danith nodded.

Holding his besmirched vest in his hand like a rag, T'Ash shifted a little.

“You need to clean the scrystone,” Danith prompted.

“Yes.”

“So?”

“I need to spit on the vest.”

“Yes?” she said, failing to see the problem.

“My mother told me that spitting is foul. You might not want to watch.”

Danith stared at him. “You think I am too delicate to see you spit?” If the light weren't so bad, she would have sworn his cheeks darkened. “You need to clean the scrystone. Spit. You want me to spit on your vest, too?”

Now he stared at her, then a smile cracked his face as his gaze lingered on her lips. “I doubt you have much spit in you.”

She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “I probably have enough.”

Zanth harrumphed.

T'Ash looked down at him. “Zanth probably has more spit than both of us.”

“You could hold him up to the stone and have him lick it.”

This time the pain was such she clapped her hands to her head and closed her eyes. “Just joking, Zanth.”

Zanth grumbled near her feet. When she opened her eyes, T'Ash was swabbing at the scrystone, obviously having taken advantage of her momentary lapse to do the dreadful deed and spit on the vest.

He turned back to them and eyed the scarred gray opaque crystal. Then held the vest under her chin. His eyes dared her, as if he really thought she was too good to spit.

She rubbed her tongue around her teeth, gathering saliva, then spit. They both looked down at the small wet spot on the leather.

“I'd better hurry and use this or it will disappear.”

Zanth gave a rusty chuckle.

T'Ash spit himself, then turned and applied the vest to the scrystone again.

“I'm a common woman, T'Ash. I eat. I drink. I spit. I—relieve myself.”

T'Ash didn't turn around to answer. “You're small and delicately made. You move with grace. You have a refined taste in jewelry, furnishings, and flowers. Your Flair is strong but subtle. Your mind, when I touched it earlier, has a cultured tone. And I wouldn't have said ‘relieve myself.'”

Danith felt heat rise to her face. He thought that of her? That she embodied such characteristics? That she was something special, perhaps unique?

“There.” T'Ash tapped on the glass. It glowed a little, surprising Danith. As far as she knew, none of the old city scrystones worked and were long forgotten. By everyone except T'Ash. He truly had an affinity for stones.

“Damn. Zanth is right. There's nowhere it wouldn't be risky to pass to get back to your part of Druida. I can mentally contact Holm and ask that he send a glider for us. But I'm angry with him, and he knows it; he'd charge us for the trip. And I'd never hear the end of it. We'll have to hole up for the night.”

Vindicated, Zanth made a superior cat noise.

Danith moistened her lips. A night with T'Ash. She didn't know whether to dread or anticipate it. She was becoming much too accustomed to being in the company of the man. “Where?”

“Only one place.” T'Ash looked grim again.

Zanth murmured approval.

“And that is?”

T'Ash threw his erstwhile vest in a corner. His large shoulders set. “T'Blackthorn Residence.”

“Ah—”

He caught her hand and started swiftly down the passage. “Don't believe what they say. It's not really haunted. Much. More like cursed.”

 
 
T'Ash watched Danith curl on a cushion in a corner of
the gardenshed on the T'Blackthorn estate. She looked comfortable, and homey, and the sensual way she sipped the tea from his stash of supplies made something deep inside him twist with longing. She belonged wherever he was, adding warmth and civilization to his life.

The “shed,” an outbuilding of a GrandHouse estate, was as large as his ResidenceDen. And though it might once have housed landscaping machines, T'Ash had visited the place a few times over the years and made it a bolt hole of his own. Only a thin coat of dust had lain over the shelves, and had disappeared with a simple cleaning Word. A large permamoss bed was rolled in the corner, ready for sleeping. He had a box of supplies he'd gathered and food in a small no-time unit. He'd activated the waterspell in the sinks.

Danith shifted and pain crossed her face. He scowled. She'd been hurt more than she'd said, and he hadn't noticed until then. Why hadn't she said anything?

He crossed to her where she rested against some old loungechair cushions and knelt beside her. He took the tea mug from her hands and set it aside. Then he slipped his hands through her hair and examined her scalp. Nothing.

Her face showed no bruises, and the dainty nape of her neck, while tempting to him, was free of cuts and scrapes. He smoothed his hands down her neck to her shoulders, checking the muscles, she didn't flinch, but pulled away from him.

“What are you doing?”

“You're hurt. Since you didn't tell me, I'll find the injury myself.”

She frowned at him, huffed a breath, and touched her instep against his calf. “My foot. I'm not used to going barefoot, and I stepped on something sharp.”

He matched her frown, tapped her small chin with his finger. “You do not hide such things from me. It is my responsibility to protect you, to care for you. I will not fail in my duty.”

Her eyes narrowed in what he thought was a direct mimicry of his own expression. It didn't amuse him. She lifted her chin. “I am an independent, common—”

“D'Mallow,” he said silkily.

Her breath caught, confusion dimmed her eyes. She blinked several times. Then she breathed in and out, deeply, and met his gaze again, and when her chin lifted even more, it was an elegant gesture of a noblewoman.

“I can take care of myself.”

“No need, when I am here for you.”

Now her gaze flashed anger. “I had to live with plenty of rules, T'Ash. Now I can make some of my own, and I intend to. Don't push.”

He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the scrape of the small door he'd made for Zanth years ago.

Come!
said Zanth.

“I'm busy.”

Zanth being poetic was something T'Ash couldn't ignore. Not to mention the small vein of acquisitiveness for a unique stone that was never buried very deep.

He turned to Danith, who watched him warily and rubbed a temple.

“Zanth wants us to see the lambenthyst in the fountain of the Dark Goddess. He says it is a sight to behold tonight. The stone is the largest and least flawed lambenthyst I've ever seen.”

He glanced at her foot, scraped and with a puncture. Touching a finger to the wound, he murmured a cleansing spell.

Danith yelped.

T'Ash stood, then bent and scooped up Danith. “We will care for your foot further, shortly.”

Unlatching the door with his elbow, he kicked it open and followed a stately treading Zanth down a crushed-stone path that had once been white and well-tended. T'Ash concentrated on his steps rather than the woman in his arms. The thread of his restraint was thin, and he couldn't have her.

The fountain of the Dark Goddess was on the far side of the grounds, down a twisting footpath and situated in a grove of towering trees.

As he walked, he cast a glance at the palatial T'Blackthorn Residence. Unlike many first colony Family mansions, it didn't resemble a fortress. Once thought the most beautiful of all the Residences, its tall windows looked blind and dark, and the fluted columns of the back terrace were streaked with unsightly blotches of gray leechmoss that had claimed one side of the house.

Danith made a shocked noise. “How terrible that something so gracious is so neglected.”

“Yes.”

T'Ash remembered the first night he'd spent in the shed, a few days after the destruction of his Family. The Blackthorn estate had been deserted, the Residence shut up for the winter, with the Blackthorns situated in their winter “cottage” in the south.

Even then there had been rumors of the Residence being haunted by more ghosts than acceptable for a FirstFamily, and the curse of the stone. The Residence had brought a dreadful fascination, awe, and grief with the air of a dark fate lingering around the beautiful place.

Every month or two, when he was desperate, he would return to the shed. It was never locked or spellshielded. He didn't know if that was due to oversight or the generosity of the Blackthorns. He didn't know if they had been aware that a small, lost, once-noble-but-now-Downwind boy had taken shelter there.

T'Ash had been too afraid to ask them for sanctuary. He didn't know whom he could trust.

Only in extreme times would he come to the shed. After all, GrandHouse Rue neighbored the Blackthorn estate, and GraceHouse Flametree was too close, also.

He remembered one time, a year or so later, that he returned, after being completely integrated into Downwind life. The T'Blackthorn Residence had seemed like a thing out of legend, nothing to do with him. The Blackthorns had been entertaining and the Residence had echoed with cultured music and the delighted laughter of ladies.

It had been a very long time, since before he'd ended his vengeance stalk, that he'd been here.

“Isn't there still a Blackthorn alive?” asked Danith, as if prodding her memory of the history of the FirstFamilies.

“Straif. Once Heir, he's now T'Blackthorn. He's not often in Druida.”

The Blackthorn Family, too, had died, all but Straif. Disease had claimed them. Wildfire whispers stated the curse had struck again. Every few generations, the Blackthorn Family was reduced to just one. The last time T'Ash had encountered Straif in a tavern, the man had spoken of a genetic flaw that made the Blackthorns susceptible to one of the common ailments of humans on Celta. He'd vowed to try and find a cure, and wandered Celta in search of it.