Heart Choice (2 page)

She sniffed, then rubbed her head against his cheek. He lifted a hand larger than her head and stroked her jaw. She purred. Her fur felt incredibly soft under his fingers. Her purring and the feel of her softness, her daintiness after his years on a hard trail through much of untamed Celta, sparked a warmth of tenderness inside him. She could speak to him by mind, using Flair—psi powers. Perhaps she could be a companion.

“Six eightdays,” he repeated.

One last rub, then she sat up straight, replying,
Unnecessary. You will adore Me. Everyone adores Me.

Straif sighed. It was inevitable that with his new life, he'd take on new burdens, as well as shouldering all the old ones, the old responsibilities that meant old griefs.

News traveled fast. Just that morning he'd made the decision to finally move from a guest suite at his uncle T'Holly's. He could no longer bear the underlying sadness of the household.

So he'd decided to open his own home. He hadn't visited T'Blackthorn Residence in some time, and he dreaded going to it now, so his steps lagged.

“Right.” He walked back out onto the sidewalk.

Most people call me stunning.
She shifted on him.
If we walk in the rain, I want a weathershield.

He sighed out a Word, curving a shieldspell around her.

She delicately hummed a small purr.
Very nice. I knew I made no mistake in taking you as My FamMan.

“Right.”

He wanted to hunch his shoulders, more against the thoughts that threatened to inundate him than against the rain.

“T'Blackthorn Residence,” he said. Since he was GrandLord T'Blackthorn, it was appropriate that he live in his ancestral home, on his ancestral estates. Even though he was the sole Blackthorn. The last Blackthorn. The one Blackthorn who'd survived the Celtan Angh virus that had swept through the weak Family genes and killed his uncle and aunts and cousins. The remaining Blackthorn who still grieved for his sister and parents.

I approve. I was born for a FirstFamily Residence. I always knew it.
The cat nodded, and her whiskers tickled his cheek, bringing him from thoughts as gloomy as the day.

“Right. Well, Stunning—”

A small paw prodded his face.
I am stunning. That is My beauty. My name is Drina.

“Drina, huh?”

He sighed again. She was going to drag his emotions back from the frigid storage where he'd placed them when his Family had died fifteen years ago when he was seventeen. Since then he'd tried to keep his feelings completely superficial—except his fierce resolve to find a fix for his Family's genes and so ensure the survival of his line.

They'd passed through middle-class Druida and into Noble Country, huge, old estates claimed by the first settlers of the three colonial ships. Straif's steps slowed.

A couple of years ago he'd been summoned by his maternal uncle, T'Holly, to track and find his cuzes Holm and Tinne Holly. After their reappearance, Straif had come and gone in Druida, but hadn't ever returned to his estate.

When Straif entered the greeniron gates, he understood why. T'Blackthorn Residence had once been a showplace, one of the most beautiful buildings in Druida.

Now the many arched windows looked blind and dirty. His gut tightened as he saw some gray, scaly Celtan lichen had crept up the mellow blond bricks of the house, destroying it as surely as the virus had destroyed his Family. He groaned.

Drina leaned her small body against him; the gentle resonance of her reassuring purr vibrated from her side to his face. Straif drew in a deep breath.

This was his fault. He couldn't bear to be reminded of his past, so he'd let the upkeep of the Residence slip. Now he would pay.

“Right.”

She sniffed, then slightly opened her mouth and curled her tongue in that sixth cat sense of smell-taste.
You have great Flair
—
great psi power. I have chosen well. I will help you.

“Thanks.” Wanting to get the worst over with, and not able to endure looking at the sad outside of his Residence, Straif teleported them into the den. It was the office of the GrandLord, where all Family discussions took place and all decisions were made.

Miller moths circled around them in a cloud. Drina hopped down to chase them.

Straif ignored her and glanced around the room. The warm Earthmaple paneling comforted him, as did the dusty folds of purple velvet drapes and the ancient desk topped with a furrabeast leather blotter. He could almost see his father sitting behind the desk, looking at him, fingers steepled in his habitual gesture. Grief stormed through Straif like a caustic whirlwind, swirling memories of his Family—his mother, who matched his father in quiet, gentle, steady nature. Then images came of his irresistible scamp of a sister, Fasha, the only extrovert of the Family, more Holly than Blackthorn. How he missed Fasha, her optimism and determined cheerful-ness. How he wanted that in his life.

Never to see them again. No wonder he had fled his life here, searched throughout Celta for some oracle, some native herb or bacteria that might provide an immunization for the awful virus. The Angh virus that was fatal only to Blackthorns.

“Welcome home, T'Blackthorn,” a deep voice soughed. Straif shuddered. It was the voice of the Residence, the voice of a long-dead GrandLord T'Blackthorn.

“Thank you, Residence.”

“There is much to be done.”

“It will be done,” Straif vowed.

“I have maintained the elements of the central HouseHeart. The hearth fire crackles, the fountain bubbles, the wind tinkles chimes, the scent of rich earth rises from the floor.”

Straif cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“It is good that you return. Please activate the standard arrival, general habitation, and housekeeping spells.”

So Straif chanted the litany that would bring the Residence back to life—ignite fires and provide light, air rooms and clean them. The husks of dried moths in the ResidenceDen disappeared. Drina leapt back up to his shoulder.

When all was as tidy as possible, he said, “I would like a tally of the food available in no-time storage.”

A holosphere appeared with images of great haunches of meat, bins of fruits and vegetables, barrels of beer and wine, cartons of grain.

“The storage no-time,” said the Residence. “Would you like to see a list of the prepared meals?”

“Yes.”

I only eat shredded furrabeast steak of the highest quality,
said Drina.

Straif repeated her words aloud.

“Of course,” said the Residence. “Welcome, T'Blackthorn Fam.”

Drina preened.
I also eat cocoamousse.

Straif sighed but told the house.

“T'Blackthorn will need to hire a cook,” said the Residence.

“Right,” said Straif. He'd have to hire several people of the highest integrity. Most Residences were staffed by Family members, proud to be of service to the Head of the Household. They had all died.

A nip on his ear made him jump.

Drina landed on her feet and hissed at him.
You forgot Me. I am your Fam. No more of this gloom. We do not allow gloom anymore at T'Ash Residence. D'Ash says so. It is a good rule.

Straif bared his teeth at the cat.

She sat and stared haughtily back at him.

“T'Ash—”

“I was looking for a cure!”

She flicked her tail back and forth.
Did you find one?

“No.”

Drina swiveled her head slowly, taking in the state of the once richly elegant room. She sniffed.
This place is not acceptable to a Cat of My High Degree. There is not even one pillow adequate for Me to sit on! We must do something about it immediately. Teleport us to Lavender Square, to The Four Leaf Clover, Mitchella's shop.

“I thought I'd go to T'Apple for advice in a day or two.” After he'd surveyed what needed to be done and gotten over his shock at the state of his home, when he began to plan.

Now Drina curled back her muzzle, showing tiny pointed teeth.
The Four Leaf Clover, now. Trust Me.

He narrowed his eyes. “Trust you?”

Her tail whipped back and forth.

“You want to go out in the rain again?”

Straif looked around the room. He certainly couldn't bear to stay here.

The Residence spoke once more, the tones the only voice of his childhood remaining. “I have drawn off much of your excess energy for the initiated spells.”

Straif noticed, he felt weaker by the moment. “Right. We need something more than just a private Ritual by me to give strength to the generational spells. I'll set up a special Ritual of several FirstFamily Heads of Household.”

Time to shop.
Drina tapped a paw on his boot.

Straif stared back at her.

A female. He had a female Fam.

He blinked, then looked around the room that was now lit by firelight. Everything appeared dingy and old and worn.

And hopeless.

He stared down at her again. A female Fam. He was going to hear those words a lot.

 
 
He took the image of Lavender Square and the storefront
from Drina's mind and teleported them both. One glance at the shop had him sucking in his breath at the artfully arranged and rich sensuality of furnishings in the display window.

Drina mewed in displeasure.
It is closed
.

Straif tore his gaze from a pair of lady's golden dancing slippers seemingly kicked off. They angled against a fall of burgundy velvet that was draped across the gleaming wooden arm of a boudoir chair.

Drina sniffed.
You are T'Blackthorn with tracking Flair. Track Mitchella.

He slanted her a sour look, wanting to spend more time viewing the luxuries of the window, appreciating the woman's taste, judging—

Drina's mew shrilled.

“Right.” Automatically he shifted the focus of his eyes so he saw the distinctive colored aura-heat trails unique to every person. He narrowed his gaze. The doorway held a tangle of colored paths, but a small pool of bright yellow orange sparkling with gold flecks was obviously Mitchella Clover. He blinked. He hadn't ever seen a color quite like that. Simply the most beautiful trail he'd ever seen.

Let's get going!
Drina yowled.

Straif sighed. She continually urged him on when he wanted to indulge his natural curiosity—his investigative bent.

He stared down at her.
Why are you in such a hurry?

She flattened her ears and glared at him.
It is misting. Big FamMan. I am getting wet! And I want a GOOD pillow to sleep on tonight.

With a small whoosh of displaced air that made her jump, he formed a weathershield around her.
I could 'port your old pillow from T'Ash's,
he offered.

Her paw streaked out to bat his boot, and he took the hint to track the elusive GentleLady Clover. He kept one eye on the pulsing aura-trail and one on his new Fam, awaiting her answer.

Drina lifted her pink nose.
They never treated Me as I deserved
.

“Hmm,” Straif said. “Did you have a pillow at all?”

Drina sniffed in disdain, and Straif hid his grin. Apparently not. Obviously she thought to train him to her requirements. Still the humor she induced might make it worth while to be wrapped around a dainty paw.

 
 
In a booth at The Woad Garden, a private club she be
longed to, Mitchella stared into her wine and wondered how much longer she could keep The Four Leaf Clover open without asking for a loan from her family. She winced. She'd probably get the loan, but she'd get meddling partners, too, and that wasn't what she wanted.

Her mouth turned down. She was already lacking because she was sterile. In the huge family of Clovers who prided themselves on being the most fertile family on Celta, Mitchella was the only one in her generation unmarried and without a brood of children. Macha's disease when she was a girl had taken that from her. Sometimes the ache was so soul-deep that she could hardly bear it, even though she loved her ward, Antenn Moss, as if he were her own son. But Antenn was growing quickly and would leave her house for journeyman education soon. Another depressing thought.

So she set her mind back on her interior design shop. To have to admit to her family that her business was still struggling after four years, when she'd been sure it would be solid and successful by now, was another mark of deficiency.

She took a sip of her wine and grimaced. The Woad Garden catered to the upper middle class and lower nobility, but Mitchella's palate had become educated with the fine wines served at T'Ash Residence during her frequent dinners with her friend Danith. Thank the Lady and Lord for Danith D'Ash! Because of Danith and the complete starkness of T'Ash's new Residence, Mitchella had stayed in business this long. She'd even managed an uneasy truce with the GreatLord himself after their rocky meeting a few years ago.

She sighed and settled deeper into the smooth furrabeast leather bench. No one else was in the room, hardly anyone was in the club. Everyone was home with their families, their HeartMates, their children this rainy spring night. Only Mitchella was alone. She rolled her eyes at the self-pity, a sure sign she was tired. Usually she had too much energy to indulge in such stupidity. Well, she was human—that meant she had moments of foolishness.