Heart Choice (47 page)

She'd never liked chartreuse. She knew Straif hurt as she had when Antenn had been lost. She lifted his hand to her lips, kissed the warm palm. He drew it away.

“It's been too quiet. I believe my enemy has been waiting for this moment and struck.”

“But it wasn't Stachys. He's at the Residence, ready to tell all he confirms you as T'Blackthorn. His Family—the rest of your Family, is with him.”

“No, it isn't Stachys. He's sane and solid. The one who left this trail is mad.”

“You know who?” Mitchella asked as he paced the Flair trail that she could no longer see.

He hesitated.

“You have an idea.”

He nodded shortly. “Perhaps. I was going to deal with this tomorrow, after the party and the formal acknowledgment by all Councils that I am T'Blackthorn. I'll have more credibility, more status tomorrow, enough power for me to do whatever has to be done.”

“You mean handle this quietly.”

“Yes. T'Ash is involved because of Zanth. I wanted to protect—” He squatted, touched another bit of blood. “Ah, I thought so,
not
Drina's blood. The other's.” He brought his fingertip with the dab of red to his mouth, tasted it. Shuddered. Weariness and regret crossed his face. “No time to waste. She is truly mad.”

He shifted his stance like he was about to teleport. Mitchella grasped his biceps with both hands. “Take me with you.”

Looking down at her, he shook his head. “You could get hurt.”

“You can protect me with a shieldspell.”

“Yes.” He grimaced. “But you'll be going with me to Kalmi Lobelia's home. My old lover.”

Her heart jumped, but she nodded and said, “Take me with you. She won't be expecting me. I could provide a distraction.”

“I don't know—”

She kissed him hard on the lips, stepped back. “We do this together. A shieldspell, T'Blackthorn!”

He flicked his fingers, and a bubble descended to encase her. It tightened around her body, coating her like a second skin. For an instant she couldn't breathe, then a click sounded inside her head. Moving in the shield was like wearing a heavy onesuit that covered her face and curved around her eyes.

“You're protected,” Straif said with satisfaction, took one of her hands in his tight grip. “Let's go.”

“Prepare yourself. One and two and
three!
”

There was a whoosh, and the next instant they appeared in the stone courtyard outside a deteriorating house. Scraggly weeds grew between gaps in the paving stones, the plaster on the walls was spiderwebbed with cracks. Mitchella frowned. In itself, the place was beautiful. Surely a Nobleman's home, one of GrandHouse status.

“They definitely need me,” she said. “This looks worse than T'Blackthorn Residence did.”

Straif winced. “I think it's been like this for years, and I never noticed.” A muscle played in his jaw. “I sense great madness. Drina may need us both.”

“Yes.” It wouldn't be pleasant confronting his old lover, but she'd ignore any proprieties to help Drina. “I should definitely distract the GrandLady.” The woman probably had a lot of Flair. Mitchella was glad of the shieldspell.

Straif strode up to the pointed-arched door and shoved it in with his shoulder. It creaked terribly.

“Don't you think we should be quieter?”

“I think she's expecting us . . . at least me.”

He left the door open, sagging on its hinges. Bright sunlight from the outside barely penetrated the gloom. Straif strode in silently. Mitchella followed, treading lightly. Something about the place demanded that.

It reeked of madness.

The odor hit her first. Heavy, unfamiliar incense that made her woozy, mixed with mildewed dankness, mice, even spoiled food. At least she hoped it was food. The atmosphere contained an oppression that hinted anything could happen.

The house wept. Mitchella's flesh prickled at the faint sobs. It sounded as if it had been weeping for a long time. She swallowed hard.

She nearly lost Straif as he threaded the shadowed hallways. He was obviously familiar with the house. Mitchella strove to recall anything she'd heard about his affair with Kalmi Lobelia. Nothing. She knew nothing, so she braced herself for a confrontation with a mad stranger.

Abruptly they were in a shrouded room so thick with incense that fumes hung near the ceiling. GrandLady Lobelia sat on a pile of huge pillows made from Chinju rugs, colors faded from too much smoke.

The woman had hair a shade darker than Mitchella's, their coloring was nearly the same, and Mitchella would bet Lobelia had green eyes, too. She was built of rounded curves. Bitterness coated Mitchella's tongue. She froze, wanting nothing more in the world than to be out of the awful crying house with the crazed woman who was Straif's previous lover—and of the same physical type. He didn't even seem to realize that.

The shock that kept Mitchella still served them. Lobelia had focused on Straif, not seeming to notice that he wasn't alone. Mitchella silently sidled back to the deep doorway shadows, ready to spring her appearance on the woman at the right time. She hoped. Surely Straif would give her a cue.

“Kalmi,” Straif said in a too quiet voice. “Still using pylor smoke to amplify your powers?”

“I need it to
see,
to retain my Flair and my reputation.”

“I'm surprised you have any clients coming to this place.” He gestured, but his gaze remained fixed on her.

Kalmi sat up straight. “You've been spending too much time with that Commoner who is working in your house.” She spread her arms. “Don't you know
we
are meant to be together? I have
seen
us—and our children.” She struggled to rise, but fell back to half-recline against the pillows. “Our children, Straif, strong and healthy, and grown to adulthood. That nasty flaw of yours won't kill them like it did the rest of your Family. You must trust my sight, my love for you. We belong together.”

Mitchella saw Straif swallow, but he continued to stand very still. He waved to something to his left, out of her sight. “Harming my Fam won't make me trust you, Kalmi. It will hurt me. Hurt us.”

Angling herself, Mitchella strained to see what he was talking about. She stared at the limp Drina on a black altar. She'd been infuriated by the little cat just that morning, but never would have thought to harm an animal.

“This is sick,” she whispered. Straif's shoulders tensed, and she pressed her lips together so no more words would escape.

Kalmi smiled with awful delight. “But I've found that a little ceremony to the Dark Goddess and the release of energy at the point of death can boost my Flair. I thought we could use it in our HeartBonding. We
are
HeartMates, Straif. I
saw
it.”

The prophetess was so crazy, the atmosphere so gruesome, Mitchella's flesh crept. She fought shudders.

“I must insist on taking my Fam,” Straif said, gliding slowly to the altar.

“No. No! She'll bring me power. I'll show you how!” With unexpected speed and agility Kalmi shot to her feet.

To Mitchella's utter amazement, Lobelia jumped Straif. Mitchella ran into the room, scooped up Drina, and ran out, shrieking mentally,
Danith!
Her fear must have made an impression, because her friend appeared—formally dressed for the party—in Lobelia's shabby courtyard.

Mitchella thrust a limp Drina into Danith's arms. “Here, take care of her. I need to help Straif.”

Danith looked startled, then turned her attention to the FamCat. “Bad,” she said. “Very bad. Bad Flairspells and poison. I'll take her to my home FamClinic.” She winked out silently.

Lobelia had definitely been waiting for Straif. He was lying bound by strips of Chinju rug, wrapped around him like the tree branches that had caged Mitchella. Kalmi held a knife, her whole body trembling so much with crazed sobs that Straif was in real danger. Mitchella stormed in, lowered her shoulder in a move she'd learned from her brothers, and ran straight at Kalmi. Mitchella hit the woman in her middle. Her stomach was much larger than Mitchella's. She felt a dull blow on her back, the knife skittered away. Lobelia shrieked, her words garbled. “I've seen in my visions, it's me he's with,
me,
not you, not you, notyou.”

Knife gone, Lobelia's clawlike hands grabbed Mitchella, tore at her and slid off the shield. Shrieking, Kalmi pummeled her. The blows didn't hurt much and infuriated Mitchella. She lost all reason, and fought back, striking with fisted hands, kicking.

They rolled over and over, banged into a struggling Straif, then over to the black altar. With a keening triumph, Kalmi reared back, breaking Mitchella's hold, and pulled on the heavy velvet drape. Heavy objects fell on Mitchella, glancing against her head, on her chest, taking her breath.

Kalmi rose above her, with another knife. “He wants me. He needs me. He always came to me before. I
love
him and will take him, curse and all!” She plunged the knife down.

Mitchella curled inward, took the blow on the back again. Pushed against Kalmi, and tangled them both in the cloth. Dust and smoke rose from the fabric, hazing Mitchella's mind, weakening her limbs.

House, help me! I'll help you, I vow!
Mitchella cried. The House bordered on sentient, she knew, but could it help? Plaster fell, a beam groaned overhead, and Mitchella fought, kicked, shoved away from the madwoman. Straif tore away his bonds. The end of the beam creaked down, building speed. Mitchella rolled, and Straif yanked her aside, as the rafter fell on Lobelia.

Mitchella staggered to her feet, brushing her hair back, panting.

Straif stood looking at Lobelia, buried in plaster rubble and broken wood. Horror echoed back and forth between them, spiking high in Straif. He'd cared deeply for the woman once.

Mitchella closed her eyes against his hurt and her own.

“Is she . . .”

With careful steps, Straif approached Lobelia's motionless forearm, all that was visible. He bent, felt for a pulse, sent out a Flaired probe. Mitchella felt the zip of energy. Lobelia didn't.

“Yes, she's dead. Her soul is gone, circling on the Wheel of Stars, poor thing.”

Straif turned and stared at Mitchella, features cast in disbelief. “You talked to the house, and it helped you.”

She dusted herself off. The personal shieldspell had attracted the white plaster dust. “You talk to your Residence all the time.”

“It's a
Residence.
A . . . a . . . being?”

“Housebeing. Sentient House. Flaired House.” Mitchella shrugged. “All you FirstFamilies have sentient houses. That's what makes them Residences. They've been the homes of Flaired people so long they're imbued with magic. You store Flair within them. You give it to them for scheduled spells. You have Rituals and Ceremonies in them where you all raise energy. Of course they become beings.”

Straif still looked shocked. He opened his mouth and closed it, gestured around them. “But this isn't a Residence.”

Mitchella sniffed. “It's been the home of Flaired Grand-Lords and Ladies for many generations, so it's in the act of becoming.”

He blinked as if he couldn't get the idea through his head that the house had saved him. “My Residence would never hurt me.”

She tilted her head. “Of course not.” He was having a hard time comprehending the matter, and she didn't know why. “You know the value of your home. You treat it with respect. It is, after all, another member of your Family. Lobelia never treated the House as a being, never cared for it. Why should a being protect one who never protected it?”

Straif just shook his head, looked at Kalmi, and grimaced. “Um. Can you ask the house to move the debris on Kalmi, so I can teleport her to the Death Grove?”

“The beam and wall fragment are no longer attached to the House, so it has no control over them. Can you take off my shieldspell?”

He looked uneasily around. “What if something else—”

“The House is perfectly in control.”

With a Word, the shieldspell was gone. Mitchella checked her own Flair. Sufficient. It wouldn't be the first time she'd cleared rubble from a house, and it wouldn't be the last. It would be the most memorable. With a brief spell, she provided Flair for a debris removal spell and initiated it. The House caught at the magic eagerly, boosting the spell with its own long-stored Flair for housekeeping that hadn't been used for years. The sheer power of the spell spun her and sent her to bump and lean against a wall, facing away from the destruction. She was glad, she hadn't really wanted to watch the revealing of Lobelia.

A few moments later, the room quieted. “Is it done?”

Straif said, “Yes, there's a hole in the ceiling, and the wall is completely gone. Apparently it was a partition that the house didn't like.” His voice sounded funny. He'd probably never seen a house remodel itself.

Then he sighed. “I'll 'port Lobelia to the Death Grove,” Straif said, then intoned a Word.

A slight sound and a surge of emotion from the house notified Mitchella that Lobelia's body was gone.

She turned back, and the room's appearance had changed dramatically. The smoke stains on the walls had vanished, leaving them a nearly blinding white, the pillows gleamed with renewed sateen texture and brilliant, jewel colors. The hole in the ceiling looked square and tidy, waiting for someone to reinsert a beam. As Straif had said, the false wall was gone and the chamber was much larger, with long, clean windows that painted squares of sunlight on the gray stone floor.