Heart Fire (Celta Book 13) (17 page)

Will you be building in a HouseHeart?
she asked.

His throat got clogged again. “That’s very confidential.”

I will not tell anyone who is not directly involved.

Antenn figured that since he knew little about the entities involved, that promise left a few loopholes. This time he answered mentally, too.
Yes, a HouseHeart chamber has been designed.

Good!
T’Blackthorn HouseHeart sounded satisfied.
We will be pleased to welcome him to our ranks.

“Him?” Antenn asked aloud.

Though two of their spirits are considered female, or gender-neutral, the Cross Folk tend to be male dominant
, the HouseHeart stated.

“Ah.” Antenn hadn’t thought that through.

So the cathedral will likely take a male persona.

“Oh.” The word slurred from his mouth. Tiredness began to press upon him.

You should slee—meditate
, the HouseHeart said.

“Mmm.” He heard a faint hissing, from the air vent? Or maybe it was an extra sound from the fire . . . or the fountain . . . and there was another, nice fragrance wafting around him.

I did want to speak to you of something
, the HouseHeart said in an ultrasoothing, lilting tone.
Antenn Blackthorn-Moss, son of the Blackthorns by love.

He smiled. “Mmmm?”

One time, long ago, you put a lockspell on your mind and emotions in regard to your HeartMate.

HeartMate. That word had always been fraught with pain, with danger, with fear. So why wasn’t he feeling much now? Nothing much more than a sleepiness, a drifting into a trance.

You asked my help to make that spell, and I agreed, and we did it in a trance rather like the one you’re falling into now.
Her voice pattered.

I sort of re . . . re . . . r’mem . . . ber . . . that.

You are an adult now. Not a fearful boy. A man. We do not think it wise that you keep such a lockspell.

Several words and phrases there that should cause alarm, and didn’t. And, like, who was this specific
we
?

He slipped into an odd space—mental, emotional, he didn’t know. There was a sense of floating, of complete peace . . . nothing he had to do, nothing he had to worry about . . . though he knew who he was, and that the cathedral project could be all-consuming. Didn’t matter.

And then, then, his body bowed as the sound of flesh hitting flesh came,
smack, smack, smack!
He felt nothing, but his mind reeled because what had been gray mist all around him now flashed bright colors of the spectrum, iridescent, holding huge worlds in each droplet.

The mist became a waterfall and cascaded through him until he didn’t know if he was more than rushing water. He pooled and emotions whirled through him. Need.

Lust.

“It is done now. I will withdraw,” said the HouseHeart.

And, yeah, he recognized her voice, was all the way back in his body, with skin sensitized so that he felt hot, moist atmosphere enveloping him. His face was wet.

The tiny brush of flowing air scraped at him, as if he had a virulent sunburn. More, his favorite muscle was rampant.

What the fliggering fligger had the HouseHeart
done
to him? Scowling, he thought back to its—her—words. Removed a lock on his emotions . . . the HeartMate thing he’d been so scared of experiencing at odd times in his daily life. He’d had more Flair than he’d known, triggered more and expanded more when he began living with Straif. His life had turned inside out and upside down and he’d struggled, especially during Passages—the dreamquests that freed his Flair.

After second Passage, which had been unusually lengthy and featured a long term of flashbacks, he’d asked for and been allowed the HeartMate block. It had been removed during his time of Third Passage, then reinstated.

Now, apparently the lock was gone and whatever HeartMate yearnings or connection might have withered was back.

He was sure he could have done without it—forever. HeartMates weren’t for the likes of him, a stray who’d run with a gang Downwind. They were for Nobles or people who had exceptional Flair—no, just for Nobles. He didn’t like the idea that some
force
would drop him in the lap of some woman and make him googly-eyed and love-daft over her.

Though, right now, contemplating his cock, he wouldn’t mind having a woman dropped into his lap.

“Sleeeeppp.” That was a hushed word in a genderless voice and it occurred to him that septhours might have passed, maybe even most of the night, while the HouseHeart was tinkering with his mind and his emotions and
himself
.

Another fragrance wafted through the chamber, and this he recognized as a sleep aid. He stretched a little and winced, even the soft grass chafed under him. Might as well let that bank of darkness flood him, take him.

The next thing he knew, he stood in the dark on a solid stone terrace overlooking what had been old Downwind. The FirstFamilies had moved in and rehabbed the place more than a decade and a half ago. No more shanties . . . most of the gangs had broken or had moved to the countryside and tried their hands at banditry and then were killed or dissolved . . .

He shifted his feet, stopped. That would have gotten a reprimand from his old fighting trainer. Hell, would have him singled out for practice and demonstration at The Green Knight now. But he felt great. He was naked, but that didn’t bother him and the granite under his feet made him proud. This terrace had been built just last year, and he had designed it. Before him wound parks that looked lush and green even in the night, along with a few creeks that had been hidden by rickety structures. Now all was beautiful.

He descended the stone steps to the park and began walking on the path. The area was so very changed, yet he knew, in his very bones, where his mother’s lean-to had been, where he’d grown up before she died. He’d never been back. Had shuddered to think of it.

He walked, more like floated, to the place, and found himself in the center of a small garden, hedges around him. Blackthorn hedges. Straif must have seen the place in Antenn’s mind.

As he turned, his feet scuffed thick, lovely moss, and the scent of rich earth and thick greenery came. The inner space wasn’t large, four meters at the most, and in the center stood a sundial on a pedestal. Pretty.

“It’s lovely,” said a woman’s voice behind him, and before he could turn, she wrapped her arms around him and he stiffened, and flushed. She was naked, too. Her breasts flattened against him.

“I’ve wondered where you were. And it’s here. But I don’t know where here is.” Her voice was husky, the essence of woman, any woman, all women.

But he knew who she was. His HeartMate.

H
e couldn’t seem to care that his HeartMate had found him. Probably because she’d moved a little and her hand had closed around his shaft.

Fabulous.

His eyes had closed, and his mouth had opened. He’d thought he was going to say something, but all the words had fallen out of his head and he only breathed harshly and rapidly.

“Lie down with me,” she whispered, and then he did, atop soft moss cool beneath his back and his butt. She sat beside him, a fascinating shadow, and he thought of blinking to bring her into focus, but . . . didn’t want to.

Her hands brushed his hair away from his face, trailed over his forehead, each of his features, and he began to tremble. He
knew
what she wanted, breathed that knowledge in with her scent. She wanted to touch him, head to toe.

At least.

Yes, he trembled.

Her fingers traced his brows, stroked his cheeks again, explored the angle of his jaw, feathered down his neck to the hollow there. Then she swept her hands along the curve of his collarbone, and for the first time in his life he thought of
himself
as a structure, bone and tendons, muscles and skin, the container for his thoughts, his emotions, all that he considered his self. His soul.

But she’d put her hands around the curve of his right shoulder, felt it, kneaded his biceps, and a groan cracked from him.

“Ah, lover,” she said, leaning forward and kissing his mouth, her soft lips sinking against his own that felt plush, too. Swollen from need. All of him throbbed with need.

She nibbled at the edge of his mouth, then kissed under his ear, tasted his jaw, his neck. She shifted and lay beside him. He thought she’d propped herself on one elbow, but his gaze had fixed to the magnificent spangles of the stars.

Her hand went to his chest, teased his light hair, measured the breadth of his torso, angled downward to his hip, to his thigh.

He dug for and found one word only. “Please.”

“Yes. I will please myself, and I will please you,” she said, and touched him. One long stroke and he was gone, shattered, thrown to the stars, sinking into the earth, floating away in the air.

But when his wits coalesced again, he found her lying atop him. His first deep breath moved her breasts against him, her soft stomach against his, and his sex stirred again. His hands went to the globes of her butt, muscle covered with smooth skin, perfect texture against his palms.

Her head lay against his shoulder and her legs intertwined with his, though her feet . . . all of her . . . wasn’t as long, as tall as he. His muzzy mind couldn’t judge how tall she might be if they stood together, though when she’d been behind him, her chin hadn’t reached his shoulder, and he wasn’t a tall man.

His breath had barely begun to ease, his shaft to harden, when she moved. Now she lifted her head and he felt her hair skim across his skin, caressing him in a completely different way than her mouth and her fingers. Another moan tore from him and evaporated into the air like a sigh.

She slipped downward and his hands fell away from her derriere, and then her tongue touched his right nipple, licked it, and it beaded and he panted, tried to raise his right hand but had no strength. The woman was over him, shifting along him, warm, supple, graceful, overloading him with a barrage of sensations. Under him was soft and cradling moss. He couldn’t move.

Then she feathered kisses to his other nipple and he heated; fire shivered down his nerves and he shuddered but could do nothing but experience.

Her mouth vibrated against his skin as she spoke or chanted or sang, and he felt the unknown words sink deep into him, coat the inside of his bones. Her lips caressed, her tongue tasted, and he
ached
waiting for her to get to his shaft.

He reached and his arms worked and his hands closed and his fingers caught her hair that slid silkily across his palms and escaped. His legs widened and she knelt between them and touched his straining cock again and he jackknifed, caught her under her arms, drew her up until her damp sex slid along him. Changing his grip to her hips, he lifted and she moved with him and then she was atop him and then he was
in
!

Exquisite paradise. Nothing, nothing, nothing in his life had been as good as this. She sheathed him warmly, wetly, tightly.

Now he went blind. Their joining encompassed his world.

They rocked together. Rose and fell. Slow, but the pulse of his blood beat in his ears, through him, through
her
setting the rhythm of their mating. Until they spun together outside the world, outside time. Only the joining necessary.

Faster. Harder.
Now!

Sensation swamped him and he drowned in it, in her scent and her crooning and her enveloping self, sex and arms and throbbing emotions.

The brightly colored starbursts behind his eyelids vanished and the blackness took him.

*   *   *

E
ons later Antenn awoke, head pounding. “Wha—? What’s that?” His dry lips formed the sounds, and they emerged as questions.

The HouseHeart said, “It is time for you to prepare for work.” And those sounds made sense, too, and the pounding turned out to be a pattern of melodious, soft chimes. He sat up and it felt like the grass under him abraded his skin. Pressing his fingers to his eyes, he yelped.

What is wrong, Antenn?
asked the HouseHeart.

“My skin—I dunno—
all
of me feels scoured or like I have a really deep sunburn.”

What was probably a small hum from the HouseHeart buzzed in his ears like ten thousand bees. He clapped his hands over his ears, and that had a cry ripping from his throat.

“Hmm,” the older-woman voice said.

“Too loud!” he shouted, but it was the barest whisper.

I believe that removing the emotional lock has left all your senses extremely, ah, sensitive
.

“Yeah, got that,” Antenn answered hoarsely. He didn’t want to move. He felt just as bad as before . . . he fell into the sexy dream. Well, he supposed his inner self, his nonphysical self felt pretty damn good, but his body . . .

Let us consider our options
, the HouseHeart said.

“
Our
options?” Antenn snapped.

I will help you if you will let me, son of the Blackthorns.

He began to grit his teeth, stopped that in a hurry. Fliggering fligger, even his
teeth
hurt.

You can teleport to a HealingHall
, the HouseHeart stated.

“Naked?”

They’re Healers, Antenn.

“No.”

Slowly, carefully, he stood, stretching each muscle millimeter by millimeter. One step on a raw foot and pain-sweat drenched his scalp.

Please, wait. I was not aware that this problem could occur. I am consulting with other sources.

“All right.” Antenn looked at the fountain, wished it were big enough for him to submerge himself in it. As it was, he figured a droplet hitting his skin would bring him to his knees, which would end him entirely.

We have decided to try a combination of things
, the HouseHeart stated, an odd resonance to its voice as if it were not a single being.

“Yeah?”

You can clothe yourself in illusion—

Antenn closed his eyes. It didn’t hurt. In fact, he felt better with his eyes shut; everything had been too bright. “No. Absolutely not. I am not walking around naked.”

Ah. We can have your mother prepare a very good potion that should ease your sensitivity.

“Take it away?” He perked up.

Not exactly. It seems to us that the most problematic of your senses is touch—your skin. The potion can, ah, adjust your sight, hearing, smell, and taste, but your skin will remain as if you have that bad sunburn.

“Great.”

It should wear off during the day.

“I hear you. And what am I supposed to wear?”

Your mother is also taking care of that.

“Well, if anyone knows clothes and fabrics, it’s Mitchella.”

She will be down shortly.

“All right.”

We suggest that along with the potion, you subsist on liquids until the sensitivity fades.

“Wonderful.”

We are sorry this happened to you; however, we would like to point out that had you not had the emotional lock on so long, the effects of its removal would not have been so dire.

Nerving himself, he said a short after-sex cleansing spell that every gentleman who cared about himself and his partner knew. By the time it was done he was curled over with hands braced on his knees, head down.

A perfunctory knock and his mother walked in. She had some opaque tissue-thin fabric draped over one arm, and in her other hand she carried a tall tube of murky brown liquid.

“Drink this first.”

He took it and heroically swallowed the nasty stuff and threw the tube in the reconstructor. Watched narrowly as his mother snapped the sparkly white film of cloth out and saw it was some lame, all-encompassing robe.

“Put this on,” she said.

With a pained glance, he shook his head and she gave him that stern-mother I-am-not-going-to-accept-refusal look. “It is a very expensive robe. You
will
wear it.”

He opened his mouth to continue to disagree and she stabbed a finger at him and he shut it.

“The robe is imbued with several spells.” Now she raised that perfectly manicured index finger. “First, once the robe is on, though the fabric is light and breathable, barely touching the skin, it will
look
like whatever you want it to. As long as you aren’t in the company of a null who kills spells,
no one
will sense that it is any different.” Another finger went up. “Second, if necessary, it has a slight no-contact spell, and I have started that. No one will get close to you. Not close enough to touch you, which is what you want, right?”

“Yes, Mitchella.”

She nodded. “You might also want some sort of an additional spellshield for backup, but I don’t have the Flair for that. I do have this garment.” She held it out.

He took it, shrugged it over his head, and let it settle, without too much pain, over his body. It felt a little like a dressing gown.

“Now visualize what you were going to wear today.”

Even though she’d taught him about dressing professionally, he rarely decided what to wear until he looked in his closet after his morning waterfall. Today would probably be meetings with his clients, so that was preeminent on how he needed to present himself. Probably a talk with Tiana Mugwort.

The trenches for the foundation had gone in yesterday, and he’d supervised that, but he’d need another go-ahead from the Chief Ministers to actually begin the real building of structure . . . the final cutting of the massive stone blocks from the quarry and translocating them to the site. He wasn’t sure how quickly they’d authorize that, so he wouldn’t dress for fieldwork today. Despite everything Mitchella said, he wasn’t sure he’d trust the dressing gown to the elements sweeping across the plateau.

“Antenn?” she prompted.

So he visualized not his best tunic and trous, but one step down—simple and brown and with embroidery on his cuffs that showed the plants that gave him his name: blackthorn leaves and moss clumps.

Mitchella said, “At full strength, the no-contact spell should last a good half day, then will gradually diminish. The cloth-transformation spell will last a full month.”

He looked down at himself and though he
felt
a dressing gown, he saw boot liners, trous, and tunic. He pinched the fabric on the sleeve and his fingers touched good-quality cloth. Different on the inside than the outside. He shrugged. That was Flair for you.

With an intricate spell verse, he conjured up a spellshield. He’d used that one in grovestudy when he didn’t want to fight bullies who insulted him with his brother’s crimes. It had been a while since he’d summoned it, but it came quickly and was solid.