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 | Meljean Brook, Chris Marie Green, Erin McCarthy, Susan Sizemore |
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 | Claudia Dain, Allyson James, Robin Schone, Shiloh Walker |
Excerpt Chapter 1 Druida City, Celta, 404 Years After Colonization, Spring, late afternoon Get Me down! GET ME DOWN! The telepathic demand was imperious. Straif Blackthorn had just descended the stairs of the door of The Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon, after his daily bout with his cuz Tinne Holly, when he heard the imperious telepathic demand. Get ME down! The mental cry, attached to a screech that could only come from a Siamese cat, speared through his head. He wanted to put his hands over his ears as the pitch built and the torment continued, drowning out the swish of pouring rain. But a hunter always kept his hands free. Straif glanced around the sidewalk and street. The smallest shiver of movement caught his attention. There, atop a gray stone wall, crouched under the small overhang of a second-story windowsill, was a damp cat. A Fam—Familiar—an intelligent animal with psi powers who could mentally communicate with people. She glared at him with bright blue eyes. White with a dark mask of brown, she didn't look purebred Siamese, but when she shrieked again, he knew he couldn't deny that piercing note in her yowl. Get Me Down. I do not belong in this filthy rain. The rain of Celta smelled fresh and clean, even here in Druida city. The city added its own aromas, that of evening dinners, the scent of glider, stridebeast, horse. And wet cat. You, Straif Blackthorn, you come here and get Me down, the cat meowed. He scowled. Small, dainty, half-Siamese, and telepathic. It could only be a female. And it could only come from the GreatHouse T'Ash. Warily he moved under the window and reached up. She jumped down instead. "Umph!" he grunted as she landed on his shoulder and dug in her claws. "Stop it, or you're ending up in the gutter, cat." Balancing, she retracted her claws until they just hooked into his clothing. I am a Fam, daughter of the Cat Zanth who is Familiar to T'Ash. "I can tell." I am YOUR Fam. Straif stiffened, turned his head to stare into her blue eyes. He noticed her pink nose, her elegance. I will be good for you, a close companion. He wondered if that would be true. "Let's consider a temporary alliance, for, say, six eightdays." 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. The purr continued. That sound 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. 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. I heard this morning that you are staying in Druida and opening up T'Blackthorn Residence. 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 which was why his steps lagged. I will help. I am a Cat of great taste. Surely you have noticed My beauty. "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 spellshield around her. She delicately hummed a small purr. Very nice. I knew I made no mistake in taking you as My FamMan. "Right." Where do we go? He wanted to hunch his shoulders, more against the thoughts that threatened to inundate him than the rain. "T'Blackthorn Residence," he said. Since he was GrandLord T'Blackthorn, it was only 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?" Drina. It is a Blackthorn name. He sighed again. She was going to drag his emotions back from the frigid storage he'd placed them in when his family had died fifteen years ago. 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 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. This will take many great spells. Much of your Flair and strength and energy and knowledge. Much gilt. "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 chased after them. Straif ignored her and glanced around the room. The warm Earth-maple 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 cheerfulness. 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," the 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 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. When all was as tidy as currently possible, he asked. "I would like a tally of the food available in no-time storage." A holo sphere 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 cocoa mousse. 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—" All T'Ash's Family died, too, but he stayed. He did not run away. "I was looking for a cure!" She flicked her tail back and forth. Did you find one? "No." Drina swivelled 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 and begun 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. Trust Me and follow Me. "You want to go out in the rain again?" It will be worth it. You will make Me a weathershield. 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 a 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. Time to shop. 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 to angle against a fall of burgundy velvet 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 the one before him, simply the most exquisite 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 of 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 weather shield 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. "Hmmmm," 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 the booth at her club, 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 was 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 was a private club catering 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 back. 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. Mitchella pushed her glass aside and leaned back on the firm-but-giving bench back. She nodded. She'd done a good job with The Woad Garden. A smile hovered on her lips. This chamber was a dark hunter green with gleaming oak trim and shutters. With the brown leather benches in the booths and a touch of brass in the accessories, it was supposed to appeal more to the masculine patrons, but she'd ensured that a woman would feel comfortable, too. A bit of pleasure warmed her. She'd done a good job here, and every place where she'd consulted. Why was it so difficult getting commissions? She tapped her fingers on the table and noticed her nail tint had faded. Feeling like she wanted something a little more elegant than the jade that matched her onesuit, she concentrated. After a moment her nails became a delicate, shimmering pink. She was still admiring her hands when Weat, the owner's younger son, poked his head into the room. When he saw her, he grinned. It was so good to see someone brighten at the sight of her that Mitchella relaxed and sent him a genuine smile. His stare fixed on her breasts as often happened with boys that age and his glance glazed a bit, then he hurried to her. "There's a man here to see you about business." Weat darted a glance around the room. "You can use this room for a while, if you'd like." He grimaced. "We aren't busy tonight." Mitchella rose and shook off her gloom. A little humming in her bones let her know her future called. She knew it was only a matter of time before The Four Leaf Clover exploded into success. Perhaps this was the moment! She beamed at Weat. "Thank you very much, GentleSir." Weat flushed. "I'll send him back." A moment later a man's large outline filled the shadowy doorway. As he walked into the mellow light, her insides tensed. He should have looked out of place in the elegant club, but he didn't. She studied him, aware of contradictions. He moved with supple grace and carried himself with inherent arrogance—an arrogance that shouted "Nobleman." Yet he displayed more than a few rough edges. His clothes, though of good quality, looked frayed at the shirt cuffs. And the shirt cuffs showed no embroidery denoting a noble name. She relaxed. Though she cultivated a good, professional manner for Nobles and interacted well with NobleLadies, she didn't like NobleLords. But this man wore working trous with narrow legs instead of excess, costly fabric caught and cuffed at the ankles. Scuffed and scratched celtaroon boots—and it took heavy duty to scar celtaroon—molded his narrow feet and muscular calves. The celtaroon itself had faded from its original orange and blue pattern to beige and gray, something that took years. His jaw showed dark stubble, and his body looked far harder than anyone would expect a pampered nobleman's to be. She could only figure that the aura of complete power was due to his competence in the untamed wilds of Celta. He sizzled her nerve endings. She was a tall woman, built on voluptuous lines, but he was taller still, with shoulders that could block her view. Dark and dangerous, with only a hint of refinement and an undercurrent of sensuality, her senses thrummed to life in pulses that sent a flush under her skin and stirred her. She smiled, pleased at the hum of attraction, it had been a while for her. She glanced at his wrists again. He didn't wear marriage cuffs. Mitchella swept a wisp of tumbled hair behind her ear, glad she was wearing the jade silkeen one-suit that contrasted well with her flame-colored hair. She shifted her shoulders a bit so more tendrils fell over the curves of her breasts, and she smiled, adding a bit of her Flair—charisma—to enhance herself. |
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