Heart Fate (42 page)

She was afraid of her anger, of how it might affect her in her looming last Passage, which hovered near like lightning ready to strike. So she released it in her training and drumming.

She and Strother had developed habits—eating together, telling each other about their days. He'd been scouting Druida, and she'd asked him to keep an eye out for solitary places she might be able to teleport to and from. He'd been to the Turquoise House. When reporting that trip and his conversation with the House, his tongue had lolled in amusement.

She wasn't quite ready to leave FirstGrove, even to examine teleportation places. Not until after her last Passage when she'd be strong enough in Flair and truly an adult. But she read more of the newssheets every day, flipping quickly past the entire page that posted a reward for her.

Tinne was wonderful. He spent most nights with her, but somehow he knew when she would prefer privacy after their soaking and left. Once he had to sleep in T'Holly HouseHeart.

She gave thanks to the Lady and Lord who'd given her this sex partner. With him she began to experience and enjoy her own sexuality, though she hadn't quite gotten up the nerve to explore his body as much as she wanted. And though he was open in bed, she hadn't seen him as lighthearted as that first morning. He seemed to have withdrawn slightly from her as their relationship changed. Sometimes she caught him studying her and didn't know what it meant. Did he think she might hurt him? Such a casual affair wouldn't do that, and she was sure they could maintain their friendship after . . .

After one of them Healed enough to be denied FirstGrove.

 
 
Tinne felt like he was tottering on the edge of a crumbling cliff. He
enjoyed being with Lahsin but knew it was unwise, the tenderness and caring he felt for her was too strong, too close to real love. He didn't want a love that would rip him apart.

He didn't think that Lahsin knew her own emotions. She was physically open during sex, but kept their emotional link narrow. Furthermore, she didn't seem to realize that she was having bad dreams. More than once, he'd found her thrashing beside him, whimpering, tears on her face. When he touched her to soothe, she pulled him into insistent lovemaking.

The estimated time of her next Passage had come and gone. Tinne worried that meant her next fugue would be bad. That she was somehow not allowing it to come, that some secret inner shields kept it away. He wondered what might ignite it.

The bond between them increased in power and intimacy. When they made love, the HeartBond unfurled between them. He was her HeartMate, but he guarded his heart and so did she.

That night Tinne showed Lahsin a new fighting pattern, worked with her on defenses to side grabs, soaked, and had fabulous sex. He was still awake when she began to tremble and gasp. Ordering on a glowlight, he turned toward her, stroked her. Pretty Lahsin. Then he touched a blush rose nipple and watched it harden and smiled.

Her eyes opened.

He raised his hand from her body immediately, and when he saw her eyes widen in incipient fear, he put it behind his back.

“Don't,” she whispered.

“Don't what.”

She wet her lips but met his eyes, her own big and green. “Don't stop. It feels so good.”

“Lahsin—”

Her gaze met his and clouded. “I have a HeartMate.”

Everything in him stilled. “You had a bad dream, of him?”

“No.” She pushed tumbled hair back from her face. “But . . . a HeartMate . . .” Her eyes were vulnerable, as if she was asking him to tell her what to do. He couldn't. He wasn't ready for this discussion, felt like he was on the brink, ready to fall.

He bit back, “So do I.” Instead he ground out, “Do you want him?”

“No!”

He grabbed the bed linens, anchored himself. “Do you want me?”

“Yes!”

His gut unknotted with relief.

“But shouldn't I want him instead of you?”

He lifted his brows. “Do you know him?”

She frowned. “No. Not much, and he's been as grumpy as BalmHeal Residence. I'm afraid he's older.”

He laugh-coughed at that, slid his hand into her hair, relishing the silkeen slide of it, gave it a little tug. “That's usually how HeartMates work. The one who is older experiences Passage first and knows first. You're young. He's bound to be older. I'm older than you.”

Her eyes screwed shut. “It would be horrible if he is as old as T'Yew. Horrible.”

Tinne wanted off this subject as quickly as possible. He would let passion distract them both. He brushed her lips with his. He didn't want to talk about this, was treading as carefully as he had when he'd been in quicksand. That led to a falling sensation, and he closed his eyes, concentrating on Lahsin's lips, on her taste. Berries. She always tasted of ripe raspberries to him. He swept his tongue over her lips, and they parted. Taking the invitation, he forayed inside, and the depths of her mouth revealed more taste. Lingering orange juice— liquid sunshine—woman becoming aroused—his own body stirred, fast and hard—berries, berries, berries.

She pushed at him, and he obligingly rolled away, onto his back, then she was the one leaning over him. Her hair brushed his chest, and he trembled.

Her expression was still troubled. “Should we be doing this?”

He allowed himself a snort. “You don't want to?” Her little nipples were already tight, there was a slight sheen to her body, and he scented her arousal.

“Yes. I do. I didn't think I'd ever want sex, but you've been so wonderful.”

His stomach twisted again. At least she hadn't said what they had together was “just” sex.

She pressed her lips to his, feather light, and he groaned. He hadn't seen her coming. He'd closed his eyes without even knowing. When she withdrew he opened his eyes. She met his stare, her pupils wide, her lips red, then looked away. “It's more than just sex,” she whispered.

He reached up and curved his palm around her face, turned her head back so he could see those eyes he could drown in—fall endlessly in. “It's not just sex. It's caring.”

She smiled, slowly, beautifully, set her hand on his shoulder, and tugged. But he had other ideas. He framed her waist with his hands, lifted and set her on his lower abdomen, a little above where he really wanted her. He felt her butt wriggle against him, and he let out a groan.

She giggled.

So he flung his arms out. “I am at your command.”

Her eyes widened even more. She pursed her lips.
“Really?”

That one word told him how she had grown. It wasn't a light, girlish question, but a low statement, rich in implication. He swallowed. “Yes.”

“I get to explore you?” Her eyes gleamed.

“Yes.”

She rubbed his chest with her hands, scraped her nails over his nipples. He arched as the sensation went straight to his cock, thickening it. All his blood swept to his groin. But he didn't need to think. Not with Lahsin.

HeartMate.

He didn't need to listen to the whisperings of his mind, either. The wariness of his heart. All he had to do was feel, let his body enjoy.

So he did. Her hair teased him. Her lips teased him. Her hands stroked and caressed until he was begging between ragged breaths.

Then she licked him. All over. His control broke, and he set her where he wanted her, and she moved onto him, took him into her, and there was nothing but need and sex and climbing to the top of the mountain and falling exquisitely until he exploded into a thousand stars. He hoped when he landed it wouldn't be fatal.

Thirty-one

The next day Lahsin did her regular chores in the morning, spent
some time in the early afternoon in the stillroom, then decided to finally visit FirstGrove itself. It was near the southwest bit of the estate, close to the south door. As she approached she
felt
the atmosphere change. The air wavered before her eyes.

She passed through another spellshield, one she'd never sensed, couldn't sense now as she turned back to try. Then she understood it wasn't
quite
a shield. It was a spell that enveloped the grove, made from ancient traditions, emotions, rituals. A spell that came from the ground and the trees themselves.

It was warmer here, the light brighter. She thought she saw a wayward sparkle of Flair. She breathed deeply, and the air was different, as if she drew in the essence of the trees. With another full inhalation she tried to identify the fragrance that tickled her nose, separate the scents of the various trees. She couldn't.

FirstGrove.

Tall, beautiful trees of Earthan and Celtan origin. Trees that shouldn't quite grow together. They formed a deep semicircle with a grassy area in the middle, one that must be dotted with wildflowers in every other season. In the center was an altar that radiated age and Flair.

As if in a dream she walked up to it, touched the rough top.

Passage swamped her, spiking her temperature, sending her nauseous to her knees. Bad. This was bad. This was the
worst
.

This was the
last
. She knew it. If she survived this, she would survive Second Passage.

Immediately she erected spellshields, felt herself surrounded by an impenetrable bubble. She strove to ground herself in the real world, tried to see the trees of FirstGrove. Failed.

She didn't know the place well enough. Had there been a stand of birch ahead, or was it some other white-barked trees?

Again and again she tried to grasp reality, but it was futile.

So she took a moment to regulate her breathing inside the altered reality and looked out on a rough dark green sea that spiraled to a whirlpool.

With effort, she levitated her capsule, sent it slowly floating over the funnel. The vortex got darker and darker as it narrowed deep into the ocean, but at the bottom was a ravishing, glowing pearl.

Dread slithered through her. The pearl was her Flair, and the only way to get it was to let the awful water suck her down.

Explore the depths of her own emotions so she could grasp the prize.

If she didn't drown.

She hovered for a while, gathering her courage, preparing herself.

She wanted that Flair.

It was part of her she needed to claim.

She wanted to live.

She
could
do this.

She
would
do this.

She stationed herself above the center of the funnel. With luck she'd plummet straight down, would survive the fall and the last few whirlings around to the pearl.

Keeping her eyes open, she disintegrated the spellshield around her. A whistling wind made up of the voices of all the people she'd ever known slapped her hard. She hadn't realized there was a wind, as she tumbled through the air. She fought it, wrenched her arms, which were flattened to her body, out and up and put her hands over her ears. Still she heard the cacophony. The gale pushed her back, back, and dropped her to the edge of the whirlpool.

Fear ate at her, tears blew from her eyes to be lost in the wind, though the water was a gentle, wide circle here.

She would have to experience everything, accept her emotions, her anger, shame, guilt.

Terror.

All right, terror first. She was afraid. Of Passage, of life. But fear was part of life. She felt it soak into her, lodge inside her. There would always be fear, and sometimes it would escape and beat frantic wings of panic at her mind.

She could live with fear. She could squeeze it into a little ball inside herself and let it come when useful. And if she was frightened, she could push through the fear and do what needed to be done. Fear made her heart pound, it coated the back of her throat, but she ignored the taste, breathed through it. Mastered it with determination to survive.

She
could
do this.

She
had
done that.

Terror would not swallow her.

The ocean, which had been tinged black with fear, changed.

Whitecaps turned bloodred. She spun faster and faster, well caught now.

No turning back.

People still yelled in her ears. No!

There was an instant's quiet. Then the voices rose again, the most important to her first. Tinne's! She gasped, sucked in water, plunged under the waves, struggled above them, thought of her lover. Heard his voice. Strong. “You are allowed to hurt those trying to hurt you.”

And then he was there. Not Tinne, T'Yew.

Here. Standing motionless, a man of patterned darkness, this patch here the wrongness in him that liked to hurt others. This shiny design, pure selfishness. There was pride in the figure's stance, the lift of his head. He was larger than life, engorged with the essence of his character—the acceptance of entitlement, that he was better than any other who walked Celta.

Her pulse thudded hard in her head, racing now, louder than any of the voices. The only other sound was her own whimpering.

All else was blurring by them at a speed she couldn't comprehend, but he and she were here, in this moment.

He was real.

She'd thought all ties were broken to him, but he raised a hand, and she felt the tiniest of threads, no more than a few molecules thick. Connected to her.

His teeth gleamed, and they were huge and sharp and white.

Terror rose again.

But she had mastered it and pushed it away.

He'd said that often enough, in just that gloating tone. She waited for his ugly laugh. He always laughed after that.