Script of the Heart Read online

  "I'll give you a discount since you know a good friend of mine," Cratag ended.

  While Johns felt glad he'd passed as acceptable by such a warrior as Cratag, a worm of continuing envy wound through him. Once again, Raz had received a good offer from a nobleman. Johns would have snapped up that one up himself.

  Tilting his head, Cratag speared Johns with a look. "You can take me up on that, too."

  Johns wondered what had given his wish away. Not his expression, so some part of his manner or body language that the observant fighter had picked up on. He could learn more than just better fighting techniques from the man. He inclined his head. "Thank you, I appreciate the offer."

  "Well, then," the Healer stated and huffed a breath, as if the discussion of fighting disgusted her. "Let's move this discussion, and my Healing, into the Residence."

  T'Spindle raised his hand and the ensemble that had played background and dance music blasted out a cheerful tune. Cratag T'Marigold led the return to the ballroom. People smiled and their chatter rose about the exciting incident. Johns figured this had been a good break for them and now they wanted to drink more of the Spindles' good liquor, eat more of the good food, and dance.

  GrandLady D'Spindle arrived and took the arm of the older woman who'd had her glider broken into, and T'Spindle escorted the other two noble victims away with him. Of course, for their convenience, the guards would talk with them first. Johns and Raz, as actors, essentially employees, would be left for last.

  Raz grunted in pain, and Johns glanced at him, saw the Healer's hand on his cheek. Her thumb traced his split lip, her Flair, psi magic power, mending his mouth as Johns watched. "Deeply bruised cheekbone, bad bruise on the temple ..." She pressed on Raz's side and he yelped. Turning to Johns her hands reached to where he cradled his ribs. As much as he liked her looks and would enjoy her hands on him, he raised a palm. "I've got one broken rib and maybe another cracked one."

  "I hear you." Her beautiful features scrunched as she frowned, her full lips thinning. "What happened?"

  "Two guys got through security and trashed some of the gliders." Johns gestured to the vehicles, aware of how the light and shadow fell on his hand with the motion. He rather hoped the Healer preferred broad, strong hands to Raz's elegant fingers, and that thought had him wondering why he cared.

  Johns really liked the looks of this Healer. Not too short, a slender figure, understated curves, not overblown. She moved well and with supple poise.

  Shaking his head, he said, "That was a real pretty glider, Raz."

  The Healer said, "Come along, I'd prefer to see you both inside. We'll walk so I don't spend our Flair teleporting." Removing her hand from Raz's face she went ahead of them.

  Raz stumbled and Johns steadied him with an arm around his shoulders, gritting his teeth at the shooting pain of his own ribs. "I'll help him along."

  "That hurts," Raz muttered. "Everything hurts."

  Glancing over her shoulder, the Healer smiled approval at Johns. "That's kind of you."

  "Let's get you going, friend." Johns provided balance as Raz wove a little. He also limped. The guy might have broken toes. He wore once-elegant dancing shoes. Johns wore heavier, polished boots.

  Raz lifted his right hand and sucked on his knuckles. "Fligger."

  Now that his friend mentioned it, Johns's own hands felt scraped from hard contact with muscle and bone.

  Raz tripped again. Johns shortened his stride and slowed his steps.

  "Thanks, Johns," Raz said, sounding like he meant it.

  "'Welcome. Sorry about you and your glider."

  "You've always envied my glider," Raz said. He came from a noble Family well-known for their transportation and shipping company. "Tell you what—" They took the steps up to the terrace slowly. "Why don't I ask my father to get another sportcoupe at cost, sell it to you for the same price? As a thank you."

  Johns grinned. "In blue?"

  "Metallic blue-gray, the color you wear most often," Raz agreed.

  Johns did tend to use that tint in his wardrobe, same color as his eyes. "Done," he said. He'd raid his savings to buy the glider, a good investment. He'd go with a solid model with classic lines that would age well.

  They walked to the last door on the terrace and entered the Residence into a corridor covered in a thick maroon carpet, the walls tinted a pale peach.

  Johns had never been in the living quarters of a FirstFamily Residence, an intelligent house. The itchiness between his shoulder blades that had ruffled his nerves all evening intensified. His personal Flair, good for acting, also included a preternatural awareness of his surroundings and people. The Residence watched him—probably kept an eye on all the guests, an entity aware of each life-form inside its walls.

  The doors along the hallway showed individual carvings on each, impressing him. Raz kept rubbing and flexing his fingers, not reacting to the luxury.

  Johns glanced down, wondering whether his boots had picked up twigs and dirt from the parking field. Or his clothes. Yeah. And they flaked off as he walked the pretty corridor.

  He had the gloomy feeling that he had a few rips in his second best go-to-party-and-network clothes that would take some gilt to repair.

  A door opened down the hall and they angled through it to a sitting room furnished in a masculine fashion where blood and grime wouldn't show—much.

  The Healer—Giniana of unknown Family—motioned to a couch where Johns deposited Raz and gingerly sat down himself, giving the woman plenty of room to work.

  "Residence, more lightspells, please," she requested. Two tiny sun-like balls coalesced and circled the room, brightening it.

  Johns couldn't take his eyes off her. Beautiful features, lovely body. The light struck her hair showing a deep, true brown all the way, no hint of red or touch of blond or black. Johns was used to streaky hair in his profession, actors and actresses modifying their looks for their jobs ... or for their vanity.

  She wore no enhancements, either external herbal cosmetics or illusion spells that Johns could always spot. Also extremely unusual amongst his friends and acquaintances. Every little difference endeared her to him, and fascinated him.

  As she bent over Raz, using her Flair to finish Healing his cheek, then placed her hands on his shoulders and let her psi power flow through him to mend his other hurts, her scent drifted to Johns. The fragrance distracted him from watching a true professional work, something he considered part of his ongoing training. She smelled of peaches and spring blossoms and ... a spice he couldn't quite place but drew him in. A dark fragrance that hinted at hidden depths at odds with her open, practical manner.

  In a few minutes, she stepped back and her eyes widened. They appeared a few shades darker than the light amber he'd noticed before.

  Raz groaned and stretched languidly, his joints popping. Everything from his cheek to his hands had been Healed. Johns narrowed his eyes to see if he seemed interested in Giniana more than any man would be in such a situation.

  No. Raz had been attracted to another woman he'd met earlier—one that Johns had made a point of dancing with just to irritate Raz. She'd made Johns laugh, too, at her trenchant observations of the arty crowd in the ballroom.

  Now Raz had risen to his feet, taken the Healer's hand and bowed over it. "My greatest thanks, FirstLevel Healer."

  "I'm just doing my job."

  He continued to hold her hand, smiling charmingly, and to Johns's annoyance, she softened. "You're quite welcome, MasterLevel Actor Cherry."

  So she knew the rankings of theater people, most outsiders didn't. Interesting, though she did work for T'Spindle, perhaps she picked it up from the household. Still, a simple glance around the room showed that the GrandLord and GrandLady, like all FirstFamily nobles, had other pastimes. Fingers in many pies.

  Healer Giniana withdrew her hand from Raz and turned to Johns. "Let me take a look at those ribs of yours."

  He smiled. "Sure."

  "And your hands."

>   His hands, his body, his voice were the main tools of his trade. He held out his fingers, some of them swollen, most of them scraped.

  "Lady and Lord, Johns, they look worse than mine," Raz said.

  "I got in a few good blows." He smiled. "And unlike on stage I didn't have to pretend to hit, or hold back."

  "Yeah, yeah," Raz said. "Thanks again for the help." He grimaced. "They'd have taken me out, otherwise," he added in a tone that conveyed he didn't believe that. The Healer snapped a glance at him, then back at Johns, who let the ends of his lips curve up.

  "Anything I can do." Johns angled his torso, with only a hint of mockery.

  The Healer made a disapproving noise. "Always acting."

  Chapter 2

  "Not always," Raz protested. "My gratitude to you and Johns is real."

  But Giniana had wrapped her fingers around Johns's own and her touch sent hot licks of desire coursing through him. Good thing he hadn't worn the skintight trous that some of his colleagues favored. Even Raz's trous were more form fitting than his own.

  Soothing heat radiated from her hands and Johns quashed a moan at the pain relief. He hurt more than he'd realized. The continuing warmth prickled along his nerves leaving a great feeling behind, not only Healed and pumped full of health, but extremely aware of the woman— the soft capability of her hands, the smoothness of her skin, her touch, her energy.

  He swallowed at his unusual reaction to the woman's attractiveness, kept his gaze on where their hands joined. After far too little time, she said, "Let me mend your ribs."

  Smiling slowly, he offered, "Want me to take off my shirt and jacket?"

  "That's not necessary."

  This time she pulled up a stool before him, then placed her hands on his chest—checking the health of his heart, no doubt—and removing the newly-blooming bruises with a whisk of her fingers. Glancing down, he saw his rumpled and torn shirt, thought he'd ripped out the shoulders of his jacket. Not dressed to impress anymore, and the loss would cost him, too.

  Then her hands lay right above his ribs. She pressed and he sucked in a sharp breath at the pain that dizzied his head. An instant later he felt the bone move and align and meld together, whole once more. Her fingers stroked—and, yeah, he liked that a whole lot—and the other two cracked ribs Healed.

  After that, as she checked out his other bones and muscles, he simply enjoyed the feel of her hands on him.

  "There, I'm done," she said and he thought—he hoped—he heard a breathless note in her voice. Maybe the attraction was mutual. "You should be fine, but should I notify your Families? Your parents?"

  "My parents are dead," Johns said too quickly, forgetting to put any spin on the bald statement.

  "I'll take care of contacting my Family," Raz said at the same time.

  Her mouth relaxed, compassion radiated from her.

  "Thank you very much for your Healing." Johns gave her a crooked smile. "Since I'm no longer a patient of yours I'd like to see you later.... Why don't we go out for—"

  With a definitive snap she closed her Healing bag, one of those shaped oddly after ancient Earthan ones. Her lip curled. "I am completely uninterested in socializing with actors." She rose and walked gracefully away, hips swaying, to a chair near the fireplace.

  The rebuff hurt, then anger spurted above the sting and his determination solidified to prove her wrong about enjoying one particular actor’s company.

  Raz hooted with laughter, swallowed it when T'Spindle entered the room.

  The lord nodded to them, then said, "I've spoken with the guardsman and we agree, Raz, that this incident must tie in with the burglaries of your apartment and my theater. We should discuss this." He turned to Johns and said, "And I thank you, MasterLevel Actor Saint Johnswort, for your intervention on behalf of my employee."

  A dismissal. Johns stood and smiled, saying sincerely, "Friendship's important." The Healer shot him a wary look like she thought he lied.

  The lord gave a stiff nod. "Yes. I will remember you, Saint Johnswort."

  Johns bowed with the exact degree of depth due to a FirstFamily Lord. "Thank you, sir." He glanced around, smiled deprecatingly. "I'm the odd man out of your theatrical family here. So I'll take my leave." He said individual good-byes and strode away in a man-of-action manner.

  Once outside in the hallway, he blew out a held breath, rolled his shoulders and shook out his arms, let the cheer inside him stretch his smile to a grin.

  T'Spindle didn't own only one theater, and had, of course, contacts with all the other high-status lords and ladies who funded the arts. Johns's luck was looking up. Maybe he'd land a job soon after Firewalker closed.

  The door opened behind him and Giniana the Healer exited. Her face showed tightened muscles and narrowed eyes. "T'Spindle would like you to escort me to my cottage here on the estate," she told Johns stiffly, "just in case the assailants are lurking in the woods between this Residence and my home. He doesn't wish me to teleport there." Her lips pressed together before she continued, "I hardly think I'll have any trouble, but T'Spindle insisted."

  Johns's pulse picked up pace at being alone with her to talk, but he bowed to her, no flourishes. "My pleasure to be of service."

  She jerked a nod, murmured a Word and her Healing bag vanished, no doubt translocated to her home. But that left both her hands free. Johns wished he knew her better so he could hold one of those hands.

  They walked—Johns kept the pace to a stroll—down the corridor to the cross hallway that led to the terrace door.

  "As if I couldn't just teleport away if someone comes at me," she grumbled.

  "I've done that," he said, aware of the buzz on his skin at her presence, her scent, the luxurious surroundings they moved through.

  "What?"

  "I’ve been grappling with a villain and teleported away." He hadn't grown up in the best part of Druida City. "It doesn't always help."

  "Really?" She sounded curious. If he had to reveal himself, tell stories of his youth, he'd do it to keep her interested in him, set up for a date. Get her to his theater, maybe. At least prove to her that whatever ideas and stereotypes of actors she believed in were wrong with regard to him.

  "Yes." He backed up the story a bit. "Happened when I was a teen and hadn't gotten my growth spurt." He stopped at the door to the terrace. "This way?"

  "Yes, we can reach the path to my cottage from here."

  He opened the door to the now very dim terrace and took her elbow to help her down the stairs. Sparing some Flair, he sent a small lightspell bobbing in front of them.

  "So what happened?" Giniana asked.

  Stopping a grunt as punctuation, he replied, "I miscalculated and we both landed in my FatherDam's, my father’s mother’s, back vegetable garden. The screech of that woman." He shuddered. "I mashed some of her ripe tomatoes. Enough to wipe them out for a few weeks." And go without that tasty fruit in his limited diet.

  "Oh."

  Johns got the idea that whatever background she'd come from, it didn't include growing vegetables for dinner or his own genteel poverty. His family had been prominent once. They had a street named after them.

  "But that wasn't the worst," he said, infusing his tone with a grim note.

  "No?"

  "No."

  They'd reached the bottom of the steps. She glanced up at him. Oh, yes, he had her with his story. It wasn't one he told often so he didn't have it down pat. As an actor, not a storyteller, he could ramble or flub a personal story, so the fact that this one kept his audience involved pleased him.

  With a gesture indicating the way, Giniana moved diagonally onto a white graveled path. It wound through the grassyard surrounding the house into a large, dense stand of trees. Her cottage might be in a far corner of the Spindles' estate. Their decision to house her there, or hers?

  "What was the worst?" she prompted, her eyes wide with concern, her full lips parted.

  "The bigger bully who'd jumped me on the way home from grovestud
y barely missed having his head as a part of the corner of our house."

  She gasped. "That would have killed him, being teleported into an inanimate object."

  "Oh, yes. If he hadn't had his noggin angled close to mine ...." Johns shook his own head, gave her a triumphant smile. "Lady and Lord, he turned white. Began trembling. Almost wet his pants. Then my FatherDam began beating the both of us with a rolled up newssheet and he crawled away."

  She choked on a laugh.

  So he gave her the punchline. "Never had any trouble with him or his friends after that. They didn't know I could teleport, you see. I hadn't done it very often, and never from grovestudy to home." He shrugged. "Later that summer I grew and put on some weight."

  He thought he saw her give his build a quick, admiring glance.

  "Bullies picking on smaller children." She sighed.

  "Yes, and I wanted to be an actor even then, and during grovestudy we worked on apprenticeship applications. Mine was to the Masks Theater. They had a scholarship—" But her body had stiffened and her steps picked up pace.

  He'd lost her by reminding her he was an actor.

  Dammit.

  Was she worth so much work?

  He didn't know.

  Maybe not.

  But then she tripped over a tree root and he caught her, pulled her close to him, against his chest. Again her scent rose to his nostrils, along with a faint sheen of her sweat that triggered a deep need in him.

  She looked up at him with wide eyes, and the lightspell that had out-distanced them zoomed back and he could distinguish the amber color of her irises.

  Her body seemed to fit against his. Minimal but very soft curves of breasts and slight belly.

  Keeping his voice low and intimate, he said, "I do want to thank you. More than just words. Have you seen the play I'm in? Firewalker?"

  "You're starring in Firewalker," she corrected.

  He shrugged off the compliment as he'd trained himself to do, so he didn't seem conceited. He'd give the play his best for the remainder of the run, but already considered that role in the past. He'd start looking for another job tomorrow.