Page 128 of Ulune's Daughter

KELLAN

Luca has to be the world’s most undemanding travel companion.

He didn’t flinch when Didrane appeared. Maybe he’s used to random, mythical figures appearing as he walks the Fae Ways, but that was a first for me. And I guess I’ll be pulled to the Court of Cold Mist every time I enter Faery now. At least it’s still flirting with me instead of trying to trap me.

He didn’t question why I dragged him all the way to the Force Isela, the low falls of Faery. I’m not sure why I felt compelled there myself. It’s like how I knew Rachel’s potion needed more rosemary. I knew the waterfall’s mists would protect us as we walked back into the mortal world. Any passage through the Veil has an element of risk. Faery doesn’t always gently return what it takes. But after meeting Didrane, the risk felt more concrete, and the falls felt safe.

He doesn’t demand to know why I’ve brought him a quarter way around the mortal world, to the south-west coast of Italy. To a tiny town that’s better known for its golden beach than the ancient fortress perched on a rock, where a woman some might have called a monster once made her home.

Luca takes it all in with his light green eyes. His eyes aren’t exactly like his family’s. His are more amber than his brother’s and sister’s, with a deeper green ring around the iris. Still, I probably should have realized he and Lawson were family before I did. He could be pissy about me dating his brother, after I rebuffed him so firmly. Instead, he’s as accepting of that as he is of anything else. He hasn’t even grumbled about not being able to take my plane-walking class, although maybe he’s planning to leverage my relationship with his brother into private tutoring. I’ve already decided to offer that to him at the end of this semester; he deserves it after his contributions to my research.

Since I pointed out the different scents in the Air, he lifts his head often, sniffing. Once he turns his head to look north, flaring out his nostrils. He makes a funny huffing noise but remains silent as we leave the woods and venture into the narrow streets of Scilla.

Pastel-plastered buildings rise up around us, their terra-cotta-tiled roofs gleaming in the sun. They grow from one-story boxes on the edge of town to four and five story hotels by the water. Scilla is right on the ocean, with our destination sitting on top of the rocky promontory that juts out into the sea.

There are humans in the narrow streets of the ancient city, going about their lives, but nothing like the crowds that would be here in warmer weather. Although sunny and pleasant, particularly after the snowy slopes of Vermont, there’s a cool breeze blowing off the water. Not beach weather. The locals are wearing long sleeves and jackets, with a sprinkling of heavier coats, scarves, and hats in earthy colors. They take no notice of Luca and me as we walk through the narrow streets. Most look through us, which tells me that Luca has the same natural glamor I have. Humans don’t see us unless we make a conscious effort to appear to them. The few with something more than human in their DNA who meet my eyes nod or smile, but don’t greet us. We look like tourists and they don’t make an effort beyond normal politeness with off-season tourists. Probably exhausted from peak-season.

We skirt a small grocery, striped stands of gemmy fruit and barrels of lemons crowding into the street. Although my nose registers the increased sharp-sweetness in the Air, my tummy doesn’t respond. The Donnwater at work. If we eat a late dinner, it should have worn off enough for us to enjoy the local seafood. I haven’t been to Scilla before, but I know from quick research this morning after I read Professor Dybo’s email that Chianalea, a fishing village within the town itself, is known for its restaurants.

“Now that, I recognize,” Luca says, as the street opens out and affords us our first view of the promontory, circled by the startling azure of the Tyrrhenian Sea. “Castello Ruffo di Scilla.”

“Another A,” I say encouragingly. “Have you been here before or do you recognize it from pictures?”

“Pictures,” Luca responds.

He shifts his body around a stand of cactus with which one of the locals has decorated their doorway. The movement’s sinuous, feline. I’m always aware that Lawson is Cait; there are only moments like this when I’m reminded that Luca is, too. He has a completely different demeanor than his older brother.

“I don’t know its history,” Luca says, his tone inviting a lesson.

Unfortunately, I don’t have much of one to give him. “I don’t know much more than I learned on Google this morning. Hopefully, Professor Dybo can educate both of us. I know fortifications here date back to the Etruscans and that might be the period we’re interested in.”

“Their language isn’t well understood,” Luca says.

“No, nor where they came from, although the Greek and Roman names for them suggest they came by sea, possibly from the east.”

“I’m remembering something about funerary carvings?” There’s a note of uncertainty in his voice, enough to draw my eyes away from the view and to his face. He’s frowning, his brow furrowed under the fringe of his hair, ashy-blond today. I can’t say I miss the green. Or the white contacts.

“A plus. Great Mother, Luca, you have a good memory. I had to look that up. The Lemnos stele. Roughly sixth century B.C. If you want a look at it, we can go to Athens tomorrow.”

Luca nods but I can tell his thoughts are far away, probably parsing through deep memories. “Could we go to Verona instead?”

“Of course. What’s in Verona?”

“The Sword of Verona. It’s an inscription from a similar time period, never fully translated. Some scholars think it refers to Vele or Veles, a Slavic god of the dead. Professor Dybo’s team have suggested the inscription on the cup also refers to Veles, carrying off the dead on his horns,meto veler kerh. But four of the letter forms are partially obliterated and I don’t agree with their reconstruction. If I’m right, then a better translation ismari pethrkerh, the sea’s fearsome horns. We’re in Scilla, looking at the Straits of Messina.” He tips his head at the water. “Charybdis was on the other side of the Straits. Scylla and Charybdis, the sea’s fearsome horns.”

I love the way his mind works. That’s why I brought him along. I could have done this by myself—met Professor Dybo and taken pictures of the inscription she wants to show me—but I wanted Luca to feel the impact of his thinking. Really feel it. The breeze on his skin. The smell of the rock when we descend into the cave below the castle. The roughness of the carved stone under his fingers when we examine the inscription. Pictures can’t take the place of those sensory experiences.

“Why would a cup crafted for Sulis Minerva’s temple in Roman Britain refer to mythic monsters on the other side of the Empire?” I ask.

Luca shakes his head. “Could be researcher bias.”

I nod. I’m very familiar with researcher bias. In magickal archeology, it refers to a researcher pushing toward a conclusion that favors their own background or area of specialism. I was accused of researcher bias over and over when I claimed artifacts from Isla Cedros were an unknown culture, instead of agreeing that they were from an early, northern Mayan offshoot. Rowan was particularly keen to level the criticism at me since his specialty is Mayan magickal art.

“Except your area of specialty isn’t Mycenaean Greece,” I point out.

“The cup was forged in the first century A.D. More than a millennium after the sack of Troy and Odysseus’ travels. They had their own heroes,” Luca muses. I think his thoughts have already moved on from researcher bias to more fruitful conclusions. “Their own legends.”

“But this is a cup of monsters. I think that’s the way to consider the translation. Don’t focus on gods or heroes. Focus on monsters.”

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