Page 129 of Ulune's Daughter

Luca looks at me, eyes blazing with inspiration. “That’s it. Monsters. That’s why the translation hasn’t come together. We were looking for a religious or heroic meaning. Echidna. Medusa. Scylla and Charybdis. That’s what we should be looking for.”

“Ever notice how many Greek monsters are female?” I point out.

Luca lifts his eyebrows. “Is this the start of a feminist rant?”

I chuckle. “No. I’m pleased this field trip has produced fresh insight.” We reach the colonnade of the stone church at the bottom of the walkway up to the castle. “Professor Dybo said she’d meet us here. She said she’d wear a green scarf.”

Luca slips his hand out of mine as he turns in a slow circle. He tips his chin toward the road up from the Lido. “She’s coming.” His nostrils flare. “Fire and Air. No fae blood.”

It’s my turn to be surprised. “You can smell fae blood? At a distance?”

His senses must be insanely keen. I can’t smell fae blood, not even on full-blooded fae like Luca and his brother. Not even when I’m as up close and personal as I’ve been with Lawson.

“Unseelie blood, yes. Seelie blood is harder but she’s upwind so I’m getting her scent nice and clear. She smells like parchment, tea roses, and raw onions.” He rubs his nose. “That’s not the best combination.”

No, it’s not. I feel a moment’s sympathy for his very sensitive nose while I stretch out with my own preternatural senses. Luca’s not wrong about the onions. Fortunately, the restaurants along the seafront are starting to open and the rich muskiness of frying garlic overcomes the onion smell. The parchment and ink are coming from the bag Professor Dybo’s carrying, probably holding several Arcana. Her shoes are new and the fresh rubber of them is sharp. A whiff of Rome rises from her clothes and skin: pastries, cigarettes, old stone, and the musky civet of perfume.

I step out of the church’s shadow as a short, slender woman, her brown hair blowing in the sea breeze that flaps her green scarf, long jacket, and ankle-length skirt, rounds the corner of the building opposite. I raise my arm in greeting. She smiles and starts across the street.

The Air shimmers.

Professor Dybo walks toward me, the bones of her skull pushing through her blackened skin, eyes scummed over with death. With one hand, she clutches a burning book to her chest.

“Fear the sea,” the burned skeleton says in a metallic rasp. “You have no sisters there. When the Thunderer calls, the sea’s hunger will rise again. Find the sea in your heart to sate that hunger, before it consumes the world.”

I stare at her open-mouthed.

“Professor Wyndham?”

I blink at the softly-accented voice.

The ocean’s cool breath blows against my cheeks. Professor Dybo’s green scarf flaps in the breeze. No skeleton. No burning book.

I shake the vision away and hold out my hand. “Kellan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She shakes with a gentle smile. “Serafina. It is always a pleasure to meet a colleague. I’ve heard about your exhibit. I hope to come see it for myself during winter break.”

“You’re welcome any time. I’d be happy to give you a private tour.”

“Thank you. Your assistant?” she asks, turning toward Luca.

When I nod, he steps forward. After introductions, Serafina turns toward the looming fortress.

“When you sent me your translation,” she says, leading the way up the wide stone walkway. “I remembered the cave below the Castella Ruffo di Scilla.”

I smile at the way the castle’s name rolls off Serafina’s tongue.

“I couldn’t find anything about caves below the fortress when I did some hasty research this morning,” I say.

Serafina shakes her head. “It is a Mother’s womb, deep in the rock. Hidden from humans. From men. It is a tomb for the Mother’s daughters. The sybils. The misbegotten. I hope you’re not . . . what is the word? Squeamish?”

“No, I’m not. I’m used to working in graves. Luca’s an experienced Necromancer. Neither of us fear the dead.”

“Good, good. We will not disturb the dead, but they will be all around. The inscription I remember is on the Mother’s breast, guarded by the dead.”

“No problem,” I say. “You mentioned in your email that you think an inscription here has some bearing on the chalice of Sulis Minerva?”

Serafina’s long brown hair flaps as she nods. “It is the word pethr. I will show you. And the Mother’s crescent moon.”

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