Page 60 of Ulune's Daughter

She tips her head back and flashes her mischievous, sharp-toothed grin at me. That grin is pure fae. The mirror of Luca’s. It makes my chest tight.

“Or an impetuous idiot,” she says. “I’ve been called that a few times, too.”

“Not by me.” I squeeze her shoulder and leave my hand there as the three SUVs roll to a stop in front of us. Kellan exhales and the yellow dust cloud wisps away.

The passenger door of the first SUV opens and a tall man unfolds from the seat. He pulls a checked scarf away from his face and scowls at Kellan.

“Mr. Maher,” she says.

“Professor Wyndham. Professor Wyndham’sfriend.”

I nod at him, not rising to his bait.

“I’ve brought the cup,” Kellan says. “Shall we?”

Kellan grabs her backpack off the ground and slings it over one shoulder. She fumbles for my hand and I close my fingers around hers. Together, we walk to the SUVs.

Maher paces in front of us. He opens the SUV’s rear door. “Professor Wyndham, this is you.”

Kellan shakes her head. “We’re together. Not negotiable.”

“Professor Wyndham, my people are more afraid of you than you are of them. With reason.”

“Too bad. Not negotiable.”

Maher grumbles, an odd, crackling sound that vibrates in his throat, but he nods at the back seat.

Kellan hands me her backpack before climbing into the car. Once she’s seated, I pass it back to her before I climb in beside her. The cup isn’t in the backpack. She’s already told me she’s stashed it in a pocket dimension. But she wants to test whether Maher will make a grab for the backpack if he thinks it’s in there.

Maher’s dark eyes track the backpack as we pass it back and forth, but he doesn’t try for it. He climbs into the front passenger seat. The SUVs make awkward three-point turns, bumping over the edges of the track into the scrubby verge, and head back the way they came. Kellan rolls her window up. Everyone follows suit and the driver, who still has his scarf wrapped around his head, turns the air con on.

Kellan catches my eye and winks. She opens her backpack, takes out a crinkly plastic packet, and offers it to me. Inside, there are a few dozen lozenges of yellow-orange candy. She takes one and pops it into her mouth. I follow suit.

The initial flavor is mild: a berry sweetness. Then the fizz hits. It starts like champagne bubbles across my hard palate. Then it floods my sinuses with sweet-sour explosions. I blink my watering eyes and chew the gummy down before my head explodes.

“Wow. Fizzy.”

Kellan pops one and grins. “Jane Serpa makes them. She calls them snakebites. I brought them along in case you felt sick. Best cure for fae vertigo I’ve found.”

I take a handful.

Kellan leans forward and offers the bag to Maher and the driver.

Maher twists in his seat and levels a glare at her. “Candy.”

“Sweet and sours. Homemade and, I promise, not poisonous.”

Maher fishes one out of the bag and puts it in his mouth warily. His eyes widen when the fizz hits. He coughs, chews, and swallows.

The driver takes a handful with a nod at Kellan, never taking his eyes off the road, pops one and chews contentedly.

Maher takes another before turning back around to watch the road. “What have you laced them with?” he asks.

“Jane calls it adon’t be an assholecharm. Note that I’m eating them, too,” Kellan responds, popping another.

Maher grunts but eats the candy.

“Out of academic curiosity,” Kellan says. “How long have your people lived in this area?”

---