Page 88 of Ulune's Daughter

“Lemme guess, you’re at Bevington.”

He stops to examine something on the path and scoops it up. He holds it out to me. It’s a glossy black feather. I take it, make a wish for the exhibit to be a success, and blow it into the woods to return to the Mother.

“Thank you. Good guess.”

“Senior?” he asks.

“No, I teach there. I graduated a few years ago.”

“You don’t look that old.”

“Fae blood,” I admit.

“Naiad?” he asks.

I chuckle at his flattery. “Banshee.”

“My family’s full of wild fae.”

“Really?”

With modern fashions, it’s harder to tell races than it used to be. Blue hair and the pale green eyes that watch me from behind his mask, his height and muscular body, his black fingernails that are a little too long and a little too sharp to be human—they could be indications of anything from my own kin to Tylwyth Teg to kelpie.

“Mmm-hmm, Cait.”

“Oh. I know a Cait Sidhe. His name’s Struan. He lives at Thistlemist in Scotland. He’s a great guy.”

“I’ve met him,” Lawson says. “He is a great guy.”

“I don’t know much about the Cait,” I admit. Cat fae are secretive by nature. They live apart, rarely seen in the high fae courts. The warriors of Faery, they have their own House, their own leader, their own code.

“No one does,” he says, flashing sharp teeth. “By design.”

I chuckle. “I bet. I’ve been adopted by a cat since coming back East. If the Cait are anything like their small cousins, they walk their own path.”

“We do,” he agrees.

“I admire that,” I admit. “I find myself?—”

I pause. I don’t know this man. I don’t owe him any truth. But sometimes talks with strangers reveal the things we’re hiding in our own souls.

“I find myself getting herded onto a path I’m not sure I want,” I continue. “It’s a well-trodden path.” I kick at a browned fern hanging into the path. “I feel drawn to paths less traveled.”

“Robert Frost?” Lawson asks.

“Yeah,” I say sheepishly. “He’s one of my favorite poets.”

“What are you a professor of?” he asks.

“Funny you should ask. My job title’s still up in the air. Currently, my official position is assistant curator and adjunct professor of magickal artifacts. But I’m teaching Plane Walking and advanced Necromancy next semester. My skills don’t fit in a neat box.”

“Paths less traveled,” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

He takes a deep breath of the autumnal air. “If you could do anything, if money and prestige and everything else didn’t matter, what would you do?”

“Artifact recovery.” When he looks at me blankly, I clarify. “Treasure hunting.”

---