Page 9 of Ulune's Daughter

“You oweme. Nine thousand seven hundred and fifty-six times over.”

“You owe me for shoving me out of the way and exiting two minutes faster.”

I snort at him. This is an old, old argument. Two minutes made me the heir of the Cait Sidhe and Luca the spare. I’ve never cared. Luca’s my twin. He’s the other half of my soul. If I ever rule—if I have anythingtorule—he’ll rule beside me. When I take my mate, he’ll take her with me. When she bears kits, they’ll beourkits.

“You owe me for biting me on my way out.”

He did, the fucker. I came out with punctures all over my heel from his kitten teeth. Pop likes to say Luca was trying to turn me into Achilles.

If I’m Achilles, Luca’s my Patroclus. Except without the crossed swords. I’ll leave that to him and his flavor of the month.

Well, his flavor of the last three years. But before he fixated on Rhodes, Luca definitely had a flavor of the month. Sometimes a flavor of the week. I haven’t been celibate while I’ve waited for our mate. I wanted to know how to please her. I’ve learned that, and more, but I was circumspect. And, unlike my brother, I never got involved.

I was waiting for our mate.

I’m not waiting any longer.

* * *

She towersover me in my Cait form. Of course she does, since I’m just over a foot tall, but she has a presence about her. Amazonian. Much stronger than I remember.

I don’t see the aether the way my brother does, but I can see the dark pulse of her aura. A midnight ring in the air. It crowns her blue and black locks, frames her bright eyes. The way Luca was raving about her, I expected her to be angelic, even though that’s not the way I remembered her. But I should have known our mate would be a creature of darkness rather than a creature of light.

Meowing, I rub against her ankle, coating myself in her scent, which is more than delicious. It’s every good smell I’ve smelled, rolled into one. She pauses at the back steps to her house, at a tiny shrine, to say a quick prayer to the Mother. Hoping she’ll take the hint, I run up ahead of her.

Only to discover a huge, white raven already lairing on her porch.

I hiss and dance away from it, back arched, tail bristling.

“Oh, no, sweet baby,” Kellan croons. “Don’t be mean to Blackey.”

She named the freaky albino bird “Blackey”? She has an ... unusual sense of humor. I like it. I dive at her ankle and wind between her feet as though I need protection from the feather-duster. The bird makes a strange clucking noise. Like a chicken. An oversized, white chicken.

I like chicken. Raw or cooked.

I show the chicken my fangs before I dive at my mate’s ankles again.

She scoops me up and carries me inside, away from the chicken.

Inside her apartment, which is cluttered with boxes, she sets me on a chair and strokes me for several minutes while I roll around and show her my creamy belly and bat playfully at her fingers with soft paws.

All the while, I study her. I have pictures of her, but none of them do her justice. And she’s changed while she’s been away. Her cheekbones are more prominent, her features sharper. She has her blue-streaked, black hair pulled into a long braid, no longer concealing her slightly pointed ears. Her eyes are unforgettable, and I’ve seen them many, many times in my dreams, but even they have changed. They have always been large, bright, and light-filled. But when I first saw her they were a pale hazel. They have paled further, to an arresting gray-blue. Either her fae blood is coming to the fore as she matures, or she’s no longer trying to hide it.

I’m not sure what she is, but her fae blood is dark,siogdorcha, Unseelie.

She’ll be welcome among the Cait Sidhe.

After so much attention even a true feline’s cravings would be appeased, she leaves me purring and rummages in her cupboards and refrigerator for food. I admire her strong, straight back and round ass. She’s wearing dull clothes: a boxy, short-sleeved tee and plain pants with pockets, all in black. No wonder Luca likes her. They can share items of monochromatic cotton.

When she bends over, pulling containers out of her fridge, the pants become much more appealing.

She should be wearing silk and leather in rich reds, pinks, and purples to flatter her hair and eyes. She should be draped in gold and winking with diamonds. If I chew holes in all her boring clothes, maybe she’ll let me buy her a more flattering wardrobe.

She carries the containers to the kitchen island and starts plating the food. Mmm, good smells. Fish, fresh and cooked over a flame. Chicken. Something both bloody and fruity. That dark fae part of her soul craves flesh, blood. She’s perfect for us, no question.

I expect her to put a plate on the floor for me, but no, she carries the plates over and offers me a strip of fish skin, still smelling of sea salt and charcoal. The slightest taste of her fingers on the fish has me purring madly and rolling over in delight, licking at the air.

She laughs, an enchanting rich trill with the faintest vibration that tells me there’s cyhyraeth somewhere in her blood. “You like that, don’t you, beautiful boy? Fish skin, yum-yum. Here’s some more.”

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