Ulunes daughter, p.1
Ulune's Daughter, page 1
Contents
Author’s Note
1. Homecoming
2. A Gothly Coffee
3. Furphies
4. A Spanner Works
5. Moral Tremors
6. Love Unlocked
7. Minerva’s Cup
8. A Madness of Women
9. Faeward Bound
10. Through the Veil
11. The Clearest Gaze
12. A Semi-Charmed Kinda Night
13. Situation Abnormal
14. Depantsing
15. The Scent of Jealousy
16. The Dream Killer
17. Grooming
18. Den of Jackals
19. Stowaways
20. The Cold Breath of Faery
21. The Motherwell
22. Skulking
23. The Cathmoir
24. Kitty Whipped
25. Mating Wounds
26. Complementary Darkness
27. Parental Gilt
28. Cloud Shopping
29. The Mother’s Kind Eye
30. Apologies in Crystal
31. Egg-White Flag
32. Raven Woman
33. The Naga’s Reckoning
34. A Waste of Good Moonlight
35. A Fight Over Creamed Mice
36. In the Cait’s Bed
37. Trading Tokens
38. Old Crow
39. Circumvolution
40. A Fresh Bowl Of Clowder
41. Holding Pattern
42. Corners of the Heart
43. Laying Souls
44. Yuletide Misgivings
45. The Crow Queen’s Mate
46. Undivided Loyalties
47. Eoghan’s Hair
48. The Demi-Urge
49. The Capricorn
50. An Ending
Cathmoir’s Sons
Glossary
About the Author
Also by E J Frost
Ulune’s Daughter
Copyright ©2023 E. J. Frost
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable for criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Ulune’s Daughter is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, business establishments or organizations is strictly coincidental.
WARNING: This novel contains mature themes which may considered offensive by some readers. This book is for sale to adults only, as defined by the laws of the country in which the purchase is made.
DISCLAIMER: This novel contains descriptions of practices which may be injurious to the practitioner’s health. It is not intended as a guide or handbook. The author is not responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from the use or demonstration of the acts or practices contained in this book.
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other electronic means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. By purchasing an authorized edition, you are supporting the author’s rights and encouraging the creation of more books. Thank you!
Created with Vellum
For the cats.
Long may they reign.
And for my Awesome Alphas, Bianca and Michelle, thank you for helping me wrangle Law. Michelle, this book made you need an emotional support animal. This piskie sheep is for you (and anyone else who needs one).
Author’s Note
Ulune’s Daughter is a book that, like Missing Ink, I didn’t plan to write.
I was in the middle of writing Gabe’s Girl when Kellan and her boys started talking to me. I knew I had Quaternion and Capricorn to write before I could even think about Kellan’s story. But these characters wouldn’t be quiet. Law . . . well, when you meet him, you’ll understand about Law.
To placate them, I wrote the beginning and ending of Kellan’s story before turning back to Gabe’s Girl, Quaternion, and Capricorn. When I finally got back to Ulune’s Daughter, the story had gone off the boil. Law was sitting in my mind with his back to me, his tail flicking. It was only the enthusiasm of my patrons and alpha readers for this story that got me to invest the time and patience required to bring my Cait back to me.
I’m very glad I did, and very grateful to everyone who told me they needed to know what happened to Kellan and her boys. This is the first part of their story. It will conclude in Cathmoir’s Sons. Let their story curl up in your lap and purr. I hope you fall as hard for the Cait as I have.
Ulune’s Daughter is designed to stand alone within the Bevington College series. Characters cross over from all the previous books as well as the Demonsongs books. These books do not have to be read first to understand Kellan’s story, but readers may enjoy this story more if those books are read first.
This book had me revisiting locales I haven’t been in years and took me to one place where I have yet to set foot (although I know where I’m going on my next trip to Italy). I have taken liberties with some of the locations, particularly with distances, for the sake of keeping the story flowing. I hope this doesn’t offend any of my readers.
I’ll also freely admit that I am not an expert in Proto Celtic and Indo-European languages, although I’ve learned a huge amount in doing the research for this book. I am deeply grateful for the native speakers of Welsh and Scottish Gaelic and academics who shared their time and knowledge with me. Any mistakes in translation are my own. I have tried to keep the rune translation elements of this story light enough to give flavor without overwhelming what is, at heart, a love story. I hope this doesn’t diminish any reader’s enjoyment of the book.
In line with the other books in this series, I’ve included a glossary at the end of terms that might be unfamiliar to readers. Although the characters in this book live in the United States, their travels take them to many parts of our world and others, where characters speak in dialects and languages that may be unfamiliar to readers. I hope the meaning of their words and phrases are clear from context but if not, the glossary may assist.
Ulune’s Daughter is a dark, MMFM whychoose romance, which means the heroine has multiple love interests and does not have to choose between them. It also means two of the heroes have a romantic relationship. Ulune’s Daughter contains elements of power-exchange and is intended for mature readers only. For a full listing of content warnings, please see my website, https://emmafrostuk.wordpress.com/warning-here-be-monsters/, BEFORE reading this book.
Chapter 1
Homecoming
KELLAN
“Honey, I’m home.”
I put my bags down and look around the entryway of my empty apartment.
It doesn’t feel like home yet. The tenant I rented it to while I was in Cali painted the walls above the white wainscoting a deep green. He asked my permission and I gave it, but that’s the first thing I need to change. The former owners, my friend Teddy and her three husbands, may be happy to live part of their lives in a cave, but I’m an Air-Witch and I don’t do green.
I weave around boxes stacked in haphazard piles by the movers and make my way through the big, sunshine-filled living room into the kitchen. Jane emailed to say she stocked the fridge for me. My friend and mentor is a goddess.
Poking through several covered dishes, I find Carrie’s tuna salad. I load it into a pair of brioche rolls from the bakery on Main Street, stuff in some lettuce so I don’t feel so bad about the lack of vegetables, grab a chilled bottle of my favorite ginger ale, and carry my lunch out through the back onto the porch.
The back yard is the second-best part about my house. It’s big, secluded by stands of cedar trees on three sides, and has an adorable, carved wood gazebo, strung with fairy lights, set next to a burbling spring that keeps the lawn and flower beds green despite the summer heat that hasn’t faded into Massachusetts’ crisp fall yet.
I sit in one of the overstuffed chairs on the porch and take deep breaths of warm, humid Air. The last few years on Isla Cedros have been amazing. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
But, by the Mother, I’ve missed this.
By the time Jane and Carrie knock on the back door, I have the boxes sorted into the correct rooms to unpack later, the walls sanded, washed, and taped off, ready for the primer and blue paint that will be delivered from the hardware store tomorrow.
I toss the rags I’ve been using to clean into the garbage, pull off my head scarf and shake out my black braid, before meeting them at the door. The apartment’s breezy with the huge windows open, which is why I’ve been drawn to it since I first rented the third floor from Teddy and her guys my senior year at Bevvy. But with the late August heat, it’s more comfortable on the back porch.
The tenant took good care of my furniture, so all the dining set and outdoor couches needed was a wipe-down to be ready for guests. I wave Jane and Carrie to the dining table after giving them both warm hugs.
They unpack the baskets they’ve brought. Caesar salad, steamed fish on a bed of rice, corn on the cob, and Jane’s pecan pie. Carrie opens a bottle of wine and their first toast makes my eyes prickle and my cheeks burn.
“To Professor Wyndham. Welcome home.”
I grab Jane’s slender fingers and squeeze. “Thank you for everything.”
Today, she looks nothing like the Necromancy professor who terrorized my junior year in her little black dresses, court pumps, and severe chignon. Her hair’s down in a straight, salt and pepper fall to her shoulders. Both she and Carrie are wearing sandals and summer dresses, although Carrie has a short-sleeved jacket over hers, tailored to cover her cobra hood. But whatever Jane wears, whatever her expression, this woman has guided and encouraged me through the last seven years to such an extent that I owe my professorship more to her than anyone else.
She squeezes back. “Anything we can do to help you settle in?”
“No, thank you. Give me a few days to unpack and I’ll have a housewarming thing.”
“A housewarming thing,” Carrie repeats, flashing one of her rare, wry smiles. “I’m sure we can do better than a housewarming thing. Dessert parties are the latest craze amongst the faculty. Jane will bring the pies. I’ll bring the dessert wine.”
Carrie was definitely a sommelier in another life. Her pairing of wine with whatever we’re eating has never been anything but perfect.
Despite the calories of a dessert and wine party, I’m all for it. “That sounds wonderful. And, of course, I’ll let you know as soon as the exhibit’s ready. You get a private tour before the grand opening.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” Jane says with an enthusiasm she usually reserves for baked goods. “You keep downplaying your discovery, but a whole lost civilization of mages, I can only imagine what we can learn—”
She breaks off as a huge, albino crow flutters onto the porch. It stares at us with ruby eyes.
We all wait to see if the crow is just a crow. Although Bevington is extensively warded, the wards have been defeated before.
When the crow does nothing more than stalk around the porch a few times and peck at the floorboards between its toes, we slowly relax.
“Very handsome,” Carrie observes. “I forget how large ravens are until I see one up close.”
I nod. A raven. I should have realized it was too big to be a crow. It’s the size of a small dog. The dark red eyes peering back at me are eerily alert and perceptive.
I fork the fish skin left in the serving dish onto my plate and put it on the porch floor, scooting it away from the table with my foot. “I’m sure it’s come because it smelled the fish.”
The raven immediately proves me wrong by ignoring the plate as it continues to inspect my porch.
Jane chuckles. “Maybe it has a sweet tooth.”
She cuts a piece of pie, puts it on a plate, and pushes it toward the bird.
“I object to you giving my pie to ungrateful avians,” Carrie says.
We share a laugh. The raven ignores the pie as steadily as the fish. It finds a corner between the couches that’s to its liking and plops down, looking like a large, snowy cushion.
Under the raven’s crimson regard, we go back to our conversation, swapping gossip about the faculty and students, speculating on the sex of Teddy’s unborn baby, and discussing the curriculum of the classes Jane and Carrie are teaching this semester. The moon’s risen and the night’s cooled enough to make me need a cardigan by the time Jane and Carrie say soft goodnights and leave me with the leftover pecan pie.
They don’t disturb the raven, who is sleeping, its red gaze shuttered, as they slip down the back stairs. Since it seems content, I put out a dish of water for it and leave it be. I renew my wards before taking a quick shower and climbing between sheets that still smell of the juniper, pine, and mist of Isla Cedros.
Bevington’s fall semester starts with a roar that I largely miss, being sequestered in the college museum. I’m not teaching until Winter Study, but I am assisting Jane with her Necromancy senior seminar. Happily, this means I can avoid both the freshmen orientation days and the introductory class sessions.
I spend my days unpacking, working on the Magi of the Mist exhibit, and courting the albino raven who appears each evening on my back porch. I’ve finally found a few foods that he—and I’m only assuming the bird is a he because I haven’t braved that powerful beak to look—deigns to eat. He’s partial to boiled eggs, blueberries, and peanut butter. He’s happy to sit with me on the porch, as long as I don’t try to pet him. I’ve put a pillow in the spot between the couches that he favors. He sits and preens his beautiful, snowy feathers, while I read as each sunny day fades to twilight. He’s unbothered by Carrie and Jane but the night I have Dean Quinn and her two partners over for dinner, he doesn’t appear.
The next night, as I’m sitting on the porch couch, writing out notes for the first seminar class I’m leading, he flutters onto the porch and drops a stone near my sandal before stalking over to his dish for a feast of boiled egg and berries.
I pick up the stone and turn it over in my hand.
It’s a quartz lozenge about the length of my palm. One side is sparkly, which is probably what attracted the raven, since I’ve read up on them now and understand they’re attracted to bright objects. The other side is dull and deeply scratched.
I run my thumb over the scratches. They’re regular and geometric. Several distinct shapes.
Like runes.
I take out my phone, snap a picture, and email it to Jane and Carrie.
Present from the raven.
Carrie responds first. With the titles of two Arcana on first century runes. I laugh, reading her response. I’d expect nothing less. Bevington is doubly-blessed to have Carrie and Jane teaching here.
I’m blessed by their friendship.
I’m feeling somewhat less blessed the next day, sitting in an extremely stuffy classroom in Old Chapel, as Jane introduces me to the eleven students in her Advanced Necromancy senior seminar. I twirl my finger around on the desk, swirling a little breeze through the room, and lift my braid off the back of my neck. The breeze doesn’t disperse the smell of formaldehyde, or the odor of dead things the formaldehyde doesn’t cover, from the six, iron-bound coffins in the center of the room.
Luckily, none of the things sleeping in those coffins will be making an appearance today.
Once the eleven students have introduced themselves, I stand and move to the white board. I go quickly through the basic quiet dead, undead, and restless dead wards. These are advanced students, so they shouldn’t need too much review. When I get to vampire wards, I slow down and talk them through each element of the ward, taking questions and repeating anything they seem uncertain on.
The ninety-minute class is nearly up when one of the students, a blond man dressed all in black, his long body slumped in his chair, pins me with his white eyes and raises his hand.
I’ve met a lot of people, in a lot of different places, but Benighted Mother, his eyes are creepy.
“Yes, sorry, remind me of your name?” Despite his creepy eyes, his name didn’t stick during the introductions.
“Luca,” he says, his voice carrying a deep resonance that my Air-magic immediately picks up on. Either he’s an Air-mage himself or he has something in his blood that isn’t human. “I’m curious why you don’t use cat blood for the Water aspect of the ward?”
“If I were trying to call the vampire instead of keep it out, I’d consider using blood as part of the ward,” I respond. “Where I’m creating a haven against vampiric intrusion, I want the purity of blessed water. I’m curious why you would use cat blood?”
