Kylee had her glass of stout, Falise a glass of Inga’s latest petite sirah. Technically, it was partly Kylee’s petite sirah, since the vines grew down at Mundo. This whole property thing was starting to sink in. Maybe it was time to go back. For her to claim her inheritance. Mundo wouldn’t be a bad place. Especially if she had to take care of Tip.

She lifted her right hand, studied it. She’d pulled the trigger on two quetzals. Made killing shots on both. Not that she hadn’t been party to killing quetzals before—like when she acted as bait for that rogue the Rorkies killed. But this was the first time she’d taken full responsibility.

These days, Leaper and Diamond didn’t pose the threat they once did. Not to Kylee Simonov, at sixteen, with Flute and Tip, not to mention the .33 caliber high-velocity rifle that Dek had gifted to her. After being in PA, she was finally beginning to understand that she had other options than just the Briggs claim.

Kylee leaned back as one of the young women who waited tables brought plates over. She might have been in her late teens, had curly black hair, dark-brown eyes, and a pointed chin. The look she was giving Kylee was curious, intense.

“You gotta problem?” Kylee asked softly, picking up the fork, Inga’s fork, she reminded herself.

“Damien’s wondering if you were going to stop by. He’s back from Southern Diggings. Said if I saw you, to tell you that Su and the rest of your family would like to see you.”

“And who are you?”

“Janeese. I’m Damien’s wife. We got married a couple of months ago. I guess that means you’re my sister-in-law. So, hello.”

“Hello back,” Kylee told her warily.

Looking really uneasy, Janeese said, “So, maybe you’ll drop by the house?”

“Yeah, well . . . I’ll see.” Kylee indicated Falise with a tip of the head. “Got some things to do.”

Janeese shot a suspicious glance Falise’s way, took the coins Kylee offered, and hurried away.

“Family?” Falise asked dryly. “Not lineage?”

Kylee pointed a hard finger. “Not lineage.” Then she added, “It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” Falise murmured, taking the large knife Kylee had bought for her at Freund’s and slicing off a bite of steak. Falise had insisted that her idea of a knife was something used at a dining room table, or maybe to slip between someone’s ribs, or to open a box. She’d complained that the twenty-centimeter blade on this thing was too short to be a sword, too big for a dining implement. Impaling the steak on her fork, she popped it in her mouth and chewed.

“Curious taste. Sweeter than pork, almost a cross between beef and chicken? No. Something that defies easy categorization.”